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[terrasourcing]

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[sillysiluriforme]

And the holders, oh god how the holders would view it all.

Nino wouldn't really understand all the reasons why, but he'd know (or learn painfully) that opportunities to DJ are down, that clubs are closing (who would party in such times?) and that people are struggling. Wayzz wouldn't help much, just urging Nino to help and protect whoever he can.

Marinette and Alya would know more due to family businesses, but mostly through belts being tightened, tight eyes and forced smiles as another shipment is delayed, as an order has to be rejected or reduced, as people walk out unable to buy fresh food (or with food in hand, but the bakery that much closer to bankruptcy). Parents too kind to show the whole story, but ears near stairwells and hushed arguments get the message across. Orders are down, purchases fewer yet the shelves are still emptier than Before. They could sell the business, but a whole lifetime down the drain? Starting anew somewhere else, rebuilding from scratch? Besides, no one is buying, and there's no where to go. Perhaps a check comes from the french government, or a tax writeoff, but it's not enough. It's never enough. Trixx would know little, maybe having a holder own an entertainment business or two, but never having paid attention. Tikki may understand, but catching hawkmoth is more important, and would fix everything, right? Right? (Ladybug must carry the weight of the world, but the weight of one city could break this one) But Adrien. Adrien would know. His father wants to keep the business alive, and can do so because his designs can be made elsewhere. Shipped to Paris and photo'd on Adrien. Paris may have been a hub but it's just one in his Empire. He wouldn't hold back either. Anyone unnecessary- cut. Jobs are few but talent is plentiful. Everyone else in fashion is leaving, but no one in paris can follow. Quality can be dropped in Paris - what else can you buy? Pay drops significantly- if fashion is your passion, where else could you work? And Gabriel would tell Adrien everything. He'd expect Adrien to understand it all, to stare the horror down and keep an iron spine. Preferably with a smile on his face, but that softness came from his mother after all. There's opportunity in crisis, and a struggling man can be made to work harder for less. The city may be dying, but there's life to leech yet. And Plagg and the lamb would know. They'd understand the full weight of Paris's situation. Plagg knows that unless hawkmoth is stopped, Paris will die. He can feel the decay, the death, the slowly creeping end. It's his domain after all. He'd lie to Adrien, to provide some comfort, but they both would know the truth, and it's better that Adrien trust Plagg fully than to trade that trust for a brief hint of warmth. The lamb does not know the ways of man. He does not care about imports and exports or any of that. He does know the ways of gods. The cost of their games. The price that must be paid. He knows Sacrifice. And what is the worth of one city, compared to the world? (I love this AU)

[sinister cackling]

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Four: Before the Storm

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Hello everyone! How are we doing after the last chapter? I went on a vacay and enjoyed some time with my family and dog, but now we're back to business. I wanted to say that I'm not a literary genius. Later in this chapter Helaena says some lines from a piece of work by Hélène Cixous called Love of the Wolf. I'm not taking credit for her work by any means, but I couldn't help myself not to add it. It was just too perfect. Well, anyways, thank you for reading!

Chapter Warnings: mentions of childhood SA and trauma related to it, sexism, bullying.

Birdsong accompanied you in your daily lessons with Septa Marlow, her parchment-thin flesh wrapped over her shaking bones as she pointed to the large map of what you assumed was Westeros. It wasn’t that you couldn’t identify the outline of your own country. You didn’t care. The tiny sparrow that decided to make its nest on the branch of an oak tree outside the tutor room window was far more interesting.

You could hear the sounds of swords clashing outside over the creature’s call, an added instrument into the melody of the Red Keep. There was no doubt your brothers and uncles were practicing their swordplay, Ser Criston teaching the pairs of children. How you longed to be out there with them, with your family, with your twin, learning of things much more exciting than what region of the country produced the most red wine.

You only wanted to see them and to be entertained. It wasn’t that you wanted to learn the sword, though you wouldn’t say no should someone ask.

But this resulted from the actions from the previous day when you disobeyed the Dragonkeeper’s commands. It surprised you when your mother failed to mention how your brothers and Aegon gave Aemond a pig, but you weren’t planning to go out of your way to tell on yourself and receive any more repercussions. You were already confined to the castle walls and forbidden from seeing your dragon for the next sennight. You couldn’t imagine what your mother would have done in response if she knew.

“Princess, pay attention,” the old crone’s wavering voice commanded, causing you to jolt.

You attempted to follow her instructions, rattling off the names of Houses and their most profitable exports, but metal clanging stole you from your duties once more. Why couldn’t you be with your brothers and uncles? You understood that today’s extra lessons were a punishment, but why couldn’t you join them? You and Jace were the same age, though you were a few moments older, and Luke was younger.

You could comprehend the importance of learning such knowledge, but your brothers were able to understand this and swordsmanship. Why could you not? Seeing as your mother had not learned it, you did not believe it was a skill you needed. This was the only thing that separated you from Jace, and you hated it.

Suddenly, everything went silent. The birds, the clang of steel, your mind halted into a noiseless silence, leaving the only sound of Septa Marlow’s droning, shaky voice. Screams you knew belonged to Aegon and the shrieks of your younger brother, Jace, briefly sounded, causing your feet to twitch in the direction of the sound. You knew your brother. That was not a noise of happiness but one of determination and fear, but once again, it plummeted into silence.

Then, it erupted. Shouts and thick, repeated thumps of what could only be skin on skin replaced the dull thudding of swords, only this time, it was of grown men.

Disregarding your Septa’s scolds of disobedience, you stood, rushing from the creaky wooden desk and chair with a soft wince from the pain between your legs. You ran to the window, face pressed against the glass, to see the situation unfold.

Ser Harwin kneeled over a man in polished armor you couldn’t see as he drove punch after punch into the man’s face. It was a member of the Kingsguard, judging by his attire as onlookers gathered around the two of them, attempting to remove Harwin from his victim.

Why would Ser Harwin be attacking a Kingsguard?

You pressed your face closer to the glass, fogging it with your breath. Soon, your mother’s protector was thrown off, revealing a bloodied, smug Ser Criston Cole, a proud smirk on his tan face as he spat viscous scarlet liquid. Ser Harwin spewed words of anger you couldn’t hear as you observed with wide eyes from above.

“Princess!” Marlow shouted, stomping her slippered foot in exasperation. “Return to your seat at once.”

“Ser Harwin is attacking Ser Criston!” you countered with a whine as you disregarded her demands. Without thinking of the consequences, you ran for the exit only to be met with the face of your sworn shield, halting you from seeing the commotion.

You were stuck. These were the repercussions of your actions, and now you had to sit in dull solitude with a Septa so old that your mother had her as wild possibilities ran through your head as to why Ser Harwin Strong attacked Ser Criston Cole.

Finding where your uncle Aemond spent most of his time was effortless. He was unlike the rest of you, who loved to be outside in the dirt, running about the gardens as you and your brothers played any game you could think of. Aegon and the trio of you teased Aemond for the fact that he was different in this way, your eldest uncle impressing the idea that his brother’s likes of science, math, history, and philosophy were weird for a child. You also enjoyed subjects similar to your uncle’s, thirsting for knowledge of everything related to herbs, flowers, and other plants, but you never brought it up. Aegon would undoubtedly tease you for it if he knew.

Aemond’s interests weren’t typical, but you didn’t see it as something to look down on him for. But since Aegon did, you had no choice but to agree.

The library in the Red Keep was a lonely and shadowy place, rarely visited by anyone, not even the servants. The absence of lit candles or a crackling fire contributed to the eerie atmosphere, creating a sensation of fear that seemed to grip your very core as you stepped inside, as though you were venturing into an endless void of darkness. Despite the unsettling ambiance, you summoned your bravery, clutching your cherished collection of fairy tales for comfort, and gained the strength to push open the library doors. The sound of metal clanging echoed in the silence.

Motes of dust swirled in the beams of light pouring through the windows as you combed through the towering wooden bookcases. Your search was targeted and honed on a particular individual who, besides Lord Lyonel Strong and the rest of the council members, was known to make regular visits to this room. It was just a matter of time before you laid eyes on him.

After the sixth tall hickory bookshelf, you found Aemond resting on a window seat filled with lush fabric cushions, the sunbeams casting him in a yellow glow. You took a step forward, hesitating as you thought about how your uncle would react to your goodwill gesture. Despite anticipating his initial skepticism and harsh words, you held onto hope that persistence and authenticity would eventually make him see you for who you are.

You wished for it to be true.

“Have you come to mock me again, niece?” Aemond asked, interrupting your indecision with his nose still in the pages.

You swallowed as your mouth became dry, stepping out to reveal yourself fully. “No, Aemond. I came to read,” you replied, taking a gasp of air and summoning courage, “with you.”

Your uncle’s attempt to mask his surprise was unsuccessful as his eyes widened in astonishment. He quickly glanced at you and returned to his book, hoping to conceal his reaction.

His usual scowl deepened, pulling down at his freckled cheeks as he interrogated. “Why?”

A lopsided grin scrunched your plump cheeks upwards to crinkle your eyes as you shrugged. “Because I want to.”

Aemond flipped onto the next page with a skeptical face, yet his violet orbs never moved from the same spot. You had his attention. Hiding a victorious grin, you stepped towards him before he could protest, plopping onto the pillows beside Aemond. He quickly recoiled in exaggerated disgust, as if you were no more than an annoying fly that landed on his arm as he slammed the tome shut and briskly left.

This was an expected outcome, and you hurriedly chased after him, your shorter legs struggling to keep up with your uncle’s pace as he fled around a corner from your attempted act of bonding. You understood this was not a simple task and already built the mental stamina to outlast Aemond’s antics as he jumped down the stone steps of the Keep two at a time.

Eventually, he managed to escape you, his notable mane of blonde hair disappearing before a crowd of courtiers in the courtyard.

You huffed a sigh as you observed the sea of people, sweat stinging your privy part, but you ignored it, standing on the tips of your toes to peer over the wall of the pale redstone landing above the yard.

Suddenly, you spotted him at the far end as he caught your gaze, violet eyes widening in horror as if he saw one of the monsters from your stories. He turned away. His confident walk soon turned to a worried jog as you ran as fast as your limbs could carry you, shoving your way through the throng of people. You were used to playing chase with your brothers. Doing it with your uncle was the same, if not more manageable, with the help of his iconic hair and green garbs.

As you reached the area where you spotted your uncle, he was nowhere to be found, and you turned, looking across the vast meadow of the court that ebbed and flowed like the swaying of a wheat field, focused on their afternoon destinations. None of them paid any attention to the two dragon royals, both more than a head shorter and too self-absorbed to care.

With a sharp yelp, you fell to the ground, soiling your gown and dropping your book on the packed dirt as you caught yourself with your palms. They ached at the impact, tiny rocks embedding into your soft skin as you swiftly turned to the person who shoved you and saw no other than your uncle Aemond staring over you with rose-dusted cheeks. His arms securely bound his book to his chest as he looked down upon you with his nose, catching his breath and taking three paces back before you righted yourself.

“Why are you following me?” your uncle shouted down at you as he attempted to make his voice sound like a grown man.

You huffed as you swiped the dirt from your turquoise dress, gritting your teeth to control your frustration. This was one of your nice ones! Of course, Aemond would ruin it. Your mother would surely scold you when she found out.

“I told you I only wanted to read!” you screeched with a stomp of your foot as your arms flew into the air, flailing wildly. “And now you’ve ruined my favorite collection! The spine is loose and the pages are dirty!”

Aemond said nothing as you studied the now-tattered book before you. Every night, Ser Harwin or your father read a short story from this as you sat atop their laps, drifting off into a restful sleep filled with dreams of nymphs playing in a forest creek. Your book, too, was ruined—another consequence of wanting to be kind to your uncle.

“What’s it about?” he suddenly asked, prompting your watery eyes to move to him. The blush that covered Aemond’s face deepened, now traveling to his ears and throat as he dug his nails into the leatherback of his tome. He looked almost pained to inquire about anything that had to do with you.

Your first instinct was to bite with sharpened fangs of hurt, but you stopped, remembering your goal as you batted your watery lashes in disregard. “It was a volume of different stories,” you sighed with disappointment, afraid that if you showed any other emotions, you would revert to your old ways.

“I see.”

You stared at Aemond expectantly, waiting longer than what was proper for him to continue any sentence or explanation. Still, he did not, only observing you with a calculating expression. The low murmur of bustling court members filled the long silence, the occasional gust of wind and rattling metal low in the background. When your uncle refused to proceed with the conversation, you opened your mouth to do it for him, but much to your chagrin, he turned away before you could, not speaking a word as he kicked pebbles with his boots.

You scoffed in response, stunned and appalled by his actions. For a brief moment, one that didn’t last longer than a blink, Aemond showed kindness to you. You felt like an idiot for believing in that small part that thought last night changed your standing with Aemond, yet a ray of hope still lingered in your chest like the flame of a burnt wick on a dwindling candle.

You sighed in frustration as you looked over the worn and tattered pages of the stories. The determination you once had dwindled, and you couldn’t shake off the feeling that you deserved this. Memories of mocking Aemond’s odd behavior of the pig and making fun of him with your brothers and Aegon weighed heavily on you, intensifying the shame. A soft sigh of defeat escaped your lips as you reflected on your actions.

Ser Harwin was leaving you. After his fight with Ser Criston in the training yard, he was stripped of his title as Commander of the City Watch and was sent back to Harrenhal the next day. You were devastated, fat tears running down your hot cheeks as he said farewell to you, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey before sleep.

Harwin had been with you since before you were born. He was there to help sort out quarrels between you and your brothers whenever one stole toys and refused to share. Harwin accompanied you to your lessons when your brothers were learning the art of swords or hunting. He taught you how to ride a horse when your father was out at sea with your grandfather Corlys and dried your tears whenever Aegon and Aemond were harsh. Ser Harwin was family as far as you were concerned, and returning to the Riverlands was akin to losing a member because Ser Criston claimed he cared too much about you and your brothers only to be a sworn protector.

You weren’t blind to the rumors surrounding your parentage and the resemblance to the Commander of the City Watch. It was all your uncles could do not to bring it up each moment they laid their Valyrian eyes on you. The word bastard haunted the now four of you wherever you went, a cloak of shame that threatened to devour your girlish body whole.

Jace often raised concerns about who your birth father was, but he was never brave enough to ask your mother about it. It was an open question of uncertainty that never seemed to find the correct answer, yet, no matter what, you knew that even if you were not of Laenor Velaryon’s blood, they could never deny that you were your mother’s. You were a Targaryen, just like your aunt and uncles, and that was something that could never change.

“Be good to your mother. I’ll visit when I can,” Ser Harwin said tenderly, kneeling before you, Jace, and Luke as your mother cradled Joffrey. He stood with a grunt as he observed the four of you, a misty look in his eyes that you could mistake for tears. “But that may be some time.”

Sobs stained the white cotton sleeves of your nightgown gray, sniffling as you wiped away more snot and salty water. You would miss Ser Harwin terribly, and he knew that, but that did not make this any less painful as you clung to Jace’s side and he, your mother.

“I will return. I promise,” Harwin expressed with a gravelly voice as he tenderly brushed loose strands of your hair that hid your wet eyes. You listened to the same voice as you sat on his lap, resting your head upon his chest as he read you and your brother’s fairy tales before bed.

Harwin would tell no more stories in that deep, rumbling tone that soothed your soul beyond measure, and you felt your heart crack more at the thought.

Harwin moved to say his final farewell to Joffrey and your mother, kissing the babe’s forehead as you buried your face in your brother’s neck. “You will be a stranger when we meet again,” he said to the bundle of fabric that cooed in your mother’s arms.

And that was true, not just for Joffrey, but for all of you.

Ser Harwin bid goodbye to your mother with a simple “princess” as they shared a long, meaningful glance with layers of emotion and scores of history behind them. He said no more and gathered his sword, swinging it over his shoulder as you released a cry, running to the comforting embrace of your mother’s bed. You could no longer watch Harwin as he left your life, a new wave of sobs taking over as you shoved your face into her feather pillows. It smelled of her, home, and happiness—fresh lavender and sage on expensive cotton sheets.

Despite your mother’s reassurance that you would see Ser Harwin again someday, you could not help but feel like this was a death sentence. As if you stood in front of his coffin and buried him beneath the dirt and worms yourself. He would no longer be the sworn shield he was when he left at this very moment, as you heard the sound of hurried footfalls exiting the room.

Luke followed you to the wide bed, tucking himself into your side and resting his temple on your chest as you both cried in an agonizing yet loving embrace. You could hear Jace talking to your mother outside the doorway, little Joffrey babbling as she softly bounced him in her arms. Whether it was to comfort your babe brother or her, you did not know.

“Is Harwin Strong my father? Am I a bastard?” you heard Jace ask. His fierce and unwavering inquiry only made you sadder. On instinct, you covered Luke’s ears as he hiccuped into your chest. He did not need to have doubt burrow into his mind at such a young age.

Your mother was silent. The only sounds coming were from you, the soft crackles of the fire in the hearth, and your little brother’s heaving breaths as you struggled to cope with the loss.

“You are a Targaryen. That is all that matters,” she finally answered, tone strong. Her words were rehearsed and practiced, and they did not quell the thirst for the truth in either you or Jace.

Your barely younger brother returned to the room. His thin lips downturned, and his head hung low as he sat on one of the plush settees littering the area. You could tell he was unsatisfied with your mother’s response, as were you, but he understood he would get the same reply should he push the matter. Your mother followed in soon after, observing the three of you with tired yet loving eyes.

The same question was on your lips, threatening to break free at any moment, lilac orbs landing on your brown ones as she stared at you with your newest brother still in her arms. She was not inclined to answer, and yet you knew. It was written plainly in the fine lines of her face, the slope of her nose, and how tears lined her lashes as your mother inhaled a fierce, shuddering breath. Much like her, you refused to say the words aloud, electing to bask in the grief-stricken sadness that enveloped your family.

The hour of the owl was upon you before you finally went to your chambers, unable to find rest in your kin’s arms. Your brothers choose to stay with your mother inside hers as their tiny bodies pressed against each other after the tears have long dried.

The halls and corridors of the Red Keep were noiseless as you trekked through them with keen eyes. The portraits of your ancestors you passed daily seemed to follow you with their purple gazes, their accusing stares boring shame into your soul and setting your hair alight.

Alicent’s warning rang through your head as the squeak of a rat sounded, her rich voice echoing inside until it was all you could hear. The end could not come fast enough as you shut the large wooden doors to your, Jace’s, and Luke’s shared quarters, swiftly hiding under your blue bed sheets, heart hammering in your chest.

Your bed was cold and safe, and your pulse calmed steadily. Now, more than ever, the uncertainty behind your birth was thrust before you.

It was always easier to deny the fact that you were most likely a bastard than it was to accept it. Those who accused you did not understand that they weren’t only saying your blood was not Laenor Velaryon but that you and your brothers were a sin, your very existence an insult to House Velaryon, the king, and to all those who dutifully suffered unkind marriages.

Bastards were not heirs. They were creations purely out of selfish lust and desire.

It called into question all four of your legitimacy of inheritance. None of you had claims to the thrones or titles you were set to receive upon the death of your parents, and no prospects would want to wed a bastard should you accept it.

You understood why your mother did not admit the words allowed in the confidence of the now four of you. If you spoke them into existence, it would only make them real. It left you no choice but to deny, deny, deny until your tongue withered and lips fell off. Living a life of refusal of admittance would be difficult. Still, it was the only way to ensure you and your brother’s places would be secured until the Stranger decided to take another companion.

The empty well of tears soon filled once more as you sighed deeply in surrender to the turbulent path ahead, tucking your hand underneath your pillow for the relief of rest, but unfortunately, it did not find you.

Your vanity mirror shined like a beacon in the darkness, reminding you of that night. You still needed to move it back to its original place and give your maids the excuse that you wanted to see what it would look like there. It was a lie.

The idea that Aegon knew of a passage into your rooms haunted you when you set foot into the space. You were scared, anxious, no… terrified that your eldest uncle would waltz into your bed chamber at any moment. The unknown was what frightened you—of what he would do. The notion that he could enter pushed you to rise from bed, planting the soles of your feet onto a maroon Myrish rug as you grabbed the legs of the vanity and pulled it back into place. You would have to think of another lie to tell your maids.

“Why is Uncle Aemond unkind to us?” a timid voice rang out into the once private space.

Nearly jumping out of your skin, you turned to see Luke with a wooden toy dragon curled into his tiny fist. It looked as if he had just awoken from sleep minutes ago, which you assumed was the case judging by his messy hair and crusted eyes. As you caught your breath, clutching the skirt of your pale gray nightgown, you disregarded any questions about why he was here instead of your mother’s room.

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be,” you answered as your racing heart calmed. “Why do you ask?”

“I saw him push you over in the courtyard,” he ardently explained, his dark brows rising against his pale skin. It reminded you of your father when he tried to speak earnestly with the three of you, yet Luke’s boyish voice had no similarities to his.

You sighed, recalling the now ruined book you hid in your trunk alongside your tattered dress. “He was angry.”

You did not want to tell Luke about Aemond’s rejection, as the embarrassment was still fresh. He would no doubt try to tell you how you were wrong for attempting to befriend him after the mean things he’d said to you all your life.

“He’s always angry, but we haven’t done anything,” Luke countered with a frown on his small lips, fiddling with his fingers at his sides.

You paused for a long moment, unsure of what to say. The three of you were not nearly as cruel to Aemond as Aegon was. Your mother raised you to be kind to your uncles and aunt no matter what they did to you, and while you were not perfect, any jokes or rude remarks were not made with the intent to hurt him. With a great sigh, you lead Luke in front of the gated fireplace, where a collection of your toys rests in the orange glow. He picked up a polished wooden horse, running his tiny thumbs over the varnish as you spoke.

“I think he believes we don’t belong here,” you said. The explanation was vague, and it irked you beyond measure. The truth of your words threatened to surface like an apple thrown into a barrel full of water.

“We live here. This is our family,” he replied in confusion, dark eyes so wide you could see the entire white. He wasn’t wrong, yet the truth of the matter clawed at your throat to become free.

“We don’t look like Targaryens. You must have noticed.” You could not stop the words from being said. You were such a good liar. Why was it impossible to lie about this?

“You mean our hair?” Luke questioned with a tilt of his head, scratching his scalp in confusion with one of the wooden toys.

You didn’t want to tell him and put the burden of knowledge onto your younger brother that you and Jace were cursed with, but it was something you understood would follow the now four of you for the rest of your lives.

Luke was still younger than you, yet his simple statement of your hair tested your last bit of resolve. “Our hair, eyes, and everything!” you exclaimed exasperated.

“But I have a crooked little finger like Mama,” he reasoned with the raise of his hand, showing his small digit. You deflated, sighing a drawn-out breath to calm your temper as you picked up one of your rag dolls from the pile.

“A crooked little finger isn’t enough,” you decided to say as you stroked the button eyes on your toy. Why couldn’t he comprehend that no matter how many similarities you had to your mother, the fact of who your father was remained uncertain?

“Well, if we aren’t Targaryens, where did we come from?” The sap inside the fire popped, startling you and your brother as you stared into the flames.

You were Targaryens. That much was obvious. You cannot fake exiting your mother’s womb. It was the matter of your father that sparked rumors, but you did not want to give Luke any more thoughts over the subject, coming to accept that he was not old enough to understand what your uncle was being mean about.

“We were born here. Mama is our mother, but there’s something else and Aemond knows it,” you answered obscurely, clutching your dolly into your chest as the night air howled outside the glass windows.

It felt like the Keep was listening to your conversation, the walls groaning in response to your words. The very castle you lived in understood the truth, and the pressure of it weighed heavily on your soul. Just like the paintings of your ancestors, the Red Keep knew of your shame.

“I do not wish to be different,” Luke confessed with dejection, too sad for your liking, as he stopped playing with the toys.

You didn’t want to cause anyone’s sadness, let alone your brother’s, and you frowned, taking Luke’s hand in yours and scooting across the floor to hug his side.

You loved your family more than words could describe as you held your younger brother closer. Jace, Luke, and now Joffrey did not deserve the torment they would face for the rest of their lives at the hands of your uncles and the court. As the eldest, it was your responsibility to protect them from things your parents could not, to take care of them and dry their tears, not to burden your mother or father, but this was something you understood you could not fix, yet it did not deter you from trying.

“Nor do I,” you finally spoke, holding Luke close to your heart and kissing him on his cherubic cheek. “So let us be good children and please those who love us so they may forget what we lack. Come. It’s time for bed.” Your mother would say that as you took your brother by the hand and led him to your bed.

If you couldn’t change what people said, you could at least change the contents they discussed.

You would excel in your place as the unspoken heir and accept your duties no matter what with your shoulders back and your chin held high. You would learn the history of your ancestors, the politics of your country, and whatever else you believed was dutiful to prepare yourself for the responsibility you would inherit after your mother. Not feeling the same fear you did earlier, now with your younger brother at your side, you pulled the covers over both of you as Luke snuggled into your side’s comforting embrace.

Aemond felt he lacked something compared to his siblings, niece, and nephews. Some of him believed that if a dragon hatched from his egg, or he claimed a living one, things would be different from how they were now. He would not be the subject of people’s taunts nor feel the prominent sensation of inadequacy that weighed on his soul, but it seemed as if Aemond was destined to suffer within the shadows of his family’s success no matter how hard he tried to step out of it.

His older brother possessed the skills of conversation and humor he didn’t have and constantly teased him for it, though Aegon was not without faults. His brother would tell him to stop being a “twat,” to get his nose out of books, and that he was dull, sullen, and far too severe for his age.

Because of this, Aegon preferred to spend time with Jace, Luke, and his niece, but it didn’t help that they were much easier company. His half-sister’s children seemed to have a bond closer than his siblings, each with dragons, which was the one thing he didn’t possess. Aemond would never admit he was jealous of his niece and nephews, for that would mean that he saw them as equals of comparison, which was something they weren’t. They were beings of lesser standing, though they thought themselves on par, as they had been raised with the same extravagance he was.

Aemond knew you would be looking for him the next day as he watched you skip to the library the following morning, your smile so bright on your face that it made him sick. Seeing how the joy fell from your face when you saw he was not there gave him a deep sense of satisfaction.

Did you think him stupid?

He could see the telltale signs of tears welling in your eyes as you realized your hidden plans of ridicule were foiled: the scrunch of your dark brows, rapid blinking to get the droplets at bay, and then the pursing of your lips. This time, you held firm and refused to let your emotions guide you. At least, that was what Aemond believed as he observed you exiting the library deep in thought.

He knew you would not give up so easily, and instead of taking solace in his usual places of inhabitant and risking you finding him, he chose to watch you. You could not see him if he was three steps ahead. Aemond was glad that you weren’t nearly as bright as you believed, and as long as he stayed out of sight, he could be sure you wouldn’t bother him. The irony of the situation that he would now be following you to avoid you didn’t matter, and he certainly wasn’t concerned about your well-being after what Aegon did, either.

You were as foreign to one another as Old Valyria; there was no reason for him to care. Aemond would do this every day for the rest of his life if it meant he would never have to spend a moment with you again.

“Brother, what are you doing?”

Helaena’s voice drifted through the halls like summer wind through tree leaves, startling Aemond as he watched his niece’s dark head disappear around a corner. Her fair blonde locks, a copy of her brother’s, were braided around the crown of her head, a tiny metal cage in her lithe fingers, and a curious expression on her visage directed towards him.

“You’re avoiding her,” Helaena declared with a resolute lilt to her tone, taking the insect out of its confines. “After what has been stolen.”

Aemond stared at his sister with perplexed eyes, quickly looking to ensure you had not heard the conversation and came to investigate.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Aemond said distractedly, wringing his hands at the pit of unease in his stomach.

There was no possibility that she knew what occurred during the night. Aegon would never willingly admit something like this, and you would undoubtedly keep what happened a secret, seeing as you refused to tell your mother in fear of punishment.

Helaena was silent as she observed the olive-and-brown grasshopper in her palm, petting it with her index finger before it tried to jump away. She held the open metal cage in the bug’s intended direction, and it landed inside, swiftly flicking the door shut before it could attempt to escape again.

“Tis our fate, I think, to crave what is given to another. If one possesses a thing, the other will take it away,” Helaena declared with the furrow of her blonde eyebrows, the insect thumping against the metal bars as she looked at her younger brother.

Her words were cryptic, and Aemond felt a bead of sweat run down his spine as he observed his older sister. He didn’t understand what she meant. She intensely focused on it, so he assumed it was about the grasshopper. Aemond wordlessly shrugged, disregarding his older sister’s vague observation as he peered anxiously at where he last spotted you.

“Tis not difficult for the ewe to love the lamb. But for the wolf?” Helaena began again, standing beside her brother with a soft swish of her satin skirt. “The wolf’s love for the lamb is such a renunciation, it’s the wolf’s sacrifice—it’s a love that could never be requited. This wolf that sacrifices its very definition for the lamb, this wolf that doesn’t eat the lamb, is it a wolf? Is it still a wolf?”

Aemond paid no attention to her now as Helaena spouted what he felt was nonsense and decided to push forward in search of you, ensuring with noiseless strides you would not see him once he got close.

Helaena was someone he felt was misunderstood like him, but now was not the time to go on with poetry and riddles.

“But sometimes it’s the wolf that falls into the jaws of the lamb. Out of love, the wolf falls backward into the circle of fire. It goes around fast. It so happens that the lamb catches the wolf,” Helaena continued, her voice soft like morning spring rain as she followed her vexed younger brother. She was inside her world, purposely or ignorant of her brother’s frustration.

“There is no greater love than the love the wolf feels for the lamb it doesn’t eat.”

Aemond groaned, losing his temper, which he rarely did in the presence of his sister. His niece had irked him, causing his heartbeat to quicken and his lungs pant.

“Helaena, will you please stop with this nonsense? I have important matters to tend to,” Aemond barked hushedly as a servant passed by, blocking the sun from the windows.

Any other day, he would allow his sister to speak for however long and about whatever she wanted, but this was not one of those times. You could happen upon him at any moment, and the prince did not want to risk the chance of a repeat encounter.

Helaena refused to listen to him as her musings became louder and sharper as if she was trying to convey a point without the proper words, no doubt alerting you and everyone else in the Keep to where he was. Aemond felt the blanket of defeat shroud his figure as the sound of light hurried footfalls sounded in the hall.

“The lamb loves its wolf. The wolf turns white and starts quivering out of love for the lamb. The lamb loves the wolf’s fragility, and the wolf loves the frail one’s force. The wolf is now the lamb’s lamb and the lamb has tamed the wolf,” his sister concluded, violet-eyed with an understanding she attempted to impart onto Aemond with the harsh squeeze of her digits on his arm.

He gasped, his brows arched in pain from Helaena’s sharp nails piercing through his tunic, and tried to wretch his arm free with a panicked grunt, but to no avail. Before he could blink, your pitched voice pierced Aemond’s ears, and he felt like they would burst.

“Uncle! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” The loose strands of your neatly styled hair bounced with every step as you approached Aemond with a broad grin on your lips. “I was hoping we could read today. I chose a book I think you would like. I know you don’t enjoy fairytales.”

“Love blackens the lamb, leaving fire and blood to light their way,” Helaena whispered, her violet gaze directed towards the tall window as a bird flew past. She released Aemond’s arm as if she suddenly realized she still had it. She looked back to her grasshopper, wordlessly displaying it for you to see.

“Oh, is that a new one Helaena?” you asked with a bright curiosity in your tone. Aemond didn’t believe you truly cared about his sister and her bugs, curling his lip in disgust at what he thought were false niceties. “Where did you find it? We’ll have to go there sometime to see if there are more!”

You didn’t care about Helaena and her hobbies. You were more like Aegon and made fun of her for the bugs she collected. At least, that was what he had in his mind. Aemond felt conflicted as he watched his sister nod in agreement, asking when your punishment was over so you could spend time together again.

When he noticed Helaena’s faint smile as she left, grasshopper in tow, a warmth blossomed inside his heart. His sister only showed happiness when she truly felt it, not to be polite like most, and it caused Aemond to turn to you, his face pale. You were his annoying, spoiled, bastard niece who got anything she wanted, so why were you not acting like it?

It felt like butterflies were inside your stomach as you took another step toward Aemond, a book clutched to your chest like before. Aemond watched as his sister left the two of you alone without a word, like she was in a world of her own. He wanted to reach out to her to be not alone with his dreadful niece, but Helaena was gone as quickly as she emerged, leaving her younger brother with the girl he hated most in the world.

“I have a book I think we both would like today, uncle. It’s one about the warrior Queen Nymeria and her journey to Dorne,” you announced, a slight sway in your step as you tried to quell your anxiety.

Aemond huffed as he looked for a way out of this and sighed in defeat when he found none, clenching his thumbs inside his palms to control the ire that swelled in response. Your uncle didn’t want your pity or your friendship. He knew you were only spending time with him since you didn’t wish to Aegon and could not be with your brothers because they were in their lessons. You would have never done this if his eldest brother could control his impulses. It made him feel like a second choice, another painful reminder that he was always second to his kin, yet not good enough to be a spare.

Walking away in surrender, he led you back to the library, where no one would see the pair of you, and the sun provided the only light. He knew Aegon would tease him beyond what he could take if he saw you together, and after that night, Aemond did not want to see him anyway.

You set the book of Queen Nymeria’s adventures on a dusty wooden table and giggled as you fanned the air. Aemond was not amused, sulking in the chair beside you as he opened the leather back of the book. You sat next to him, shoulders touching, ignoring his reaction. He mockingly covered his mouth as if he smelled something terrible when he inhaled the citrus scent on your skin. This made you feel a bit upset, but you tried to hide it by tugging at your dark hair and avoiding his gaze.

You read the first page together silently. It stated how the queen looked, how beautiful she was with long, flowing, swarthy hair cascading down her waist with sturdy hips, her skin a smooth, youthful complexion with brown eyes to match. Yet still, she was a fierce warrior with an indomitable spirit who led her men into battle and took no cowards. You imagined you would be like her when you grew up, a beautiful warrior queen who ruled her kingdom with an unwavering though gentle and cunning fist, who people loved and respected her rule.

“Can I turn it?” Aemond asked dispassionately, cutting through the silence. You hadn’t realized you had been so lost in your daydreams that you had not retained a single word written on the page, but to not make your uncle perceive you lower than he already did, you nodded.

You leaned closer to the pages before you decorated them in elaborate colors of blue and red, studying the new page and picture. Aemond glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, unnoticed by you as you were lost in the vast expanse of your mind, your cheek right next to his.

He was surprised at how different you were, apart from the apparent fact of age and sex. His eyelashes were almost white and translucent, while yours were black, long, surrounding dark eyes that glistened with natural wetness that threatened to suck him into their depths if he stared for too long. Aemond’s skin was pale and dusted with sun kisses, yet yours was plain, flushed, and full of life, your lips more defined and moist than his. You possessed a pug nose matching that of your brothers rather than his aquiline one, a softer, more plump face than his, as Aemond’s was more defined even for his age. His hair, the color of Targaryen’s, the white you didn’t have a hint of and mocked you for, was visible proof of who your father was.

Though Aemond immensely enjoyed pointing out the idea that you were a bastard, he reluctantly realized that you weren’t unattractive, at least by Westerosie standards.

“I will be like Nymeria when I am queen,” you announced to Aemond, breaking the silence. He gave you a sidelong glance and sighed. It wouldn’t hurt if there were some conversation between you. It didn’t seem like you would be mean to him, and he supposed you were indebted to him after all.

At your hopeful expression, your uncle didn’t have the heart to tell you that neither you nor your mother would rule the Seven Kingdoms. Women were not fit to rule and carry such a burden. They were too gentle of creatures to make the harsh decisions that ruling required.

“Are you certain you’ll be a good ruler? You can barely get your brothers to listen to you. What makes you think the Lords of the realm will?” Aemond questioned with a trace of bitterness you couldn’t understand the cause of.

Turning to him with a face painted with a serious expression, your brows scrunched together and lips tight in a severe line as you took his hand. “Just as Nymeria burned her ships to prevent any cowardly men from fleeing, I will burn all those who try to hurt my family and oppose my reign.”

You stated the words with such a decisive coldness that it caused Aemond to shiver. He was shocked and in awe at your declaration, stunned into silence filled with momentary admiration. Aemond never imagined that would come out of your mouth. He always pictured you as soft-hearted when it came to violence, having seen you cower when Aegon would hit your brothers too hard when training.

“What would you do if they didn’t allow your mother to be queen? You wouldn’t have the power to do that,” your uncle reasoned, giving you a devoted attention he never gave before. It made you pause.

“Perhaps I was a bit rash,” you reasoned with the gentle tug of your hair, letting go of Aemond’s hand in nervousness. He swiftly snatched it back before you could think, a surge of excitement rolling in the pit of your stomach with the action. “It wouldn’t only be me, though. I would have Jace, Luke, and Joffrey when he becomes a rider. We would help our mother if anyone tried to prevent her, and I would have my husband, too. He would be my Mors Martell and help me conquer all of Dorne!”

You looked at Aemond with uncertain eyes as your gaze flicked from him to the open book the two of you barely read.

“You mean Aegon. Someone with a dragon,” he countered snidely, turning his flushed cheeks away from you.

“No,” you snapped quicker than you could have imagined. “I don’t want Aegon to be my husband.”

Aemond needn’t ask why.

You hadn’t heard your eldest uncle’s name since that night, and hearing it made something within you break. You despised Aegon for his actions. Did he feel entitled to mistreat you because of the betrothal plan? It filled you with blackened fury. You took a quick breath to calm yourself and looked to Aemond, who appeared remorseful.

“You don’t need a dragon to be powerful,” you explained with a gentle tone, but Aemond only scoffed.

“That’s easy for you to say when you have one,” he bit, causing the tips of his ears to grow pink in anger.

You attempted to hide your huff of annoyance at his sulking but failed, rolling your dark eyes as you answered him honestly. “I do believe you’ll have a dragon one day. There are too many around for you not to. You just need to find the right one, but even if you don’t, there are other ways to have power. You could ride with me and Gaeli, too, if you like? If you never claimed one.”

It was an offering of peace, of goodwill, telling your uncle without the words that you were sorry for having played all the jokes you did on him for not having a mount. You wanted him to know he was welcomed into the world of dragons without one, that you would still see him as an equal, if not better than you in some aspects. He was already showing prospects of being a fine warrior.

“Really?” Aemond perked, violet eyes setting alight with happiness you had never seen him show. He felt childish, but he couldn't help it. You offered for him to ride a dragon!

You giggled, unable to hold your joy back as you bobbed eagerly. “Of course, Aemond! As soon as Gaelithox is large enough to ride you will be with me. We can learn together for when you finally mount one!”

It was the first time you saw your uncle smile with genuine, untainted mirth, displaying a set of dimples you didn’t know he had. The pair of you fell into a deep conversation long into the late evening, causing your mother to pace with nerves until you returned, discussing thoughts of the future, of what dragons Aemond could claim, and how, if he never bonded with one, you would make him feel as if he was a dragon rider like the rest of your family.

The following days, Aemond rose with the sun, a sensation he had never felt before in the pit of his stomach as his servant dressed him in traditional green garbs.

Excitement.

He was filled with eager anticipation for the days ahead now that he had something positive to look forward to. It was something only he had now. In a way, though Aemond would never admit it, for it was such a horrendous thought that brought him great shame, he was glad that Aegon raped his niece. If he hadn’t, Aemond would never have gained one of the two things Aegon had that he didn’t.

First, he took the companionship of the only person who steadfastly supported his old brother. Next, all Aemond had to do was acquire a dragon, and finally, he would be equal to Aegon, if not better.

As Aemond traveled the halls, understanding full well that he could read within the privacy of his chamber, he went to the library to read ever since he and his niece shared words of the future. He met you in the same place in the library after your lessons, whether to read, chat, or enjoy the peace of the other’s company.

Though Aemond was proud that he took something from Aegon, he was afraid that his brother would see you together one day, but Aegon never ventured into the noiselessness of the library. The eldest son had never been much of a student.

You typically sparked conversations, and Aemond would answer back in kind. It made him feel better about himself—more of a man to have someone solely seek his attention and knowledge in a way no one else had before. Aemond always ended the day with a pleasant flutter in his heart and tingling in his fingers for what tomorrow would bring.

One night, as Aemond lay fast asleep with visions of the sun blinding his eyes, green scales, and a head of dark hair that flew in the wind, he woke with a start to the sound of his chamber doors opening. He feared it was Aegon and his nephews who were once again trying to make a mockery of him.

He rose within the lush emerald bedsheets, terrified, as the torchlight shone from the hallway, outlining the figure in the door frame. The person stepped forward with a loud creak of the metal hinges.

“Aemond?”

He heard the quiet mumble, the voice softer than that of the feather pillows he lay his head on at night. Aemond could barely see your silhouette in the darkness, squinting with sleep-clouded eyes to ensure it was you. He could hear your soft sniffles and quick breaths as concern hastened his heart.

“Can I sleep with you?”

You could hear your uncle shift on his bed, mind still reeling from being woken up from a deep slumber. The silence stretched long between you and Aemond, and you feared he might refuse your plea for comfort.

“What? Why?” he hissed with venom. There was no privacy from Aegon here. At any moment, his older brother could walk into his room and see you conversing. He didn’t need another excuse to be ridiculed. You had to leave now.

Your hiccups were loud at his rejection as you wiped at your tears, unable to form coherent sentences as sobs racked your lungs. “I��I had a dream. Ae-gon came… back. He hurt me again, and I… I couldn’t…” You cried, palms scratching at your scalp as you tried to speak.

“Go sleep with Jace,” he retorted, ready to return to bed. Spending time together privately was one thing, but this was invading his space, his place of solitude without siblings or nieces.

“I can’t! He and Luke have been sleeping with Mama since Ser Harwin left,” you babbled in despair, glancing over your shoulder as if the monster called Aegon would emerge from the shadows and devour you whole.

Your desperation stung Aemond's heart, and sympathy clouded his sense that the fear you felt was something he, too, experienced. After a long pause, your uncle shifted to the side, noiselessly lifting his sheets and making room beside him.

Breathing a loud sigh of relief that reminded him of a fish gasping for air, you closed the door, running to Aemond’s bed and immediately clinging to his side. He knew you to be affectionate, but he still carried concern in his mind. Yet how you trembled like a frightened fawn, told him this was not a rouse. You were sincerely terrified that your eldest uncle would return and no one would stop him this time.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know you don’t like me,” you sobbed into your uncle’s green nightshirt, gripping the fabric so tight that Aemond worried it would rip. “Please, please, please don’t let him hurt me again, uncle. I can still feel it between my legs.”

Aemond froze at the sudden burst of intimacy, slowly wrapping his arms around your quivering body. Despite the context of the situation, having you so close sent a pleasant tingling down the base of his spine. He tried to focus on your breathing, waiting for it to calm down before he spoke again.

Though he was beginning to tolerate your presence, having you within his bed chambers was not something he wanted.

Aemond recalled the last time you experienced panic like this, a type too intense for your body to manage, ripping your hair straight from the root in response. He hated to realize he didn’t want you to suffer like that again, and unconsciously, he began to stroke the crown of your head.

It felt good to be needed, so desperately wanted by someone that they tried to crawl inside him, seeking protection, and Aemond felt an overwhelming urge to protect you how a wolf does its pup. He would shelter you from all monsters and people that sought you harm so long as you returned to him with the same wet eyes and arms full of love.

When you finally relaxed, no longer shaking like a leaf in the autumn wind, he spoke, praying that your exhausted mind would forget his confession in the morning.

“When I have a dragon he will not hurt you so long as you’re with me.”

Masterlist of Series

Spotify Playlist

Oh, sweet prophetic girl. You know so much yet can do so little. Cursed with the knowledge of what will come and what has yet to be. Let's all pour one out for Helaena, besties.

I hope this chapter makes up for how sad the last one was. I love writing for angsty young Aemond. As always, thank you for reading!

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp , @britt-mf , @marvelescvpe , @haikyuusboringassmanager , @discofairysworld , @lottiemsgf , @nessjo , @fiction-fanfic-reader , @qvnthesia , @hotvillianapologist

[girlactionfigure]

Worn and weary, balding, with sad eyes, Raoul Wallenberg looked much older than his 31 years of age when in 1944 he was assigned the responsibility of saving Jews in Hungary. The assignment came by way of the War Refugee Board, an American organization formed that same year with the goal of saving Jews from persecution by the Nazis.

Raoul, who had some Jewish lineage but was not considered Jewish, was born in Sweden to a prominent family of bankers, diplomats, and politicians. He was expected to follow in the footsteps of his family, but he decided to become an architect.

He went to study architecture in America, at the University of Michigan. During his time in college, Raoul worked odd jobs despite his family’s wealth, and hitchhiked across the US, Canada, and Mexico during holidays. He continued hitchhiking even after getting robbed and thrown into a ditch by four men who offered him a lift. In a letter to his grandfather, Raoul wrote of his love of hitchhiking, “When you travel like a hobo, everything’s different. You have to be on the alert the whole time. You’re in close contact with new people every day. Hitchhiking gives you training in diplomacy and tact.”

Raoul finished the University of Michigan with honors, even winning a medal for his scholastic achievements. Unable to find architecture work in Sweden after graduation, Raoul briefly lived in South Africa, soon moving to Palestine for a banking apprenticeship. It was in Palestine that Raoul first encountered Jewish refugees from Germany. The refugees made a strong impact on Raoul.

Upon returning to Sweden, Raoul went into the import/export business with a man of Hungarian Jewish decent. Once it became harder for his partner to travel to Hungary due to his being Jewish, Raoul started making the trips himself. He traveled frequently to Budapest, learned Hungarian in addition to his already knowing French, English, German, and Russian, and ultimately went on to head the international arm of the business, soon becoming a joint owner of the company.

In 1944 Germany occupied Hungary. At the time of the occupation, Hungary had close to 700,000 Jewish citizens. By the time Raoul arrived in Hungary on his mission of rescue, over 400,000 of them had been sent to Auschwitz.

Raoul wasted no time. He did everything he could think of to save Jewish people. He bribed, extorted, bluffed, and threatened to achieve his aims of saving as many people as possible.

With a fellow Swedish diplomat he created official looking protective passes to give out to Jews granting them Swedish citizenship and making them exempt from wearing the yellow badge that Nazis required them to wear. Sandor Ardai, one of Raoul’s drivers, recalled a time when Raoul came upon a train full of Jews about to depart to Auschwitz,

“He climbed up on the roof of the train and began handing in protective passes through the doors which were not yet sealed. He ignored orders from the Germans for him to get down, then the Arrow Cross [the Hungarian Nazi party] men began shooting and shouting at him to go away. He ignored them and calmly continued handing out passports to the hands that were reaching out for them. I believe the Arrow Cross men deliberately aimed over his head, as not one shot hit him, which would have been impossible otherwise. I think this is what they did because they were so impressed by his courage. After Wallenberg had handed over the last of the passports he ordered all those who had one to leave the train and walk to the caravan of cars parked nearby, all marked in Swedish colours. I don’t remember exactly how many, but he saved dozens off that train, and the Germans and Arrow Cross were so dumbfounded they let him get away with it!”

In total Raoul gave out tens of thousands of such protective passes, but the German government eventually caught on to the ruse and ruled the passes invalid. When Raoul heard of this, he called on Baroness Elisabeth Kemeny, the wife of the Hungarian Minister for Foreign Affairs in Budapest, for help,

‘’Raoul implored me to help. He was desperate. I talked to my husband and said he must do something. He told me ‘I can’t fight the whole cabinet.’ But after midnight word came that 9,000 passes would be honored. I can still remember Raoul’s elation, his happiness.’’ The baroness had finally persuaded her husband to help by threatening to leave him if he didn’t.

When the Germans abandoned the use of trains to transport Jewish prisoners, instead forming 125 mile death marches toward Auschwitz, Raoul began visiting stopping areas to save people.

“‘You there!’ The Swede pointed to an astonished man, waiting for his turn to be handed over to the executioner. ‘Give me your Swedish passport and get in that line,’ he barked. ‘And you, get behind him. I know I issued you a passport.’ Wallenberg continued, moving fast, talking loud, hoping the authority in his voice would somewhat rub off on these defeated people…The Jews finally caught on. They started groping in pockets for bits of identification. A driver’s license or birth certificate seemed to do the trick. The Swede was grabbing them so fast; the Nazis, who couldn’t read Hungarian anyway, didn’t seem to be checking. Faster, Wallenberg’s eyes urged them, faster, before the game is up. In minutes he had several hundred people in his convoy. International Red Cross trucks, there at Wallenberg’s behest, arrived and the Jews clambered on…”

In one of his final acts of rescue, Raoul intimidated the supreme commander of German forces in Hungary, Major-General Gerhard Schmidthuber, into not blowing up a Jewish ghetto housing 70,000 people. As the war was coming to an end and there was not enough time to send the remaining Jews to Auschwitz, Adolf Eichmann, a major organizer of the Holocaust, ordered the slaughter of all Hungarian Jews in one mass execution. When Raoul found out about this, he sent word to Schmidthuber that if he were to go through with the slaughter, Raoul would personally see that he was hanged for crimes against humanity after the war. Knowing that Hitler was close to defeat, Schmidthuber acquiesced and called off the massacre.

Raoul took such risks because his perspective on the work he was doing was simple, “I will never be able to go back to Sweden without knowing inside myself that I’d done all a man could do to save as many Jews as possible.”

In total Raoul saved close to 100,000 Jews. He himself was captured by the Soviets on suspicion of being a spy and is presumed to have died a Soviet prisoner.

Historical Snapshots

[drefear]

Hail to the King (prologue)

Summary: Miguel O’Hara is the head of the biggest mafia family in Nueva York, scaring almost all of its citizens. Except you. And that’s exactly what he needs.

The restaurant was on 5th Avenue, between Gucci and Balenciaga. Miguel stepped out of his SUV and buttoned the suit jacket he had on, glancing around at the glittering lights of the street, identifying certain faces he knew and familiarizing the ones he didn’t. Walking into the restaurant, he glanced at security at the front and they just nodded at him as he walked in towards the hostess stand. The girl looked up at the 6’9 man, intimidated as she kept her eyes down once she realized who he was, and led him to a table towards the back.

This was a normal night for him once a month, taking a specific meeting here to discuss imports and exports to the city and the competition of the other families.

Miguel O’Hara was a name that many feared in this city, The head of the O’Hara family, a facade for the mafia that ran Nueva York, he was in charge of most organized crime within the metropolitan area and some of the biggest drug trafficking rings within the state. Being a mafia boss aside, the man was huge. His hand could wrap around an average man’s throat and crush it without flexing more than his hand.

He walked to his table without really needing to be led, the girl placing the menus down and walking away without a word. He sat and spread his legs a bit, leaning one elbow on the table and thinking quietly. Another presence made him stand and reach forward, shaking the man’s hand.

“Nice to see you again.” He spoke and sat with the man, talking about some business.

You were new. Very new. Your second night. You’d just moved to the city to become a writer, loving the scenery and hustle of the lives here. Visiting when you were young was always the best feeling, your parents showing you around and bringing you around to see the staples of Nueva York.

You had just finished serving another table for a lovely couple visiting the city as you saw someone get seated in your section. Walking towards the table with a skip in your step, you smiled at the two men and waved. “Hello! I’ll be your server tonight, how about we get started with-”

“Where’s Gwen?” Miguel glared at you as he raised a brow, as if you’d disrespected him in some way.

“Oh, uh. She’s not working tonight.” You added, intimidated.

“I only order from Gwen.” He deadpanned as you scrunch your nose in confusion. “Go get Peter.” He demanded, to which you began to boil a bit. How dare he speak to you like this? Yes, this was a very high end restaurant, but no one was allowed to treat you so terribly, to speak down to you. Your mother taught you never to accept that type of behavior.

“I don’t think I will.” You answered, with the same insulting tone he did, the man sitting across him staring at you with wide eyes. “At least, until you learn to speak to me correctly.”

“Do you know who I am?” He hissed, eyes boring into you and standing in front of you with a towering stature, but you didn’t care. Big or small, no one got to demean you.

“No, and frankly, I don’t care. I don’t give a shit enough about a 15 dollar tip to tolerate your rudeness. Learn how to speak to people before you walk around like some bigshot.” You leaned up towards him, eyes narrowed with anger that mirrored his.

Someone rushed in between the two of you and placed a hand on both of your shoulders. “Hey! Miguel, hi, how are you? I forgot to tell you that Gwen wasn’t feeling well today and called out sick. Hopefully, our new little beauty will suffice.” Peter, your manager, spoke with a friendliness in his voice, a familiarity he must have had with Miguel.

The hulking man stood up straighter, still looking down at you with a snarl still evident on his face. “She won’t be working here anymore.” He spoke in a cool tone, as if just asking about the weather. Your jaw dropped and you glanced between him and Peter.

“You can’t- I don’t-” You stuttered in disbelief and watched him unbutton his suit jacket, taking it off. “How dare you?” You got louder now, calling attention from the few hidden tables beside you.

“You have a disregard for who someone is, and you have no patience for others who try to put you in your place.” He announced, ignoring your angry chatter. “You start to work for me right now.”

“What?” You and Peter gawked as he sat back down and handed you his coat.

“I do not work for you.” You growled with hatred dripping from your lips.

“Well, you don’t have another job anymore, isn't that right, Peter?” He flashed a look of Warning to Peter and he looked between you two before giving you an apologetic smile. “Glad that’s understood. Go wait in the car and I’ll be out in ten minutes to take you home and give you your new assignments for tomorrow.” he waved you off and everything in your being shook with rage. You removed your apron and threw it at the large man.

“Fuck you!” You shouted before exiting the building.

Chapter 1

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[ruukachoo]

Okay so I need to talk about corru.observer

So I'm just sitting here, minding my own business, poking around on the social media sphere when I see a repost of a post talking about a browser game called corru.observer . "Huh," I say to myself, "a browser game about rummaging through an alien biocomputer? Well, I do like my weird fiction, and a biocomputer sounds intreresting. I'll take a look. It's a browser game, in my experience those are typically pretty short, I can give it a looksee and then get on with my life. How long could it take?"

That, my friends, is what we call hubris.

A week and change later I've binged through everything I possibly can (with the exception of the optional hard archive vein section because I'm terrible at the video games especially when they activate hard mode I still haven't dealt with the hard sections in Deltarune ugh why must they put more plot behind hard sections). I have been left staring at the ceiling muttering about mindcores and thoughtforms and weeping over characters. I've talked Eien's ear off puzzling through the story and my brain is still running several cycles repeatedly trying to suss things out.

What I'm trying to say is this game is GOOD and it's gripped my brain HARD.

Unfortunately I learned that it wasn't finished yet well after I had passed the point of no return (this has been happening to me a lot this year with other media, I can't say I'm fond of this trend--I never did like cliffhangers) so I'm left waiting for the next part to come out and in the meantime I have to get out how amazing this game is and maybe convince some other folks to play it because I need to yell more and theorize and there's only so much I can do on my own.

The non-spoilery review: IT'S GOOD GO PLAY IT.

But seriously, the premise basically boils down to: you're a contractor that's been hired to retrieve info from an alien biocomputer that's been recently salvaged from a wreck at the bottom of the ocean. And then it gets weird.

Actually, to quote a character from much later, this is probably the best tagline for the game: "It will probably only get stranger!"

Aesthetically, the game reminds me a little of Welcome to Night Vale. Writing and humor-wise, it reminds me a little of Undertale. There are some elements that remind me a little of Hatoful Boyfriend shut up it does make sense if you've played through it. It's a game full of nooks and crannies to explore and a whole bushel of questions and mysteries to solve. I realize in hindsight that it pings a lot of the things that also caused me to gravitate towards Steven Universe: compelling and complex characters, tons of mysteries big and small to chew on, and rock solid worldbuilding. I am seriously in love with the worldbuilding here - everything, right down to the reason you hear music and the appearance of the characters, has a reason, and part of the joy of the game for me is just figuring everything out. Media scores major points with me when it becomes apparent that the creators have Thought Through Things.

My only really negative thing to say is that while I love the immersive interface, I would have appreciated a little readme file or an annotation or something to indicate how to save the game. In internet years I'm older than the pyramids and I grew up on point-and-click adventure games where being able to save every five seconds is paramount, and I think I would've had a little less anxiety at the beginning if I knew how to save my progress in case Firefox borked or something (I think the answer is there's import/export file functions under data management I THINK that's what it is).

But yes, overall, really good, loved it, really wanting the next part to come out now.

OKAY NOW SOME OTHER THOUGHTS EXCUSE ME WHILE I DO A BIT OF SCREAMING.

NNNNGH THESE CHARACTERS I LOVE THEM. They are all so good. I love Cavik's eagerness and Tovik's determination, I love how Gakvu and Miltza manage to work together despite their differences, I love Kazki's gentleness and Bozko's protectiveness, I love how Idril is basically the answer to the question "What if Osaka from Azumanga Daioh was a dull engineer?". I think what makes it work so well is that you get a chance to spend some time with them, the Call Team in particular. You see them when times are good and when everything is falling apart. The visual novel format, where a lot of the narration is from Akizet's POV, works super well here. You get not only a chance to see what Akizet thinks of them based on what she knows about them, but you see how her thoughts and opinions of them change over the course of the story, particularly in relation to the collapse arc. It gives them an extra boost of life that I think might not have been possible from a more distant POV. They're allowed to be complex and deep.

And oh Akizet is a multidimensional delight. I love her fondness for orange juice. I love how she is doing her best. I love how she is anxious and overthinks things and it's clear that she is trying to do the right thing, even if there are some pretty clear signs that she isn't always making the best choice. I love how she has regrets and joys and stumbles. I love how she is more competent than she thinks she is. I love how she loves these people. Her scene with Bozko where he's spiraling and she hugs him because it's the only thing she can do is lodged in me, both for how relatable it is when wanting to help someone dealing with trauma and the only thing you can do is be there for them, and because oh Aki, you don't need to be a Tir, you just need to be a friend. You just need to be you.

I feel like the overarching theme of the game is "Everyone is doing the best they can with what they have." Right down to the partial translations of words from the mindspike and the fragmented state of the cyst, everything that happens is coming from a place of working with what you've got. That kinda makes the end of the collapse even more tragic, as it's being made abundantly clear that Akizet did not have all the pieces to deal with Vekoa. All she had was her previous knowledge of what she had seen, and all of that pointed to, in her mind, Vekoa attempting a deception. Although I wonder how much of that is based off of what she saw and what she believed. There's a TON of layers here still to uncover.

And there are SO MANY QUESTIONS. There's the big ones of course ("What happened to Akizet?" "What the heck is the deal with the meteorite anyway?" "What is Velzie hiding?" "Who sent the message to Akizet that set everything in motion?"), although there are some smaller ones that I keep chewing on.

What is Kazki's role in all of this? She was conspicuously absent from the collapse, and it made sense she wouldn't be present based on her role, but I keep wondering if there was more going on with her than is apparent. She had been regularly speaking with a human, but the details of that interaction haven't been made known, so is it possible she has more involvement than we currently know? The fact that Drowning, who holds some of Akizet's memories of Kazki and may look like how Kazki actually looks, is guarding some of the deeper parts of the cyst, suggests a greater role.

What is Velzie anyway? The obvious answer is some sort of thoughtform, but from what? Something I started thinking about recently after looking at some of the transcripts is how Tozik wanted Akizet to share the truth about the meteorite. We assume his message got out at the end, but did it? Is Velzie related to Tozik somehow? On the other hand there's evidence Cavik might have some connection as well. HM.

"OUR" DULL SHIP? WHO IS THIS "OUR"??

How much can Funfriend really be trusted? This one's gotten me into a LOT of knots. Funfriend is trying to repair the cyst and is again, doing the best it can with what it has, but the Council and Jokzi Ozo suggest that maybe it's not what the rest of the cyst wants. Honestly I was starting to get a bit of a Myst vibe, where it feels like we're getting two opposing viewpoints and we're eventually going to have to choose one of them (or perhaps a third as-of-yet-unknown third option). But getting back to Funfriend, it's repairing with what it has to work with and its own memories of Akizet and what happened, so how much of that can be trusted? Are we seeing what actually happened, or are we seeing what Funfriend wants us to see?

What IS that weird dark space in Jokzi Ozo with eyes that look an awful lot like Tovik's?

Will we ever get to have a drink with the orange juice effigy? I'M ASKING THE IMPORTANT QUESTIONS HERE.

Nngh, in the end all I can do is ponder for right now, but when the next part comes out I will be SO ready. And maybe by then I'll have figured out how to get through the archival vein. PLEASE BSTRD, I NEED MORE PLOT AND LORE. I'M NOT A GAMER, I JUST WANT THE STOOOOOORY!!!

[therosebookshop]

Beloved of the Dragon

͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ ·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Contains/Warnings: fluff, dragon Neuvi because I said so, it’s short, rich judge man because yes

A/N: yall liked my birb xiao Drabble so here you go

Song: None

͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ ·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Everybody knows Monsieur Neuvilette is a busy man. He’s the Chief Justice, after all. He has court cases, as well as the task of presiding over Fontaine. And his being detached from humans so much leads people to perceive him as cold, aloof, quiet. Not many people ever see him in public or at all anyway.

But you do. You’re the first person he’s ever loved. It was uncomfortable at first, a lot of learning and firsts and trial and error. But now he doesn’t know what he’d do without you. You help him with some of his paperwork as his secretary, which is how you two met. And you two always walk home together. He makes you take at least a day off per week, and on those days when he gets home dinner is ready and your arms are open for him.

Speaking of those days, they’re his favorite. He doesn’t care about your body insecurities- if you’re thin or if you’re skinny, if you have small or big assets. When you’re cuddled up to him in bed after dinner and a bath together, you’re in his arms, him pressing loving kisses to your skin. And when he’s comfortable enough to be in his dragon form with you? You’re cuddled against a dragon body, pinned under an arm and tucked against his cool scales.

Words of affection are hard for him. But physical affection is so much easier. So are gifts. He’s rich, enough money to spoil you for your whole life, despite how he lives. You talk about something you saw in a shop? It’s in your hands the next day. You mention craving a food? He’s buying you so much of it that you’re stuffed. You’re exhausted from a day of work? So is he, and you’ll be tucked under his dragon form, content against his chest, his head resting on you.

Dragons are fiercely protective of what’s theirs. It’s not blatantly obvious, since he’s not seen with you much in public as anything more then boss and secretary, but a few months into dating and there’s a lot of hickeys on your neck- and on places hidden by clothes- and you’re covered in his smell, and right on your neck is his mark- a bite with a hydro symbol at the center.

And you’re the prettiest thing in his collection of treasures. He likes buying you expensive clothes to wear around the house- for his eyes only, of course- and seeing you in them, all dressed up in silks and exported materials.

And when he proposes, without hesitation you say yes. You’re mortal. And he’s not. There are ways to make a mortal immortal, through a curse or something similar. But he would never force you to be immortal just for him, to forever be by his side. Even if Fontaine will drown from his tears if you chose to stay mortal and die, he would do it.

Because you’re simply more important.

[kebriones]

Idk if you have answered this before but how do you see the future for artists in Greece?

I know a small country with mostly agricultural and many people try desperately to meet ends meet and work a lot. Of course that's a global issue what work people prefer but i don't like art being discriminated.

In Greece how's it looking?

Unfortunately, greece is no longer a mainly agricultural economy. Tourism and shipping are by far our main industries.

It's true that many people struggle here, and the way things are going, will continue to struggle. And it's true that artists in general, not just here, always have the most unstable jobs and struggle.

It's not looking good. And for greece specifically everything seems to keep getting worse. The arts are overlooked on all levels, from primary school to university to funding for theaters or even exporting art. Nobody seems to understand how important it is for a culture to be producing and 'consuming' its own art. You slowly lose yourself when all you ever read and watch is from other cultures. Of course it's vital to interact with the arts of other cultures. But not exclusively that. Plus most of it is from the US/the anglosphere anyway.

All types of art are suffering here, but I see people keep trying. Not the majority, the majority of artists I know feel hopeless and defeated. But there are still artists who try to make it here. They make great music and comics and indie movies and great theater plays. And i do think that we can do so much more. The gaming and animation industries are almost non existent here, and there's so much potential there. You don't need some great infrastructure for those, you just need people who are willing to work, and a little financial support because so many people genuinely live in poverty right now. And it's these people who, upon given the opportunity will work the hardest. Many rich kids I know from art school don't care about working hard and making it, because it is actually very hard to be an artist, and it's easier to just go work for your dad's business than slave away in a moldy basement you're paying half of your income in rent for. In other countries with developed industries in these things, you don't need financial support to kickstart them, because there actually are studios you can go work for and learn in etc and the industry exists already.

The prevailing attitude here is that you need to migrate to find work, to be appreciated, to have a good life and do something that matters and not waste yourself. Which is, currently, the most reasonable route for an artist, and what I dreamed of when I was in highschool. But seeing a place like this destroy itself and become nothing but a fancy amusement park for rich foreign people sucks. There's talent and there's people with things to offer here and a culture that gets lost because everyone, including ourselves, sees our culture as just antiquity. Modern greek culture is seen as insignificant, wrong and bastardized, it's not something to care about beyond the tasty food, it's not as great as it should be and it will never live up to a past so idealized it's fake. This is connected to our perception of our own artistic production right now. You have Euripides, you don't need to worry about writing great plays yourself. You have all these ancient sculptures, you don't need any more amazing sculptors. A kot has been said about this problem modern greece has. Antiquity is inescapable and you need to look at it and accept it on one hand, but it is a crutch and a discouragement on the other. We struggle to exist alongside it in a healthy way.

Anyway I am hopeful that things can get better, because i think we can make them better. We just need to work harder and focus and make ourselves heard through our art, chase opportunities and build communities here and not give up when everyone around you is telling you you're better off in a soul-crushing job that will at least provide you with a steady salary for the next 40 years of your life that can barely afford you rent and groceries.

[acalamity]

author's note

synopsis: to jinhsi, hope is you; the one she loves the most

wuthering waves! jinhsi x fem! reader

more under the wubbaboo!!

As the newly appointed young magistrate, Jinhsi is often busy and overwhelmed. The market's price range and their merchants, Jinzhou's communication network, infrastructure planning operations, exports and imports: all of these are simply some affairs she must learn to overlook and personally tune to Jinzhou.

Being the Madam Magistrate has never been and will never be easy. And there will be times when the days blur together, when she herself will be void of hope to give to the people.

Jinzhou, for as long as Jinhsi was the Magistrate, would receive her gentle, pristine hope.

But today, Jinhsi was especially exhausted. But her number one supporter and everlasting partner; you—

"[Name], you want to go out on the battlefield?" Jinhsi approached you with slow steps, composed and elegant as always. Her eyes flickered over your worms state, garments tattered and your skin scratched with shallow sounds.

"I know. . ." You shifted shyly, hands behind your back. By the floor laid a recitifier, torn and unmoving— how you managed to break it that badly, no one would know. Yet with your luck, it was definitely something that would happen. You held your hands up, flexing your bandaged fingers, "It's dangerous and I can't even use my rectifier properly so I'm completely useless but. . ."

These were not lies, nor were they exaggerated. It would be fair to say you were somewhat hopeless in battle.

"I want to try!" You huffed, meeting Jinhsi's gaze. She seemed tired, with the forming eyebags under her eyes, the strands of long pristine hair peeking out from her hairdo and the wrinkles in her usually crisp clothes, "Today might be a complete failure. . ."

The target ahead of you remained annoyingly unscathed, much unlike its surroundings that was marred by your attacks.

"But tomorrow may be a better day!" You cheered, "I'll keep trying! So one day I'll be a proper protector of Jinzhou!"

— you will be her hope, beyond the realm of time and matter. And Jinhsi hopes that she will always bask in this hope of yours.

"I know. If it's you, then even fate will bestow favour on you one day." The words are soft and overflowing with tender affection— like the embrace from a little wishing star, "[Name], from the bottom of my heart, thank you for being born."

"E-eh?"

[communist-manifesto-daily]

Socialism: Utopian and Scientific - Part 12

[ First | Prev | Table of Contents | Next ]

In England, the bourgeoisie never held undivided sway. Even the victory of 1832 left the landed aristocracy in almost exclusive possession of all the leading Government offices. The meekness with which the middle-class submitted to this remained inconceivable to me until the great Liberal manufacturer, Mr. W. A. Forster, in a public speech, implored the young men of Bradford to learn French, as a means to get on in the world, and quoted from his own experience how sheepish he looked when, as a Cabinet Minister, he had to move in society where French was, at least, as necessary as English! 

The fact was, the English middle-class of that time were, as a rule, quite uneducated upstarts, and could not help leaving to the aristocracy those superior Government places where other qualifications were required than mere insular narrowness and insular conceit, seasoned by business sharpness. [2] Even now the endless newspaper debates about middle-class education show that the English middle-class does not yet consider itself good enough for the best education, and looks to something more modest. Thus, even after the repeal of the Corn Laws, it appeared a matter of course that the men who had carried the day – the Cobdens, Brights, Forsters, etc. – should remain excluded from a share in the official government of the country, until 20 years afterwards a new Reform Act opened to them the door of the Cabinet. The English bourgeoisie are, up to the present day, so deeply penetrated by a sense of their social inferiority that they keep up, at their own expense and that of the nation, an ornamental caste of drones to represent the nation worthily at all State functions; and they consider themselves highly honored whenever one of themselves is found worthy of admission into this select and privileged body, manufactured, after all, by themselves.

[2] And even in business matters, the conceit of national Chauvinism is but a sorry adviser. Up to quite recently, the average English manufacturer considered it derogatory for an Englishman to speak any language but his own, and felt rather proud than otherwise of the fact that "poor devils" of foreigners settled in England and took off his hands the trouble of disposing of his products abroad. He never noticed that these foreigners, mostly Germans, thus got command of a very large part of British foreign trade, imports and exports, and that the direct foreign trade of Englishmen became limited, almost entirely, to the colonies, China, the United States, and South America. Nor did he notice that these Germans traded with other Germans abroad, who gradually organized a complete network of commercial colonies all over the world. But, when Germany, about 40 years ago [c.1850], seriously began manufacturing for export, this network served her admirably in her transformation, in so short a time, from a corn-exporting into a first-rate manufacturing country. Then, about 10 years ago, the British manufacturer got frightened, and asked his ambassadors and consuls how it was that he could no longer keep his customers together. The unanimous answer was:

You don't learn customer's language but expect him to speak your own;

You don't even try to suit your customer's wants, habits, and tastes, but expect him to conform to your English ones.

[ First | Prev | Table of Contents | Next ]

[tiny-buzz]

< It's Demented Week. Are You Ready For Some Demented Acts And Scary Concepts? >

— Dress up crazy and wild. Halloween is ALL month long, ha ha. Don't talk to me until I've had my cup of BLOOD, ha ha. Smear blood (fake) on your face (real) and burst into your friend's house, hollering that there's been an accident. When your friend stands up, startled, from their delicious dinner, and they ask you who you are, and how you got into their house, do not admit that you went to your friend's old address. This would make you a fake friend (real). TRUE friends know the street addresses of each of their Top 5 Friends, and their garage door codes. True friends memorize details and wait, lurking, for the perfect time to strike.

— Use powerful incantations to revivify the dead and play tricks on them. Quarter behind the ear on the corpse of Susan B. Anthony. Got your nose Cleopatra. Use your terrible powers to defy the finality of death and wake up famous women throughout history and "neg" them using popular pick-up artist techniques. ("Wow. You must have been gorgeous back when you had skin and were alive. But that, sadly, was thousands of years ago . . . !!") Post the results to YouTube for a fun reaction. Gain a sizable following. Introduce a sports-adjacent drink-adjacent beverage drink to monetize your popularity. Do the dead thirst for sports drinks? Concoct a very interesting business strategy to unload some of your sports drinks on the taxpayers of Colorado. Get arrested for Conspiracy To Commit Wire Fraud (Fake).

— Pranks are an exciting situation. String an enormous spider from a tree along a sidewalk in a busy street in Brooklyn. Set up a small mechanical eye to monitor the path below. When the motion detector is tripped, have the spider drop down on the passer-by and stab them repeatedly in the throat, killing them. Can't convict a spider . . . no jury in the world would blame a spider for doing what they do best (Murder) . . . There is a law above man's law . . . NATURE'S law . . . and also the laws of the Ultimate Fighting Championship MMA promotion (no eye-gouging, no biting, no roughhousing, be respectful, nothing past second base unless it's 11 PM and night)

— Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be a ghost? If you haven't, start now! Think about death for a little each day. Not in the contemplative approach of a monk, quit that! Pretend that a speeding dangerous INSANE car driven by a MANIAC is about to hit you at all times, especially when you're eating or peeing. Now imagine being a ghost, looking down at your charred, mangled corpse. Capture this feeling and let it motivate you to take another pass at your failed sports drink idea from the previous bullet points. No jail is strong enough to hold your entrepreneurial soul or literal body, if you take enough steroids.

— Throw a rubber snake at a passing cyclist and when they careen off a cliff (this is happening at the Grand Canyon btw) do a land acknowledgement really really quickly before they hit the sides or bottom so their spirit doesn't get sucked up by the U.S. Government Spirit Vacuum that is secretly located in all National Parks and Catholic Churches.

— There's nothing more demented than the future. Seize on this fact by making plans with friends and coworkers that will cause them dread. A dinner 45 miles from their house. Drinks way too late on a Wednesday. Invite them to a church you don't belong to. Invite them to a Best Buy 1,800 miles away. Buy 5,000 atlases, rip pages out of each, and randomly mail them to individuals all across the world. Learn more about the city you live in. Memorize popular imports and exports for your state. Leave clues for the police letting them know that no one is is safe from your thirst for socio-topographical knowledge.

— In the future, the world's most popular computer game is a matter of life . . . and death!! And in THIS game, there ARE no EXTRA LIVES!! It's called Plormo and it is a rogue-like where you play as the eponymous Plormo, exploring caves and dungeons for loot. It comes out in the year 2041 and it is very popular initially (great gameplay, graphics, fun supporting character named Moop who gives you hints and sings), but Plormo loses popularity when people realize that the game kills you.

— In the mid-2000s, the shock-rap group the Insane Clown Posse was revealed to be under FBI investigation. An excerpt from the FBI's secret dossier: "THESE CLOWNS HAVE ATTITUDE! BUT THEY SPIT REAL SH*T, TOO."

— George W. Bush one time dressed up as a ghoul to scare his daughter. The name of that ghoul? Dick Cheney . . .. !!!

— Banksy one time painted George W. Bush dressed up as Ronald McDonald The Hedgehog 3.

— FBI on Banksy: "We must not let these insightful paintings reach the public . . . it could cause chaos!"

— The Pope, upon seeing that Banksy had teamed up with the Insane Clown Posse: "Yes. . . . everything is going according to plan."

— The Pope, to his Northern Cardinal: "Tell me. . . . what do you know about State Birds?"

— "When you think about it, don't we ALL wear masks, every day?" — The Masked Philosopher

— "Buddy, don't get me started!" — The Man In The Iron Mask (cut scene)

— Popular Costumes For Demented Month, 2024:

- Greasy Screaming Man

- Flirty Pope

- State Bird Of Virginia

- Generic Buster Of Ghosts

- Pile Of Discarded Bricks

- Angry Rabid Dog Running 25 Miles Per Hour At Your Car

- Flirty Succubus

— Dick Cheney's Dying Words In 2041: "Plormo is a must-play experience"

< Have A Good Demented Month Week . . . >

[daincrediblegg]

THE LONG AWAITED LADY TERROR BIO

Full name: Genevieve Sinclair

DOB: February 12th,  1816 Baptism: April 16th, 1816 Birthplace: London, England Eyes: Brown Hair: Dark Brown Sexual Orientation: Queer Disposition: Enigmatic. In some circumstances quiet, thoughtful, introverted, in others, charming, charismatic and even boisterous Build: Full-figured, somewhat corpulent.

Genevieve “Lady Terror” Sinclair was born to Captain Charles Sinclair, a 2nd generation French/Italian immigrant who rose to captaincy during the napoleonic wars, and his lawful wife Ms. Marie Sinclair (nee. Bennet) after his return to London. Though he would never receive medals or great honor for the commencement of battle during the wars, he was recognized by the Royal Navy for his rescue efforts in recovering several stranded crews from the wrecks of many naval battles that commenced in French-controlled waters. Several years after his daughter was born, Charles found his funds running short to support his wife and child, and elected to take up the merchant’s trade to deliver and receive goods from the Americas and Russia, forming good relationships with the Hudson Bay Company and other exporters to be recognized as a business partner in full.

Sinclair’s childhood was mostly spent just outside of London in the family’s country manor. She spent much of her childhood happily as the only child that the couple would come to bear. Under both her parent’s tutelage she would learn much not just on the ways of being a proper lady, but also she was extremely well read in literature from around the world, philosophy, and studied in sciences as well. But her passions were especially prominent in her own writing, and the illustrations that would accompany them- a talent that she would pursue for the rest of her life and a constant comfort especially in her years leading up to her womanhood.

As she began to enter womanhood, her parent’s relationship, and her relations to them in turn, became strained. With her father often away, and left at home with only her mother to care for her as consequence, resentment brewed between them for Charles, but also in turn did Marie’s resentments implode upon the young woman, as her mother took to drinking and contradicting public endless praise for a talented daughter with endless private slander of the burden of raising her alone and increasing difficulties that she would face as a woman too intelligent for her lot in life, and how important it was also that she secure herself through marriage as she did. The unsavory dynamic between mother and daughter escalated until in her early twenties, Charles, on a return trip to England, found his daughter so deep in distress that she was to afeared to leave her room, prone to fits of being unable to sleep, distress from her mother’s private demeanor and admonishments and being given laudanum for these anxieties. Charles, knowing this to be unlike his daughter and heartbroken by her deep distress, discovered in turn that on top of her increased drinking and horrific spending habits while he was away, uncovered that she had also been unfaithful during his absence. He attempted a divorce from her in 1834 but nothing much ever came of it. Instead, Charles retained the custody of his daughter and brought her with him as he purchased a separate townhouse in London for themselves and summarily brought the young woman with him on all subsequent ventures, as she had once done in her youth for a time, but her mother had put an end to. 

Over the course of the next eight years, Sinclair would span half the globe with her father while he conducted trade in its many corners. In that time, she learned much in the art of navigation, and was considered the most competent among the crew of her father’s ship-aptly named The Demeter- in this regard. Learning much and her skill also for reading charts and also re-drawing them for better navigational accuracy would have earned her any competent place on any given naval ship as a ship’s master- if not captain herself. The crew of the Demeter had been far warmer to her presence than might have been any other kind of crew one could encounter, but nonetheless took some time to warm up to the bright young woman they now had aboard. Nevertheless, Sinclair’s sharp thinking and suggestions managed to curtail many near misses, with no men lost during her tenure on the Demeter. But along with her skills in navigation also came a keen sense of business by proxy of her father’s business, and therefore became savvy in such dealings. It was always well regarded that much of her multiple talents served her well, and the culmination of these talents rose to great promise when word began to spread upon their arrival back in London after a long winter strait in Russian waters that another expedition to find the elusive Northwest Passage was underway. To secure a name for herself, with greater promise for her own self security (as her father, now in his 70’s, began to make preparations for her to inherit his entire estate and affairs upon his death, and she, wanting to be a part of such an adventure undertaken alone, put her name forward in the lots of ice masters that were to be considered for the expedition. Whilst her entry was highly unusual on account of her being a woman, she was considered highly for a secondary position as a junior in which she would assist her more tenured counterparts on Erebus and Terror with charting the unmapped territory and in navigation through the icy waters of the Arctic. It was not so much for her clear and unrivaled skill that she was eventually chosen, but moreso for her connections with merchants in the area for whom trade would be promising, and a navigator experienced in taking the route would be of great use to them once the passage had been charted. Though this fact continued to aggrieve her greatly throughout the expedition, her ability to take part in such a venture at all and as she was greatly overshadowed it, and accepted the position with gusto. However, as she would come to grapple with the incomprehensible horrors that awaited her in the arctic, she would come to regret what excitement she had once had to be a part of an exploratory mission such as this, and at the same time, consider it to be one of the best decisions she had ever made.

In her personal life, Sinclair by all was considered an odd sort of girl. Her outspoken nature earned her disdain amongst good society men and women that she encountered, but amongst the oddest lots in life she always seemed to find friends. One person in particular- author of ill repute Edgar Allan Poe had been a singularly constant companion to her and had been since their childhoods, as he attended a boarding school very near to the family home where they lived as his adoptive parents-Frances and John Allan- conducted their affairs in London. It was rumored once that there were wishes on behalf of each party to marry, but nothing came of it as time and miles parted them in their teenaged years, though up until her disappearance they remained very close friends. It is through this friend that Sinclair became acquainted with some of the other literati of the day (though Poe had burned many bridges with his scathing reviews of his peers works, a point of which Sinclair herself admired, Sinclair did not garner such a reputation herself), including the likes of Charles Dickens and Walt Whitman. In any and all such circles, she was always warmly regarded, if not well liked.

In affairs of the heart, however, Sinclair would never find herself so rich in either opportunity or prospect. Even though as a sole heiress she had been viewed as a desirable match for many gentlemen and many certainly took a chance at pursuing her in her youth, Sinclair never failed to turn them all down eventually. By her twentieth year it seemed the offers of marriage fell to the wayside both in light of her reputation and her sheer absence from such scenes where opportunity to meet potential suitors was presented, and she never took as much interest in finding a husband before spinsterhood approached her as many other ladies she had known were. Instead, she focused her efforts on making her life her own, and surpassing great obstacles in order to achieve her own independence whilst also not compromising her emotional well being.

[forgottenwriter]

ForgottenWriter's Guide to Writing: Getting Started, Part One.

So, I mentioned before that I might do this, and a few people were interested. I decided to actually put my money where my mouth was for once; this guide is going to be a practical guide to writing for a beginner. Now, this one is aimed at people who want to do stuff in fandom spaces, but a lot of what I am going to be doing here is also relevant to original work. I'll start you off with the basics, and help to teach you everything I've learned over the many, many, many years that I've been doing this.

True to its nature, this article will be pretty basic, but as we go, I'll get to more advanced stuff and concepts. You want to know how to do a proper character arc? Or characterise someone? Or make dialogue flow naturally? Or attract readers? Or really, anything like that? I'm your girl, and just because we don't cover it right away doesn't mean we're not going to cover it. But before we get into that, who am I and why do I get to give you these lessons? Well, I'm a writer, and a pretty successful one! Not only have I been in fandom species since the early 2000s, I'm also a self published author and writer of commissioned fiction. I live and breath writing, and not only do I think it's incredibly important, but I also treasure it as something that we all can have, and which can help us connect to one another.

I've been writing for a long time. Counting it all, I've been writing for almost two thirds of my span of life. I've done a lot, seen a lot, made a lot, fucked up a lot, and learned from it - hopefully a lot! My list of achievements include a fairly successful web novel-ish quest which ran for multiple years at hundreds of comments, votes and discussion per chapter, a 70K word steampunk novel, and a series of decently successful short stories published under a different, business name.

tl;dr, I'm not saying that I am an expert here and we always have more to learn. But I am saying that i know the basics, and know them well enough to make a living doing this shit, so let me pass on a little bit of what I know to you all if you're in any way interested.

So, what do you need to get started with writing? I'm going to be treating you like you know absolutely nothing here, and handing you some of the basic tools. The first thing you're going to want to have is a word processor of some sort. Back in ye old days, there were really only two games in town: Microsoft word and OpenOffice, but these days, there are a ton more options. I'll go over some of them and weigh the pros and cons.

Microsoft Office Microsoft office used to be the standard. Back in the old days, if you could use this, you would. Believe it or not, I don't hear it used much anymore, but if you happen to have it, it can serve well. It's formatting is still universal, and it provides a good grammar and spelling checker.

The downside of this is that it's paid, and microsoft can be pricey. It tends to be bundled with other programs, so if you already have it, you can use it. If you don't, it's not worth coughing up the cash for this alone. Also, it's had some AI controversies I believe, and some writers don't trust it. LibreOffice LibreOffice is an off-shot of OpenOffice, which was Microsoft's big, open source rival for writing back in the day. OpenOffice boasted that it could offer everything Microsoft offered, but for free. That's true! But I find it has a bit of a steeper learning curve. That said, I don't believe they've dipped into AI, and to this day, they're still free and can export documents into various formats.

If you want an word processor but don't want to pay, this one is pretty near the top of the list, and it's what I used for years and years.

Google Docs Google Docs is also a word processor, but differs from the others in several key ways. The first and most important is that your work is saved to the Cloud; you can access it from any computer. This also means that it doesn't matter what kind of computer you're running - LibreOffice won't run well on a chromebook for example, and Microsoft Office has no hope in hell, but anything will run Google Docs. Docs is also free, and has essentially unlimited space. Technically, limited, but if you're only writing, you'll probably never hit it. In my experience, the spelling and grammar checker is worse on google docs than Libre, but this is a minor complaint, and the main drawback of google docs is twofold.

Firstly, if your google account is ever lost, compromised or blocked, you lose everything. Your documents will be deleted, and you will instantly lose access without warning. Now, I rarely hear about this happening, but it's something to be aware of.

Secondly, AI. Google is very AI happy, and there has been suggestions in the past that they harvest information from google docs without permission. This has never been proven, but comes up somewhat semi regularly within author circles. Make up your own mind how likely you think it is.

Generic Word Processor These are things like Notepad, or some other brand of word processor. Typically, they won't serve as well as the ones I've name-dropped above, but you can write on anything in a pinch. The most important thing is to find something that works and clicks with you.

I spent years operating off LibreOffice, and before that, it's ancestor, OpenOffice, and nowadays I do most of my work via Google Docs.

These are all you will need to start writing in fandom spaces. Now, there are more advanced tools - especially if you're aiming to get published, but we can cover those in a later post. They don't matter right now.

[girlactionfigure]

Worn and weary, balding, with sad eyes, Raoul Wallenberg looked much older than his 31 years of age when in 1944 he was assigned the responsibility of saving Jews in Hungary. The assignment came by way of the War Refugee Board, an American organization formed that same year with the goal of saving Jews from persecution by the Nazis.

Raoul, who had some Jewish lineage but was not considered Jewish, was born in Sweden to a prominent family of bankers, diplomats, and politicians. He was expected to follow in the footsteps of his family, but he decided to become an architect.

He went to study architecture in America, at the University of Michigan. During his time in college, Raoul worked odd jobs despite his family’s wealth, and hitchhiked across the US, Canada, and Mexico during holidays. He continued hitchhiking even after getting robbed and thrown into a ditch by four men who offered him a lift. In a letter to his grandfather, Raoul wrote of his love of hitchhiking, “When you travel like a hobo, everything’s different. You have to be on the alert the whole time. You’re in close contact with new people every day. Hitchhiking gives you training in diplomacy and tact.”

Raoul finished the University of Michigan with honors, even winning a medal for his scholastic achievements. Unable to find architecture work in Sweden after graduation, Raoul briefly lived in South Africa, soon moving to Palestine for a banking apprenticeship. It was in Palestine that Raoul first encountered Jewish refugees from Germany. The refugees made a strong impact on Raoul.

Upon returning to Sweden, Raoul went into the import/export business with a man of Hungarian Jewish decent. Once it became harder for his partner to travel to Hungary due to his being Jewish, Raoul started making the trips himself. He traveled frequently to Budapest, learned Hungarian in addition to his already knowing French, English, German, and Russian, and ultimately went on to head the international arm of the business, soon becoming a joint owner of the company.

In 1944 Germany occupied Hungary. At the time of the occupation, Hungary had close to 700,000 Jewish citizens. By the time Raoul arrived in Hungary on his mission of rescue, over 400,000 of them had been sent to Auschwitz.

Raoul wasted no time. He did everything he could think of to save Jewish people. He bribed, extorted, bluffed, and threatened to achieve his aims of saving as many people as possible.

With a fellow Swedish diplomat he created official looking protective passes to give out to Jews granting them Swedish citizenship and making them exempt from wearing the yellow badge that Nazis required them to wear. Sandor Ardai, one of Raoul’s drivers, recalled a time when Raoul came upon a train full of Jews about to depart to Auschwitz,

“He climbed up on the roof of the train and began handing in protective passes through the doors which were not yet sealed. He ignored orders from the Germans for him to get down, then the Arrow Cross [the Hungarian Nazi party] men began shooting and shouting at him to go away. He ignored them and calmly continued handing out passports to the hands that were reaching out for them. I believe the Arrow Cross men deliberately aimed over his head, as not one shot hit him, which would have been impossible otherwise. I think this is what they did because they were so impressed by his courage. After Wallenberg had handed over the last of the passports he ordered all those who had one to leave the train and walk to the caravan of cars parked nearby, all marked in Swedish colours. I don’t remember exactly how many, but he saved dozens off that train, and the Germans and Arrow Cross were so dumbfounded they let him get away with it!”

In total Raoul gave out tens of thousands of such protective passes, but the German government eventually caught on to the ruse and ruled the passes invalid. When Raoul heard of this, he called on Baroness Elisabeth Kemeny, the wife of the Hungarian Minister for Foreign Affairs in Budapest, for help,

‘’Raoul implored me to help. He was desperate. I talked to my husband and said he must do something. He told me ‘I can’t fight the whole cabinet.’ But after midnight word came that 9,000 passes would be honored. I can still remember Raoul’s elation, his happiness.’’ The baroness had finally persuaded her husband to help by threatening to leave him if he didn’t.

When the Germans abandoned the use of trains to transport Jewish prisoners, instead forming 125 mile death marches toward Auschwitz, Raoul began visiting stopping areas to save people.

“‘You there!’ The Swede pointed to an astonished man, waiting for his turn to be handed over to the executioner. ‘Give me your Swedish passport and get in that line,’ he barked. ‘And you, get behind him. I know I issued you a passport.’ Wallenberg continued, moving fast, talking loud, hoping the authority in his voice would somewhat rub off on these defeated people…The Jews finally caught on. They started groping in pockets for bits of identification. A driver’s license or birth certificate seemed to do the trick. The Swede was grabbing them so fast; the Nazis, who couldn’t read Hungarian anyway, didn’t seem to be checking. Faster, Wallenberg’s eyes urged them, faster, before the game is up. In minutes he had several hundred people in his convoy. International Red Cross trucks, there at Wallenberg’s behest, arrived and the Jews clambered on…”

In one of his final acts of rescue, Raoul intimidated the supreme commander of German forces in Hungary, Major-General Gerhard Schmidthuber, into not blowing up a Jewish ghetto housing 70,000 people. As the war was coming to an end and there was not enough time to send the remaining Jews to Auschwitz, Adolf Eichmann, a major organizer of the Holocaust, ordered the slaughter of all Hungarian Jews in one mass execution. When Raoul found out about this, he sent word to Schmidthuber that if he were to go through with the slaughter, Raoul would personally see that he was hanged for crimes against humanity after the war. Knowing that Hitler was close to defeat, Schmidthuber acquiesced and called off the massacre.

Raoul took such risks because his perspective on the work he was doing was simple, “I will never be able to go back to Sweden without knowing inside myself that I’d done all a man could do to save as many Jews as possible.”

In total Raoul saved close to 100,000 Jews. He himself was captured by the Soviets on suspicion of being a spy and is presumed to have died a Soviet prisoner.

Historical Snapshots

[fitnessandfeta2025]

Day 4 in Greece started bright and early with a wake up call on our ferry from Athens to Crete. In Crete, we were able to explore aspects of Greek history and culture that we had not seen before. Here, we started off with breakfast around 7 am. We were on our own for breakfast so we were able to try anything we liked. People choose a variety of coffees, pastries, omelette, and other dishes. I chose an espresso and a philo dough with cream called bougasta. The bougasta can be seen in the first photo. Following breakfast, we took a short trip to Knossos where we went on an archeological tour of the first city in Europe. This tour was extremely interesting as explained not only the architecture of the first city, but its connections to Greek methodology and its history in terms of trade, power, and culture. This tour demonstrated how important food was in Greek life particularly as not only means of survival but as a means of trade that allowed the ancient Greeks to establish themselves as a powerful group. The ancient Greeks would trade their most valuable items like olive oil and wine with other countries to most commonly get bronze and gold. Olive oil and wine were stored in ceramic vases for export like those pictured in the second photo. Olive oil and wine are still one of Greeces most valuable items as they are enjoyed by people across the globe and our heavily implemented in the Greek diet as they are deemed as healthy. Following the tour at the ancient site, we traveled back to where we started our morning in the city of Heraklion. Here, we were allowed to explore for a few hours. During this time, we chose to shop and eat. For lunch, I got a gyro from a local spot. The gyro contained chicken, onions, tomatoes, tzatziki, and potatoes. Everything was so fresh and delicious. This can be seen in the third photo. After our time in the main city, we traveled to our hotel on the beach in Kokkini Hank. This afternoon, we were able to spend our day how we wished so many spent their time at the beach or pool and then went out to dinner. I went out to dinner with a large group and we tried traditional Greek foods. I tried Moussaka which is a traditional Greek dish similar to lasagna but instead of pasta it features vegetables like eggplant. This dish can be seen in the fourth photo. After dinner, we spent time enjoying our hotel and its beautiful view of the sea. Overall, today was such a busy day, but was incredibly interesting and fun. Today, we were able to learn so much about the history of Crete and Greece. We were also able to try authentic Greek dishes and learn about the Greek diet and how it’s evolved over time, but continues to be viewed as balanced and healthy. Being able to explore so many areas and walk around them easily was amazing. I truly enjoyed all of our adventures today and I’m so excited for everything we are going to explore and learn in the coming days in Crete!

- Emma C

[bonefall]

I have learned so little about cedarstar but already he’s my little guy. My little meow meow. Blorbo from the bonefall. The idea of him and pinestar being friends tickles me so much tree 4 tree friendship. silly guy who chose his DAD as his deputy. The designated Cedarbringer for thunderclan I love him (if you have any more facts could I perhaps hear them?)

Here, warm up sketch be upon ye lmao

I'll make a summary on him when one of his appearances is relevant again, he has a minor role in Tallstar's Collapse as Heatherstar begins the Campaign Era, and would probably get a few scenes in a more beefy version of Pinestar's Crusade. He may not get as much screentime in Brokenstar's Cataclysm as he had in Yellowfang's Secret.

Canon doesn't let cats have friends enough. I feel like it should be especially important to Pinestar, his whole thing is how much he struggled with not being the ideal leader.

Cedarstar was well into his reign when Pinestar took over. He had no strong feelings on Doestar, who was busy running crusades.

He ended ShadowClan's participation in the crusades a lot earlier, when Snowtuft ended up slaughtering several children.

The brutality of that era had an impact on him. I think Cedar would have liked to lead his Clan through a peaceful time, he was surprisingly agreeable to Pinestar's negotiations.

See, negotiation in those times was somewhat rare, usually only happening when something had already gone wrong. Like a death in battle, a time of starvation, a flea infestation...

Clans didn't like to admit weakness back then, and they rarely talked. It had been like this since the Ripple Era, probably from hostility at Ripplestar's nearly successful campaign.

Unfortunately Pinestar didn't change this like Firestar eventually would, but he did at least try.

And for a brief period of time, he succeeded with ShadowClan. There was trading between the Clans, but Shadow and Thunder really took the cake.

Like I mentioned, ThunderClan supplied leather, meats, animal glue, stuff like that. ShadowClan provided cedar chips, fruits through the winter, linen and flax oil, so on.

Cedarstar was a jovial dude who loved food. He was easy-going and hard to offend, even when he went into battle he was usually cracking gruesome jokes the whole time. The word in my head when I think of him is, "agreeable." Guy came from a big, happy family and it shows lmao.

But that's not to say he was free of the problems of his time. There would be no bargain over his territory, and he was completely willing to show off the might of ShadowClan. He didn't roll over and try to compromise with WindClan; HIS Clan was strong off the exports of flax and that was their favorite summer hunting ground. Cedarstar immediately announced battle, and met Heatherstar's campaign with force.

He underestimated Heatherstar's tenacity, and was on his deathbed before the war was even halfway over. To his deputy Raggedpelt, he asked for a promise; that Raggedstar would not allow Heatherstar to win in the end.

And that's Cedarstar! All things considered, a minor character. But his first deputy Stonetooth was his dad and I feel like his family was full of respected warriors at one time.

Also @animatewarriorcats put a bib on their design of Cedarstar and I've never been able to unsee it. I've stolen it, I apologize thusly, but he's a man with a bib now and that has been an innate part of Cedarstar in my head for months