#Trade Apprentice Posts

[six-improbable-things]

Just finished watching "Sleep No More" (Doctor Who, Season 9, Episode 9), and I can't stop laughing about it. Not because the episode is even remotely funny, but because of the whole Morpheus/Sandman thing going on.

Watching that episode right when everyone is obsessed with the Sandman on Netflix is really funny to me. Also, now I have the song Mr. Sandman stuck in my head, lmao.

[yogenderthakur]

PGCIL Trade Apprentice Recruitment 2023 – Apply Online for 1035 Posts

PGCIL Trade Apprentice Recruitment 2023 – Apply Online for 1035 Posts PGCIL Trade Apprentice Recruitment 2023: पावर ग्रिड कॉर्पोरेशन ऑफ इंडिया लिमिटेड (पीजीसीआईएल) ने अपरेंटिस रिक्ति की भर्ती के लिए अधिसूचना की घोषणा की है। वे उम्मीदवार जो रिक्ति विवरण में रुचि रखते हैं और सभी पात्रता मानदंड पूरे करते हैं, वे अधिसूचना पढ़ सकते हैं और ऑनलाइन आवेदन कर सकते हैं। Name of Organization: Power Grid…

[jobalertpro]

HCL Various Trade Apprentice Online Form 2022 Apply now

HCL Various Trade Apprentice Online Form 2022 Apply now

HCL Various Trade Apprentice Online Form Name of Post: Hindustan Copper Limited HCL Trade Apprentice Recruitment 2022 Apply Online for 290 Post Post Date / Update: 24 November 2022 | 06:41 PM Short Information : Hindustan Copper Limited HCL has issued an advertisement for the recruitment of Apprentices for various ITI and Non ITI posts. Any candidate who is interested in this apprentice can…

[rudrjobdesk]

Railway Recruitment 2022: बिना परीक्षा रेलवे में 1664 पदों पर भर्ती, 10वीं पास आज से करें आवेदन

Railway Recruitment 2022: बिना परीक्षा रेलवे में 1664 पदों पर भर्ती, 10वीं पास आज से करें आवेदन

Railway Recruitment 2022: नॉर्दर्न सेंट्रल रेलवे ने ट्रेड अप्रेंटाइस के 1664 पदों पर भर्ती निकाली है। ये भर्ती फिटर, वेल्डर, मशीनिस्ट, कारपेंटर, इलेक्ट्रिशियन, पेंटर, मैकेनिक, वायरमैन, क्रेन, स्टेनो, हेल्थ सेनिटरी इंस्पेक्टर जैसे ट्रेड्स में निकाली गई है। आवेदन आज 2 जुलाई से शुरू हो गए हैं और इसकी अंतिम तिथि 1 अगस्त 2022 निर्धारित की गई है। इच्छुक उम्मीदवार उत्तर मध्य रेलवे आरआरसी की वेबसाइट…

[mosaickiwi]

14DWY As a Drama AU

Hey remember when I said I’d post this in February oopsies!! (don’t ask me about demon!ren i will cry)

Open at your own risk this thing is LONG. Tried to give everyone at least a little something! upon putting this in my drafts i realized olivia exists i'll add her at some point uhhh. Also you can tell how much I love Elanor... hehe

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

The cult classic romantic thriller, 14 Days With You, is now a drama! Coming to all your favorite streaming platforms this summer. A whirlwind romance gone right and wrong that you DON’T want to miss.

Cast List

[REDACTED]

🖤 Quiet kid that used the after school theater program to delay returning home. Never wanted to perform, but loved doing costumes, make up, and correcting others (in his mind) on how to portray their roles. 

🖤 Spent a little extra time perfecting the costumes of a certain someone who didn't even know they existed. He always traded house chores with his sister so she'd sit in the audience to solely film Tree #2's performance.

🖤 Was an apprentice special effects makeup artist after graduation at first, particularly for horror films, but it didn't exactly pay the bills when they left home.

🖤 Easily rose to the top in their acting career due to his dedication for crafting characters to perfection. 

🖤 Dolly Parton/Lady Gaga-esque in their separation of work and life—completely unrecognizable in their regular civilian attire. Paparazzi have never gotten a picture of them in all their years trying.

🖤 Has zero issues getting into character, but does "method acting" on occasion to make sure people leave them alone on set. And also to fuck with directors and producers they don't like. Notoriously difficult to work with because of it + their overall attitude towards others, still gets hired somehow.

🖤 Got offered the role as the main love interest in 14DWY without an audition, thanks to a previous manipulative pink haired character he played in a film that ended up never being released. (2017 Ren because it's funny)

 Angel (you!)

💜 Participated in the same after school theater program as [REDACTED] and Leon for a few semesters before you got bored of it. Curiosity for acting resurfaced later in life.

💜 Newbie actor at the recently formed talent agency of your friend. Only starred as non-speaking roles or background characters in small productions until the drama. You moved back to Corland Bay after uni for the better industry prospects.

💜 You initially auditioned for a very small role in the drama as an employee in a seaside shop at first, but somehow you wound up as the lead? (un)lucky you.

💜 Feel free to fill in the blank for any whys and hows you think of to fit your OC/self/sona as you so please <3

Elanor

💖 Normally an actress and casting director, first time as an executive producer for the drama. Dreams of bringing her own romantic screenplays to life. Hasn't quite proven herself the way she wants in the industry to feel confident enough in them. 

💖 Catalyst for the drama being made. A "friend" mistakenly recommended the 14DWY book to her. She absolutely loathes all the psychological horror of it but sees the potential it has.

💖 Also the reason [REDACTED] was immediately cast, and you as well once she saw your chemistry with him while reading for a minor role. He hadn't shown a fraction of as much interest when reading lines with other potential candidates, so she decided to take the risk of an untested talent as the headliner.

💖 Refuses to use her family's name to get her stuff made. She wants her works to speak for themselves. Very picky about who she works with due to her family having hands in most of Corland's entertainment industry so she hardly gets a genuine interaction beyond ass-kissing.

💖 Always partial to working with Conan's small studio since he was the only director to give her any sort of criticism in spite of her family, as gentle and polite as it was. She still cried a little in the dressing room though.

💖 Genuine confusion when Conan wants her to act as both a producer and assist with direction. She only intended to bring it to his interest. But how could she say no to someone whose judgment and opinion she respects so much?

Conan

💖 Runs and owns a small scale studio in the Bay that seems to pick and choose its productions at random. It is in fact Alice sneaking into her dad's home office and putting scented stickers on the ones she likes. (She only reads the titles)

💖 Extremely proud of Elanor for getting so far on her own, and would take on one of her dozens of scripts no questions asked if she'd only work up the courage to show him one. So imagine his surprise when she comes to him with a romantic horror instead of one of the fairy tale romances he sees her scribbling notes on during breaks.

💖 While he’s the one with the final say, he does try to let Elanor have as much free reign as possible on the project in the hopes to boost her confidence.

Kiara

💖 A super-star actress and model that got her start in Corland’s local industry, but quickly hit it big. 

💖 When she isn’t drowning in work, she’ll swing through town to check in on her sister.

💖 Desperately wants to star in one of Elanor’s productions, but respects her sister’s desire for independence. Though she does like to tease about certain casting decisions on the drama when made aware of them.

the rest of the cast are unfortunately very silly i couldn't resist

Moth

💖 Started a talent agency out of spite for the terrible castings in their favorite media. Got further invested upon realizing they could read the scripts before the movies or show adaptations were even announced.

💖 The one who pushed you to audition for a minor role in the production once the rumor about who was cast as the main love interest reaches them. They've heard all the horror stories about [REDACTED] so wanted the inside scoop. Horrified and fascinated to find out you get the lead role. It’s like watching a train wreck.

Leon

💖 Joined the theater program initially because of you, but got really into it. Moved away to attend a performing arts school until his mother got sick.

💖 Took every wacky infomercial or street performance gig he could find to pay the hospital bills until Teo found out and swooped in.

💖 Eternally grateful for the burden of financial ruin being relieved, so he always accepts the jobs Teo gets for him. He definitely won’t complain since he’s not dressed in an animal costume and shouting nonsensical slogans for cleaning products.

Teo

💖 Met Leon through a shared production and quickly bonded. Attended a different performing arts school and met Jae as a child.

💖 Almost the exact opposite of his game character purely for the funnies. Shy, introverted, can’t flirt to save his life. Still a nepo baby but he can hold his own in acting. Doesn’t like his character much, but is extremely jealous of the confidence he oozes.

💖 Leon and Jae are his only friends in the industry so he uses his sway to get them parts if they haven't already gotten a call back. Gets REALLY nervous on set for certain roles so he needs their support.

Jae

💖 Attended the same school as Teo when they were kids, and is constantly pitching intentionally bad ideas and joking on set to reassure his friend.

💖 A little bit of a thrill seeker, so does all his own small stunts if he thinks he’s capable. Stands there and gawks watching the more extreme stunts, loudest to clap when they go well.

💖 Kept bringing Maple to the shoots cause how could he even think about leaving her at home? She would occasionally break her leash and wander into a scene for head scratches and kisses. The film crew always booed when a PA came to take her off set.

Violet

💖 Completely terrible at caring for plants. Inspired by her role, she starts vlogging about her plant mom journey before shooting even begins. All her advice is completely wrong and terrible. Her personal assistant keeps her in the dark by tending to the plants themselves to fix her mistakes.

💖 Finds out she has a talent for flower arrangement, though. Does thank you vases for the cast and crew on all her future productions that last a lifetime because her PA made sure all the flowers were fake.

Exposition

(silly on set shenanigans)

🎬 Scenes get retaken quite a bit, since you’re still extremely new to it all. Most of the cast and crew expect anger out of [REDACTED] after the 4th call for a re-shoot on the first day’s library scene, but he’s surprisingly cracking jokes about his dye job and reassuring you that you’re doing great. The infamously ill-tempered actor is smiling somehow… even being patient? Not glaring down his co-star for minor slip ups? They cannot recognize this person.

🎬 Violet and [REDACTED] naturally butt heads on set. She respects their acting, not the actor. Zero hesitation to snap back if he’s getting snarky with a PA. You’re the one people have to beg to separate them, and you’re completely baffled that [REDACTED] doesn’t treat others as nicely as he treats you.

🎬 Even though Elanor is a nervous wreck about the first real thing to ultimately make or break her career, she’s scarily efficient on set—as long as no one distracts her. She does get sidetracked once in a while, only because she loves chatting and answering any questions the cast or crew might have. She even brings one of her own cats to set during a slower day to see if they can get along with Maple. Leaves Conan in charge when the horror scenes are being shot. They’re both put off by how vivid they feel, but Conan at least can grin and bear it. 

🎬 You and Leon manage to catch up on set while [REDACTED] is otherwise occupied shooting said horror scenes. You tease him about a few infomercials you saw when looking up his actor reel, and Leon teases you back about your unlucky streak of being a tree or a rock in every play the theater program put on when y’all were younger. Laughs even harder once he finds out your most prominent roles until then were “unnamed zombie #5 at the bottom of the pile” and “sleeping train passenger.”

🎬 Try as he might, [REDACTED] doesn’t convince Elanor to change up a few crucial parts of the script for his benefit. His offhand threats of leaving the production fall on deaf ears, as she is all too happy to do re-shoots to make Teo the lead. His innocent hints to you about the shoddy script fly over your head for some reason! You love how it's turning out, what does he mean?

🎬 Super shy Teo prefaces and warns his co-stars before acting in every scene of his character being excessively flirty. Most of the actors have worked with him at some point or another beforehand, so they let him go through his routine without issue. Some crew members love the whiplash of him switching between overly courteous and smarmy, others vastly prefer the flirty character and mourn the loss as production comes to a close.

The Build Up

📺 The higher ups pressure Violet to start a short-lived streaming career to boost interest, since she’s hopeless with plants. She amasses a cult following for her MMO reviews, blind raids on new patches, and her wild ride of a Minecraft playthrough. In the end she winds up preferring to play games off stream, but once in a blue moon she’ll do a first time raid stream so her more dedicated fans can join and watch her alliance get wiped. Creative trolling is highly encouraged.

📺 Teo, Jae, and Leon appear on a late night TV show for promotion. It was meant to be for Teo and [REDACTED] at first. (Where’s the leading lover? [REDACTED] refused all promo appearances or sit downs without you being involved in them.) The host plays a clip that Teo’s particularly embarrassed about, and he hides his face in shame when the crowd hoots and hollers praise about his portrayal.

📺 [REDACTED] comes across as doting and overprotective of you once you’re pushed into the spotlight of celebrity, and shows increasingly concerning behaviors as the premiere looms closer. Depending on your response, they’ll back off to a point or dial it up. Interviewers and consumers mistake it as the eccentric actor’s “method acting” so the red flags just slide right past.

📺 Elanor and Conan guest star in a podcast for off-the-cuff romance enthusiasts. Their strangely cagey and joking comments like “there were so many retakes we couldn’t keep track of what was meant to be the actors messing around or part of the final cuts,” and “we’ve actually sent all the reviewers 1 of 14 versions with completely different endings,” leave listeners all the more curious to see the film.

The Climax

🎉 Reception is huge, in good ways for most. The majority of the cast see a surge in popularity if they didn’t already from the hype. 

🎉 Teo bemoans his endless offerings for sarcastic pretty boy jobs, Leon makes enough to get picky about his roles (and pay Teo back), Jae somehow cons a studio into an action film starring Maple—and subsequently adopts every single one of her stunt doubles. 

🎉 Moth throws the agency away to start adapting anime and manga themselves. Elanor finally feels validated enough to bring one of her romantic screenplays to the big screen, starring her sister Kiara and a very enthusiastic Violet as the leading couple. 

🎉 Conan’s studio is overloaded with scripts, and Alice runs out of scented stickers that much quicker. They are severely backlogged send help.

🎉 One determined conspiracy theorist sets out to prove those missing 13 versions of the ending are real, based on minor cuts and inconsistencies purposefully left in the public release.

The End, Roll Credits

choose your own ending

Bad End 💔 - A Falling Star

💔 If you respond negatively to [REDACTED]’s demeanor during shoots and promo: he plays the waiting game, uses his connections and blackmail to make sure all your roles without his name attached don’t garner nearly as much attention as the ones where you’re co-stars.

💔 Your negotiating power quickly plummets as you fall out of demand and end up begging just for the non-speaking roles you once loathed.

💔 The careers of anyone you got close to on set fall apart much faster than yours, before they’re outright blacklisted in the industry.

💔 You begrudgingly call up your last option. He can’t do much for your friends, but their offer to help you make a comeback is always open.

Neutral End 💌 - Just One More Try

💌 If you respond indifferently to [REDACTED]’s demeanor: the drama leads to you getting more offers, though a handful are for playing opposite of [REDACTED], as the on-screen chemistry was too much for studios to ignore for cash grabs.

💌 Elanor has rid herself of the drama’s subsequent rights, despite positive reception, so a sequel sprouts up in the works at a different studio. One that doesn’t mind catering to the whims of their actors when it comes to script integrity.

💌 You arrive on the set to find that not just one, but all of your cast mates except for them were written to have much smaller parts in the sequel. In fact, you rarely find a scene in the revised script where [REDACTED] isn’t alongside you.

💌 Sadly the contract is air tight, just put up with it until it’s over… What’s this clause about further sequels?

Good End 💍 - Off Into the Sunset

💍 If you respond positively to [REDACTED]’s demeanor: you’ll sadly announce at the post premiere press conference that acting was a one-and-done adventure for you. Retired effective immediately, no farewell interviews.

💍 You’re spotted around town for a few weeks in a mask with a tall, darkly dressed companion at your side before you disappear from the public eye and Corland Bay all together.

💍 A few of your friends at least have an idea of where you are, and they meet up with you whenever you're in a nearby city. None of them can recognize the man glued to your side, though. Not that he'd say anything to clue them in.

💍 After months of near inactivity, [REDACTED] mysteriously deletes their socials without a word, sparking confusion and outrage among hardcore fans still desperately hoping for a sequel.

[macabrecabra]

Another baby I needed to get art done for the fray!

Tember Volstrov is a Typhibis, a race that lives in the shattered, molten core of the Memory sphere and as such are 100% fireproof. Fire actually does heal damage to them! Trade-off is a crippling weakness to water. You can tell a healthy Typhibis by how bright their colors are and the length of their tail! Tember though is a "holy fire" as they were born blue which is exceedingly rare and they are said to burn hotter and have more firey passion as they are blessed by Volnagossa, their god, at birth. However, Tember did not want to be a holy guardian death paladin as their mentor completely turned them off to their "destiny" and instead he ran off, risked crossing the ocean, and became an apprentice to an elderly blacksmith.

Now Tember lives in a desert city, applying his trade as a blacksmith and part-time mercenary and doesn't once think about their "destined role" as a murder paladin. More details on Tember's past found >>HERE<<

(please DO NOT post for other fandoms, this is an OC!)

[ghouljams]

what is fae!ghosts backstory? (going through older posts one from august 2nd mentioned price saving him)

Ooh I've been wanting to write his backstory out for a while, but never really had a good reason to. It's not a very nice backstory, I feel bad putting him through it, but who is Ghost if he hasn't been completely tattered by the wounds of his past?

tw: mentions of sexual assault, abuse, torture, familial abuse, references to Ghost's canon backstory

So let's go back to the very beginning of Ghost's story, back to his childhood. In this AU Ghost probably would've been born some time in the 14-1500s. When the fae were better known and traded with. Some time in the old days before people started explaining away magic. His family didn't exist in a city, they were up in the northern country, in a little village where people kept to themselves. Where people minded their business lest it be minded for them.

Simon's father was as awful and abusive as he is in the canon lore. His mother couldn't raise a hand to help, and his brother was too young to really understand what was happening. The only real difference was that his father owed some serious debts to a local creditor. Despite all of that Simon does his best to grow up, but by the time he's reached teenage status the debts his father have racked up aren't going to be paid off so easily. What does a good father do when he has nothing to pay off the fae? Sell his son of course.

Simon Riley is taken from his home by a fae named Manuel Roba, who really didn't have a need for a child so much as he had need for a dog. Simon is strong, a butcher's apprentice, but he's stubborn and he's smart. He knows the stories, he knows how to deal with the fae, knows the rules they follow. Or he thinks he does. The problem is that Roba has his own rules, ones that Simon is punished for when he doesn't follow them exactly. All in the hopes of breaking that stubborn spirit and shaping Simon into the dog he needs.

Roba is a summer fae, so he takes Simon out to Winter(the worst season he can think of) and works on him there. Breaks his bones, rapes him, buries him alive in the snow and forces him to claw his way out. For years. Breaking Simon down little by little, and threatening to do the same to Tommy or his mother if he doesn't learn. When he's in a good mood Simon can stay in the house, if he pays his way, works off some of the debts he's accrued with Roba since he's been taking care of him.

Despite everything Simon doesn't break, there's something in his blood, the tapping doesn't work, and ten years of torture just make him resent Roba. Just make him more violent towards the man, more animal than human, but also more uncontrollable.

It's the last torture Roba has to take him out of the Wild and back to the human world, where hundreds of years have passed without Simon. Everyone he ever knew or loved long dead and buried. And his skin doesn't fit right anymore. There's too much wild magic in him, he's remade himself too many times, been buried in the wild too often to be human anymore. It's the early 1800s when Roba drops him in the middle of the city. Everything too loud and bright and overstimulating. Nothing smells right. Except the blood.

Roba wanted a hunter, kept Ghost on a slim be diet of viscera, and he has one. The way Ghost's mouth waters at all the weak little humans that scurry past him. And he can see their tethers, see their hearts pumping blood through their veins, can smell how to lure them where he wants. It's intoxicating in a way he's never experienced before. Then it's ripped away from him, he's hung from his ribs at the edge of the forest and left there.

Except when Roba hears that a creditor he owes is coming for a visit. Now, the trick here is that Roba is breaking rules. Breaking Ghost is breaking rules. He has to hide him, has to bury him again. Easy enough, Ghost's half dead, mostly starved, he won't be climbing out any time soon. So Price comes to collect payment, and he's seen Ghost in the city, he knows what's been done to him. He can smell the last lingering shred of proof at what once was human.

Ghost doesn't know what happens above ground. He knows that he pulled a jaw from another corpse's skull, he knows that he didn't survive this burial, and he knows that he smells smoke. He knows that when he's pulled from the grave there's blood to gorge himself on, and that someone has started a fire. He knows that Price tells him he's sorry, and even though he doesn't really understand what that means it hooks something dark in his chest.

Price stabilizes him, fills in the cracks with smoke, makes a tidy banshee/wraith out of what was once human, and offers him a proper job. Offers him a name that could be his, if he wanted it. And it's easy work. All he has to do is follow Price around, and he gets three square meals, good meals; he gets someone to hold onto when everything is too much, Ghost gets stitched together, the holes patched with gentle hands. He doesn't have to think, doesn't have to be. Price is safe, Price teaches him to control his new magic, shows him how the rules should work(how they keep everyone safe, including Ghost), teaches him how to hunt.

Price pulls him from the mental grave Ghost dug for himself, helps him sort through his memories, doesn't mention the heavy tether between them. I don't think Simon survived that last burial, I think the wild finally broke into him, finally staked its full claim on him. I don't think Ghost talked for a long time, after Price took him in.

Then Gaz showed up, brought Soap along for the ride. Then it wasn't "I'm his dog" it was "we're a team" and that helped a lot. Gaz and Soap brought enough sunshine to bring a bit of the old Simon back, to get him making jokes and being charming in bars. With the hopes of hunting better, of course. And he finally go to live alongside the human world again, got to watch it grow and change, carved out a space for himself and started to feel whole again. Bounced between the 141's home bases before he was talked into getting his own.

A very successful period of being Ghost for a long time. He was well cared for, maybe even loved, but none of the 141 was his. So he indulged in his prey, trapping hearts in tidy little fantasies. Playing house until he thought they were sweet enough to eat. Tap, tap, tapping until he found you. Just for him, always for him. In every universe, in every iteration, in every soft whisper of his name.

Of course you're the one to pull Simon from the grave, to bring his humanity back and fit the last piece into his puzzle. So that when the 141 sees him smile at his drink they all can see the full picture of him.

[blimbo-buddy]

Special history lesson of Chelford

History shall always be splattered with the blood of the innocent, there is no doubt about it. Such is the same with all Twolegplaces, all with their own levels of innocent blood that stains their past, varying levels of intensity that may or may not follow the next generation of Twolegplace cats. In this post, we will be going over Chelford specifically, and more specifically than that, an event in which the cats have dubbed "Assault on Chelford", "The Clan Onslaught" or, more commonly, "The Raids of Twolegplace".

Warnings for: Lots of violence+death and kidnapping

Relations between Kittypets and Clan Cats pre-raids

The relationship between Kittypets and Clan Cats were as we normally see them as, not very positive. The clans believed that Kittypets were pampered infidels who would never amount to anything, while the Kittypets believed that the clans were overly violent, jingoistic, and militaristic, cats who would willingly attack a kitten if they were not of clan blood.

In the months that preceded the beginning of Winter, the clans had been struck with an epidemic of starvation, illness, and lack of edible food. This was especially alarming as this era marked a "Kitten Boom" period, where the kitten population of the clans was at its highest. During a gathering, the leader of Windclan at the time had delivered news that the visiting loners had arrived earlier than expected, but, they brought some advice and input to the clan's epidemic of illness and hunger. They offered up the idea of setting up a trade relation between Twolegplace and the clans.

Within a single second of this news, cats erupted into a frenzy of disapproving yowls and screeches, the leaders of the other clans giving the Windclan leader grimaces of disgust at the thought. Riverclan's leader intervened, spitting at Windclan's leader that it's an act that only a heathen would commit, to stoop so low to the Kittypet's level, the other leaders nodded along in support of Riverclan's word. The Windclan leader was furious at the three leader's willingness to allow for their clans and future generations to die preventable deaths. Then, Shadowclan's medicine cat stood up and yowled their support of the Windclan leader's idea, and then Riverclan's medicine cat, and then Windclan's medicine cat, and Thunderclan's medicine cat, they all followed suit. The other leaders were baffled, attempting to shut down their medicine cat's yowls, but they continued. After a lot of arguments between not just the leaders+medicine cats, but also between warriors and deputies and apprentices alike, the medicine cats put their foot down, proclaiming that if they all don't want to wither away into skin and bones, then they would allow for this trade to proceed. After some back and forth, the other leaders hesitantly decided to support the trade proposition. The Windclan leader proclaimed that they and the other leaders, alongside their deputies and a medicine cat, would make their way towards Twolegplace to talk through with the Chelford cats and hopefully create a trade between the Kittypets and the Clan Cats.

And so, after preparing, they did just that. While the Kittypets were skeptical of the sudden "friendliness" of the Clan Cats, they gladly accepted, and the trade route between the two were created. The Kittypets offered up food, tools, and even medicine that was exclusive to their Housefolk's gardens, while the Clan Cats offered up their own tools and crafting items. Though, this peace could only last for so long until disaster struck.

The Inciting Incident

The incident that was the pathway to the raids wasn't just one specific event, it was multiple scattered ones that only strained relationships between Twolegplace and the clans more and more. Kittypets were having their goods stolen from them from clan cats, being brutally beaten and bloodied in the process, cats were being injured for petty trade affairs, clan cats were attacking Chelford cats for not accepting their deceptively low offers, but the straw that broke the camels back was when a Thunderclan trade patrol came back, most of them heavily injured and one of them dead.

Let's take a step back and go a little more in detail with Thunderclan's leader, OakStar. His rule was questioned and laughed at by the other clan leaders. They felt that his old age was slowly turning him more mellowed out and senile, his own cats started to believe that the fierce title that they held was slowly slipping out of their grasp. So, when one of his clan's patrols comes back from their trade run with many injured and one dead, this was his moment to prove his violent fury.

The Raids

OakStar spent many days and many weeks preparing his warriors and apprentices for this moment, and when the time came, they set out to Chelford in the dead of night, when Twolegplace was at it's most vulnerable. The crusade ravaged every corner of Chelford, screeches filled the air of the once calm streets, the first raid was the bloodiest, meant to weaken Chelford's forces, Kittypets and Strays alike. However, these cats did not go down without a vicious fight, some Thundeclan cats began to become overwhelmed by the sheer number and strength of them all. OakStar called out to his cats, claiming victory and calling for them to fall back.

The first raid mentioned was on cats who were out on the street, Strays looking for a nice spot to settle in for the night to Kittypets who wanted to sleep out in the fresh air. It was a slaughter. What used to be information that was unknown to Chelford Cats was that in the following raids… It wasn't only Thunderclan cats. The second large raid was conducted with the intention of now making Kittypets or Strays feel unsafe within their homes or structures. Clan cats would find any entry to wriggle through, a cracked open window, a hole in the wall that led to the inside, a door that wasn't closed all the way, anything. Attacking Kittypets in their homes was risky, as the noise would immediately alert their Housefolk, clan cats also found ways to sneak into animal rescue shelters and attack the cats living in there too, causing a massive calamity as cats scattered to avoid attack and dogs nearly ripping their way through their metal gates in the halls. This caused a panic among Housefolk/Twolegs in Chelford, many keeping their cats safe inside in hopes that they don't wake up to find their precious cat dead or injured. This made the third and final raid the most difficult of all.

The third raid is what some cats consider to be the most devastating, all of the blood shed, all of the death, some believed it never amounted to the surge of pain that many felt when their own kittens were taken from them by the clans. Kittypets were often used to having their kittens adopted away, but the Housefolk never tossed them to the side, they never snatched their screaming kittens with blood soaked paws, but the clan cats did. Many kittens who were stolen that day either died from preventable causes in the wild or grew up into xenophobic husks of what they used to be. And so, the clans ceased their raids, OakStar was praised for his "call to action" and battle strategy, but, Chelford was never the same.

Crystal and Pine

During these raids, many cats rose up as figureheads of hope and resilience, one such cat being an orange and white Kittypet named Crystal. Her husband was killed in the first raid which fueled her disliking towards clan cats. She was renowned for her strength and selflessness, going on record to have carried heavily injured cats on her back from the battle and into safer areas where they could rest and heal, all while she was pregnant herself. The cats of Chelford grew to know her as Crystal, the Glimmering Solider.

PineStar was a friend of Crystal, the two met when he was an apprentice, where she had saved him from a fox attacking him. PineStar, in his older years, arrived to Chelford to spend the rest of his days after leaving the clans. It was thanks to PineStar that many cats of Chelford were able to gain more knowledge of what predated the raids. His name was now Pine and he would be formally referred to as Pine, the Hopeful Escapee.

The Aftermath, aka, The Husk Era

Chelford was a disaster for the cats, many had horribly died, been taken away, or left homeless due to the unsafe feeling they grew of being in their own homes, terrified of a clan cat slithering their way through their window to kill them. This era was dubbed "The Husk Era" as Chelford was now but a bloody, hollow husk of what once was. Aggression rose during this era, cats were barely getting by with their scraps of rotting food, many were left to fend for themselves. All was lost to the cats of Chelford, hopes were low, Chelford was once a paradise to these cats, but now, it was a husk. Pine died before he could see significant change in Chelford, and Crystal grew too old and senile to be let out past her nest, two of the greatest cats that gave Twolegplace a glimmer of hope, gone. However, word spread of something that captivated the minds and ears of many…

A young, puny black cat who claimed to have defeated a dog.

[ladamedusoif]

Tempered in the Fire - Part One

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating: Mature (chapter); Explicit 18+ (series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; almost certainly inaccurate depictions of blacksmithing; slightly wonky history; likely slightly wonky renderings of Irish language (technically my third language!).

A/N: Translations for any dialogue in Irish are provided at the end of the chapter. The Irish language was one of the casualties of the colonisation of the island, as it became associated with a lack of education (though the tide turned somewhat in the late nineteenth/early twentieth centuries) and has never recovered. (Go and listen to ‘Butchered Tongue’ on Hozier’s latest album for a musical reflection on this, it even includes references to 1798)

Tagging interested parties and my usual taglist people - sign up via my taglist if you want to be added (or let me know if you’d rather not be tagged!): @gracie7209, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @trulybetty, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid

This is a quiet place, a landscape rendered in greens, greys, and whites, the simple rural dwellings peppering the good agricultural land that stretches across the county.

Appearances can be deceiving, though. What seems to the outsider as a long-established peace is the result of a more recent and more violent pacification. The fields where young men lost their lives in the pursuit of a dream of freedom give nothing away today, almost a decade after the rebellion was brutally crushed. They didn’t stand a chance against the arrayed ranks of muskets, being armed only with tall, sharp pikes, hammered for them on the anvils of sympathetic blacksmiths around the country.

The people who live and work here bear the scars - some literal, some psychological, but all livid, fresh, and painful.

In this idyll where trauma and anger simmers beneath the surface, his forge is a long, low, whitewashed stone building roofed in thatch. It’s a little outside the nearest village, sitting just off the main road on the way to the next big town. Like most of those who ply this trade, the blacksmith here lives alongside his place of work: one half of the building is the forge, the other is the neat, simple home he shares with the little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

He’s an essential figure: he makes all manner of metal goods and repairs them, too, in a world where nothing is disposable. He shoes horses, too, and his gentle care for the elegant beasts is well-known around the county.

Still, he’s not the most obvious candidate for a ‘pillar of the community’. Unlike other smiths in the area he’s not known for holding court while he works, regaling his customers with yarns and stories. He keeps himself to himself, mostly, though he comes into the village with the boy to buy supplies, collect items for repair, and return what he’s mended to their owners.

He’s been at his anvil for twenty years, or thereabouts. As is the way of a small community, all manner of stories circulate about where he came from and why there was no obvious family of origin. Most assume he comes from travelling people, who are known for their skill with metalworking.

Such is his reputation for consistently good work, fairness, and decency, though, that no one would ever dream of pushing him to say more about himself. This man of few words, who wears his apron like his armour and sometimes wraps a band of grey cloth around his mouth and nose when he works, to protect his lungs from the soot and smoke, is both insider and outsider in a place where such binaries are normally strictly enforced.

“You’ll be living high on the hog soon enough, then, Din? What with all the work that’s coming your way now.”

He looks up from the horseshoe he’s hammering into shape, dark eyes staring at the silhouette of the local priest, framed by the light of the forge’s small front window. Father Carthy has come to have his horse shod - and, it seems, to discuss the blacksmith’s fortunes.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The priest steps closer to the anvil, a look of surprise on his face when he realises the blacksmith hasn’t heard. “Bad accident over in the forge at Donapatrick. He’ll be alright, but their smith is out for the next few months, at least. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Din dips the shoe into a tub of cold water, sending a hiss and a plume of steam into the air.

“So they’re coming to me?”

“Most of them. Your reputation precedes you.”

He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Not sure I can take on all that extra work.”

Father Carthy scoffs. “Don’t turn it down, Din. Lean times are always waiting round the corner, just when you least expect them.” He peers around the stone forge at the centre of the room, trying to spot the little figure who’s been hiding in the shadows.

“Sure you have an apprentice to help you, don’t you?”

The little boy stares silently, intently with his huge, dark eyes at the man clad in clerical black.

“Well, he’s inherited your gift of the gab, Din, anyway. Look, you’ll be glad of the few extra shillings. I know it’s not always easy making ends meet, between looking after yourself and the lad.”

Din pulls himself up to his full height, cutting an imposing, broad figure in his soot-marked shirt, leather apron, simple brown woollen breeches, and boots.

“We manage. Gró?” The boy appears at the blacksmith’s side. “Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.”

He swiftly locates a box of horseshoe nails, each made by hand at Din’s anvil. The priest raises an eyebrow.

“He’ll need English, Din, or he’ll get nowhere. I’d be glad to teach him if-“

Din cuts him off with a pointed sigh. “He understands every word. But this is how we talk to each other.”

Behind him, the sandy-haired boy narrows his eyes and scowls at Father Carthy.

You know it’s not usual for a woman of your age and station to ride alone, but then you’re not usual for a woman of your age and station. And your washtub is leaking, and your horse needs to be shod. Needs must.

You saddle up the horse, strapping the tub on one side, and wrap yourself up in your shawl, securing it at the waist with a well-worn leather belt. You mount the little brown horse and turn her in the direction of Donapatrick and the local forge.

“How did you not hear?” Seán, the blacksmith’s apprentice, stares up at you in astonishment. “Everyone heard!”

You feel like kicking him in the ribs for talking to you like that. He’s no more than thirteen, and yet here he is talking to a woman who could comfortably be his mother (and then some) like she came down in the last shower.

“I didn’t hear because I wasn’t told, and because I have better things to be doing than gossiping around the village.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, regardless. You’ll have to go over to the other forge - the fella over the bridge, about twenty minutes away. You know it?”

You do know it, though you’ve never had reason to go inside. Why would you, when Peter’s forge is so much closer? You don’t even know the other blacksmith’s name, and in this part of the world that’s a strange situation indeed.

“Right, so.” You gently dig your heels into the horse’s sides, she starts to walk, and you make your way to the road that leads down to the river, the stone bridge, and, eventually, the whitewashed forge beyond.

Just as Father Carthy had predicted, Din was snowed under with extra work since Peter’s accident a week or so before. He is exceptionally well-organised by nature, managing his own accounts and records with great attention to detail, and he has extended the system to help him cope with the new demand. With Gró’s help, he organises the items for repair into separate sections, labelled according to whether they belong to existing or temporary customers. He sets up a new ledger to take account of custom orders from people who normally go to the other smith, and takes note of new faces who come to have their horse shod.

Din is cross-checking his records at the table in the main room of his home when he hears the sound of hooves approaching. He asks Gró to peek out, to see if it’s a familiar face or another new customer.

The boy climbs up on the deep windowsill to look out through one of the small cottage windows.

“Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í.”

Din stands up and goes to the door, reaching for his apron as he does so.

He cuts an unusual figure, this blacksmith. There aren’t many people around here who look like him. You notice the penetrating dark eyes first, taking you in as you slow and pull up the horse. His dark hair is wavy, curling in places, and you are surprised to see that he’s bearded - if you can call the patchy scruff around his mouth and jaw a beard.

He’s younger than you’d expected, maybe forty, and well-built - broad shoulders, strong, muscular forearms marked with scars from his work, his shirt loose and open to expose a stretch of his tanned chest. He ties on a leather apron as you dismount, and walks out to greet you.

“Good day. I was hoping you could help with a repair? And my horse needs to be shod, too. I’m sorry, I usually go to Peter up in Donap -“

He cuts you off with a nod. “I know. Yes. That’s fine. The tub, is that the repair?”

You raise your eyebrows at how direct he is. Curt, almost. Rude, some would say.

“It is. It’s leaking at the side, here.” You undo the strap and he takes the washtub down. It looks strangely tiny against his substantial form.

He turns and gesticulates with his head in the direction of the open door. From the dark interior, a striking boy emerges, clutching a piece of paper, some string, and a stubby pencil.

The blacksmith gives him instructions and he diligently scrawls a number on the paper, before attaching it to the tub with the string and carrying it into the forge.

“Do you only speak in Irish to him?”

The smith has turned his attention to your horse, examining each of her hooves in turn. He looks at you quizzically.

“It’s what he prefers. What we prefer. He understands English perfectly.”

“Unusual that he’s fair and you’re dark. Is his mother fair? I suppose she must be.”

He sighs.

“I don’t know.”

You can’t stop yourself from letting out a little gasp. He looks up at you, dark eyes frustrated at your constant chatter. But he knows this needs explanation.

“He’s my apprentice. He’s a foundling. I’ve taken him as my own.”

You feel your face heat, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

He strokes the horse’s muzzle, not looking directly at you. “You didn’t know. I can shoe the horse now, though you’ll need to wait. The tub will take a day or two.”

You nod in agreement.

“What’s her name?”

His voice is softer. He’s still looking at your little horse, who’s loving the attention from this new person.

“Réaltín.” She has a perfect little splash of white between her eyes, in the shape of a little star. You couldn’t have named her anything else.

He repeats the animal’s name, and you see the tiniest hint of a smile cross his lips before his serious expression returns.

It turns cold, and you wait it out on a stool just inside the door of the forge, glad of the warmth.

You watch as the blacksmith heats up and works the metal shoes at his anvil, so they’ll fit Réaltín’s smaller hooves perfectly. The light from the fire illuminates his features as he works, highlighting the beads of sweat on his brow and picking out the various shades of brown in his eyes. He has pulled a band of grey cloth over his nose and mouth, which draws your attention all the more to his dark gaze.

The little boy stares at you while the man works, occasionally helping him by fetching an implement or helping work the bellows. You give him a little wave and a smile, hoping he’ll respond. He doesn’t come any closer, but you see him grin for a moment before he disappears behind the broad figure of his master - well, his adoptive father, if what the blacksmith said is correct.

Peter’s forge is always full of chat and song and gossip, a kind of social hub as much as a vital service. In contrast, the only music here is the singing of the anvil as the silent, stoic smith works, interspersed with the whoosh of the bellows and the hiss of the cooling tub. He doesn’t look at you, eyes always trained on the task at hand or at his little apprentice. He doesn’t speak, except to the little boy.

After a few exchanges, you realise something. “Is he called Gró?”

The smith keeps working. “That is what I call him, yes.”

“Funny to call a little thing like that after a poker.”

He turns his attention to the fire for a moment before he answers you. “He kept trying to stoke the fire on his own when I first took him in. I said the word so much it became his name. He likes it.”

Silence. Singing metal. Hissing steam.

He makes sure Gró watches him at every step as he removes the old horseshoes, cleans Réaltín’s hooves, files them carefully, and attaches the new shoes. Throughout, he quietly explains to the boy what he’s doing, and why.

Your stomach is rumbling, and you remember the supplies you brought with you (and had forgotten about).

When they’ve finished the last hoof, you speak up. “I - I brought a cake of fresh bread with me, in case it took longer. And I have butter, too, and a little crab apple jam. I’d be glad to share it with the little lad.”

Gró’s enormous eyes widen with excitement and he grins. (He really does understand English perfectly, you think.)

“We have enough food for ourselves, thank you.”

The boy’s face falls.

“I just meant as a little treat. A thank you, for taking the job when you’ve so much to be doing.”

He sighs, again. “Well… ach. Yes. Come in.”

Their home is neat and simply furnished, and he evidently knows how to look after a household as well as a business. You sit at the wooden table in the main room, which serves as kitchen, living area, and office for the blacksmith’s records. Out of the corner of your eye you spy a ladder going up to the attic, which you presume must be used as a sleeping space. A door leads off the main part of the house to what looks to be a smaller room.

Gró is already on his third piece of bread, butter, and apple jam, a shiny orange smear on the tip of his little nose.

“I hope this tastes okay. It’s always so hard to know when you churn butter, isn’t it?” You sip some of the cool water he’d poured into an earthenware mug for you.

“I don’t know. I’ve never churned butter.”

His reply is so deadpan that you wonder for a moment if he’s joking. You decide he isn’t.

“It’s not that hard,” you continue. “And I have the cow and the milk so why not?” You chew on a bit of bread, appraising your handiwork. “Actually, not bad at all, this time.”

He grunts in agreement. “You have a farm?”

“A very small smallholding. Tenant to the lord, like most of us.”

“Your husband works the land, then.”

You stare at the crust of bread in front of you, and clear your throat.

“He doesn’t. He’s…not here. He’s gone.”

The blacksmith’s eyes soften. “I’m very sorry for your troubles. Sickness, or was it in the fighting -”

You look at him directly. “That bastard wouldn’t fight for anything, not even his wife. He’s not dead. Or at least, I don’t think he’s dead. But I wish he was, because then I’d really be free.”

For a moment it looks like the stoic blacksmith is going to choke. He reaches for his own mug and drinks deeply.

“Well, now, I -“

“He upped and went. A few years back. God knows where he is now. He’s not around here, anyway. I’d say he’s skipped to Belfast or London.” You finish your bread. “Lucky the smallholding had come through my father, so I wasn’t out on the road.”

He’s flushed, and evidently a little uncomfortable. Well, he started it, you think.

“How do you survive - do you have children, too?”

You shake your head. “No, a blessing not to have them. And I do what I did before I married - I sew. Mostly alterations and refashioning and repairing, now, but at least I have a trade.”

The smith nods to himself. “A useful one.”

“Not as useful as yours.”

He gives you a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile.

You stand up and start to clear the dishes. “Keep the rest of the bread and the butter and jam. I’ll collect the jars when I come back for the tub.”

He starts as if to speak, standing up from his chair, and seems nervous.

“Could I - we - ask you to do something for us?”

“It depends, but…”

“Clothes. Gró’s clothes are in need of mending. Badly. Would you be able to help?”

You smile and nod. “I’d be delighted to. Lord, has the poor lad been going without mending for this long?”

The smith opens a wooden chest and takes out a small bundle of tiny items of clothing. “Not quite. Peigí normally does it, but she’s been so busy with the work in her yard lately that I didn’t want to ask.”

Peigí is something of a legend in the area, a fiery woman who stubbornly insisted on taking over her father’s trade in repairing carts and wagons - and succeeded. You smile wryly to yourself at the vision of her wielding a needle and thread.

He hands you the clothes, wrapped in a faded piece of red and white cloth. “Oh, hold on.” He reaches back into the chest and retrieves a dark grey knitted sweater that has seen better days. “I don’t know if you darn, too, but he’ll need this in the colder weather, and -“

You take the sweater, handling it with care, and clutch the little bundle to your chest. “It’s no bother at all.”

He smiles, genuinely smiles, at you for the first time. You marvel at how such a stern, hardy man can reveal himself to be quite so soft - eyes crinkling, expression warm and friendly, teeth white in that tanned face streaked with grime from the forge.

“Thank you…?” He pauses, waiting for you to introduce yourself. You tell him your name.

“And you’re…”

“Din.”

“Din. And Gró.” The little boy swivels in his seat at the sound of his name, and sends the sneaky spoonful of apple jam that he’s been enjoying flying to the flagstone floor.

Din accompanies you as you strap the bundle of clothes to the saddle, and mount Réaltín for the journey home.

“I’ll be back in two days for the tub. I’ll bring his things then.”

Din gives the horse an affectionate pat, and nods as you turn and head back up the narrow road.

Gró has come to the door of the house.

“’s bean deas í, a dhaid.”

Translations:

Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.

Give me the nails, there’s a good boy.

Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í

It’s a woman on a horse, she’s a stranger.

’s bean deas í, a dhaid

She’s a nice lady, daddy. (Can also mean ‘pretty lady’).

And yes, ‘gró’ in Irish can mean crow-bar - or, in older dialect, a poker.

[nothorses]

i am a trans man who has been transitioning with top surgery for years, but still only like 50/50 passing. still legally female.

i joined a trade union on a social media post asking for women to recruit, as they have a goal of 10% women, and currently are at less then 1%. i know that certain government based jobs require a certain amount of women working on them, so sometimes i have a bit of an advantage being dispatched to a new company over a cis man apprentice.

ive had some people say its wrong to take advantage of this, because if i want to be a man, i shouldn't use these spaces that were made for trying to get more women to join the trade. but i don't think im really taking space from women, because theyre still not even close to their goal, and most women don't even consider this trade a viable option anyways (hence the extremely low numbers, despite the fact they are actively trying to reach out and recuit women)

I think that's the right call. I mean, consider why they have that ratio requirement in the first place; you are not Taking Up Women's Space As A Privileged Man. They are trying to create space for people who are marginalized for their gender and may struggle to find space in the field otherwise, and you fall under that umbrella as a trans person.

Also, like, as someone who works in education: it's still more common for trans men and transmascs generally to be working in education than it is for trans women, even though cis women are vastly more represented in the field than cis men are. [source] (I would not be super surprised if the reverse was true for tech, but I can't find stats on it.)

I think it's a lot more complex than just "AGAB socialization" or whatever, but it's silly to pretend that the possibilities you were raised to see for yourself based on the gender other people thought you were are like, completely irrelevant just because you're trans.

[haggishlyhagging]

It would take Diane Joyce nearly ten years of battles to become the first female skilled crafts worker ever in Santa Clara County history. It would take another seven years of court litigation, pursued all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, before she could actually start work. And then, the real fight would begin.

For blue-collar women, there was no honeymoon period on the job; the backlash began the first day they reported to work—and only intensified as the Reagan economy put more than a million blue-collar men out of work, reduced wages, and spread mounting fear. While the white-collar world seemed capable of absorbing countless lawyers and bankers in the 80s, the trades and crafts had no room for expansion. "Women are far more economically threatening in blue-collar work, because there are a finite number of jobs from which to choose," Mary Ellen Boyd, executive director of Non-Traditional Employment for Women, observes. "An MBA can do anything. But a plumber is only a plumber." While women never represented more than a few percentage points of the blue-collar work force, in this powder-keg situation it only took a few female faces to trigger a violent explosion.

Diane Joyce arrived in California in 1970, a thirty-three-year-old widow with four children, born and raised in Chicago. Her father was a tool-and-die maker, her mother a returned-goods clerk at a Walgreen's warehouse. At eighteen, she married Donald Joyce, a tool-and-die maker's apprentice at her father's plant. Fifteen years later, after working knee-deep in PCBs for years, he died suddenly of a rare form of liver cancer.

After her husband's death, Joyce taught herself to drive, packed her children in a 1966 Chrysler station wagon and headed west to San Jose, California, where a lone relative lived. Joyce was an experienced bookkeeper and she soon found work as a clerk in the county Office of Education, at $506 a month. A year later, she heard that the county's transportation department had a senior account clerk job vacant that paid $50 more a month. She applied in March 1972.

"You know, we wanted a man," the interviewer told her as soon as she walked through the door. But the account clerk jobs had all taken a pay cut recently, and sixteen women and no men had applied for the job. So he sent her on to the second interview. "This guy was a little politer," Joyce recalls. "First, he said, 'Nice day, isn't it?' before he tells me, 'You know, we wanted a man.' I wanted to say, 'Yeah, and where's my man? I am the man in my house.' But I'm sitting there with four kids to feed and all I can see is dollar signs, so I kept my mouth shut."

She got the job. Three months later, Joyce saw a posting for a "road maintenance man." An eighth-grade education and one year's work experience was all that was required, and the pay was $723 a month. Her current job required a high-school education, bookkeeping skills, and four years' experience— and paid $150 less a month. "I saw that flier and I said, ‘Oh wow, I can do that.’ Everyone in the office laughed. They thought it was a riot. . . . I let it drop."

But later that same year, every county worker got a 2 to 5 percent raise except for the 70 female account clerks. "Oh now, what do you girls need a raise for?" the director of personnel told Joyce and some other women who went before the board of supervisors to object. "All you'd do is spend the money on trips to Europe." Joyce was shocked. "Every account clerk I knew was supporting a family through death or divorce. I'd never seen Mexico, let alone Europe." Joyce decided to apply for the next better-paying "male" job that opened. In the meantime, she became active in the union; a skillful writer and one of the best-educated representatives there, Joyce wound up composing the safety language in the master contract and negotiating what became the most powerful county agreement protecting seniority rights.

In 1974, a road dispatcher retired, and both Joyce and a man named Paul Johnson, a former oil-fields roustabout, applied for the post. The supervisors told Joyce she needed to work on the road crew first and handed back her application. Johnson didn't have any road crew experience either, but his application was accepted. In the end, the job went to another man.

Joyce set out to get road crew experience. As she was filling out her application for the next road crew job that opened, in 1975, her supervisor walked in, asked what she was doing, and turned red. "You're taking a man's job away!" he shouted. Joyce sat silently for a minute, thinking. Then she said, "No, I'm not. Because a man can sit right here where I'm sitting."

In the evenings, she took courses in road maintenance and truck and light equipment operation. She came in third out of 87 applicants on the job test; there were ten openings on the road crew, and she got one of them.

For the next four years, Joyce carried tar pots on her shoulder, pulled trash from the median strip, and maneuvered trucks up the mountains to clear mud slides. "Working outdoors was great," she says. "You know, women pay fifty dollars a month to join a health club, and here I was getting paid to get in shape." The road men didn't exactly welcome her arrival. When they trained her to drive the bobtail trucks, she says, they kept changing instructions; one gave her driving tips that nearly blew up the engine. Her supervisor wouldn't issue her a pair of coveralls; she had to file a formal grievance to get them. In the yard, the men kept the ladies' room locked, and on the road they wouldn't stop to let her use the bathroom. "You wanted a man's job, you learn to pee like a man," her supervisor told her.

Obscene graffiti about Joyce appeared on the sides of trucks. Men threw darts at union notices she posted on the bulletin board. One day, the stockroom storekeeper, Tony Laramie, who says later he liked to call her "the piglet," called a general meeting in the depot's Ready Room. "I hate the day you came here," Laramie started screaming at Joyce as the other men looked on, many nodding. "We don't want you here. You don't belong here. Why don't you go the hell away?"

Joyce's experience was typical of the forthright and often violent backlash within the blue-collar work force, an assault undisguised by decorous homages to women's "difference." At a construction site in New York, for example, where only a few female hard-hats had found work, the men took a woman's work boots and hacked them into bits. Another woman was injured by a male co-worker; he hit her on the head with a two-by-four. In Santa Clara County, where Joyce worked, the county's equal opportunity office files were stuffed with reports of ostracism, hazing, sexual harassment, threats, verbal and physical abuse. "It's pervasive in some of the shops," says John Longabaugh, the county's equal employment officer at the time. "They mess up their tools, leave pornography on their desks. Safety equipment is made difficult to get, or unavailable." A maintenance worker greeted the first woman in his department with these words: "I know someone who would break your arm or leg for a price." Another new woman was ordered to clean a transit bus by her supervisor—only to find when she climbed aboard that the men had left a little gift for her: feces smeared across the seats.

In 1980, another dispatcher job opened up. Joyce and Johnson both applied. They both got similarly high scores on the written exam. Joyce now had four years' experience on the road crew; Paul Johnson only had a year and a half. The three interviewers, one of whom later referred to Joyce in court as "rabble-rousing" and "not a lady," gave the job to Johnson. Joyce decided to complain to the county athrmative action office.

The decision fell to James Graebner, the new director of the transportation department, an engineer who believed that it was about time the county hired its first woman for its 238 skilled-crafts jobs. Graebner confronted the roads director, Ron Shields. "What's wrong with the woman?" Graebner asked. “I hate her," Shields said, according to other people in the room. "I just said I thought Johnson was more qualified," is how Shields remembers it. "She didn't have the proficiency with heavy equipment." Neither, of course, did Johnson. Not that it was relevant anyway: dispatch is an office job that doesn't require lifting anything heavier than a microphone.

Graebner told Shields he was being overruled; Joyce had the job. Later that day, Joyce recalls, her supervisor called her into the conference room. "Well, you got the job," he told her. "But you're not qualified." Johnson, meanwhile, sat by the phone, dialing up the chain of command. "I felt like tearing something up," he recalls later. He demanded a meeting with the affirmative action office. "The affirmative action man walks in," Johnson says, "and he's this big black guy. He can't tell me anything. He brings in this minority who can barely speak English . . . I told them, 'You haven't heard the last of me.'" Within days, he had hired a lawyer and set his reverse discrimination suit in motion, contending that the county had given the job to a "less qualified" woman.

In 1987, the Supreme Court ruled against Johnson. The decision was hailed by women's and civil rights groups. But victory in Washington was not the same as triumph in the transportation yard. For Joyce and the road men, the backlash was just warming up. "Something like this is going to hurt me one day," Gerald Pourroy, a foreman in Joyce's office, says of the court's ruling, his voice low and bitter. He stares at the concrete wall above his desk. "I look down the tracks and I see the train coming toward me."

The day after the Supreme Court decision, a woman in the county office sent Joyce a congratulatory bouquet, two dozen carnations. Joyce arranged the flowers in a vase on her desk. The next day they were gone. She found them finally, crushed in a garbage bin. A road foreman told her, "I drop-kicked them across the yard."

-Susan Faludi, Backlash: the Undeclared War Against American Women

[professor-doctor-doctor]

Since everyone is posting about their headcanons and OCs, here’s…the closest I have to an OC?

The Shindo brothers, in childhood. Matsuzo, at the top, is the name I gave to Heiji’s nameless older brother in the first episode. Takeshi is technically an OC—both Heiji and Matsuzo appear in the final show, but Takeshi does not. This is intentional. Takeshi did not live into adulthood—and yes, it was Heiji’s fault.

Some quick headcanons regarding the brother’s, Heiji’s childhood, and their relationships with one another:

Matsuzo is primarily focused on his studies, both academic and refining his Shindo-Ryō. He’s the reserved older brother, and his father’s apprentice, meaning most of the time he’s away from his younger siblings, being trained personally. This doesn’t mean he doesn’t spend time with them—Matsuzo helps train Takeshi, who is also training to be a swordsman. While Heiji is the only of the sons to not be learning Shindo-Ryō, Matsuzo still makes some time to spend with him, such as joining him for tea ceremonies, or doing calligraphy together. Out of everyone in the family, Heiji’s closest relationship was with Matsuzo.

Heiji began youth as the quiet, overlooked child, and after his younger brother’s death, became something of a trouble child—making associates with drug peddlers and flesh traders within the city (such as Hachiman), even building his own miniature gang, which later results in his father banishing him from the family and Kyoto as a city. But before all of this, he was the studious of the three, and yet pretty much ignored by his father due to his lack of interest in fighting. His mother died when he was around nine years old, and it was she who taught him how to brew tea—but other than that, he hadn’t much a relationship with either of his parents. He was closest with Matsuzo, but despised his younger brother Takeshi, who often took joy in poking fun at how useless Heiji was when it came to the samurai arts—quite literally what their entire clan is known for. He beat him on several sparring occasions, and was overall just as annoying as a younger sibling may be. It was a great source of embarrassment for Heiji, and culminated overtime into a festering hatred for his own kin.

Takeshi, for all his nuisance, was essentially acting in the way any other little boy would. He was rambunctious, loud, and prideful, all of which clashed with Heiji’s personality. He was well liked by his father and eldest brother, however, who saw that he had the makings of a very promising warrior. It was seen that where Matsuzo would inherit the dojo and ruler ship of the clan, Takeshi would likely go on to be a great warrior, and add a new branch of lineage to the Shindo family tree. Heiji was overlooked, due to the fact his only ambition seemed to be that of an artisan.

However, Takeshi met a tragic end at the age of ten in the summer of 1613, when he fell gravely ill of a mysterious illness, and passed away. He was buried in the family grave, and the loss hit both Matsuzo and the Shindo Patriarch hard—not so much Heiji. Soon after, Heiji began to take advantage of his silver tongue and skills in trade, further dampening his relationship with his father. His sly and snake like attitude lead his father to both see and suspect the worst in him, and when Heiji turned 19, he was banished from the family, on the grounds he had disrespected their values in every way possible. The Shindo Patriarch Even accused Heiji in having a hand in his brother’s death, which is…just ridiculous, right?

By the time the show begins, Matsuzo and Heiji have somewhat reconnected. After their father passed away and Matsuzo became leader of the Shindo clan, Heiji eventually reached out—after, of course, getting a comfy spot working for the Shogun to facilitate the trade of foreign guns into Japan. He was deeply apologetic and implored his brother to see past his father’s foolishness—he had loved his brother, after all. He’d have done nothing to hurt him. Matsuzo, Kind at Heart, welcomed him back in—a grave mistake. For with Heiji came his empire of drugs and trafficking Matsuzo had no clue of.

Despite being the eldest, and the leader of the clan, Heiji became richer and of higher status through his success as a criminal overlord. It wasn’t long before it was Matsuzo bowing to Heiji.

This is just a quick overview of how I interpret Heiji Shindo’s family—I actually have a fic of Matsuzo eating dinner with him, Fowler, and Hachiman, supposedly after the scene where they agree to set the four fangs after Mizu. If you want me to post it, or rant more about my elaborate backstory for the unforgivable rat that is Shindo, please let me know! Comics and the likes will also be coming soon :3

[dailyadventureprompts]

Any opinions/ideas about the Nagpa? They’re basically just Skeksis so I like ‘em

You hit the nail on the head friend, Nagpa are Skeksis with the serial numbers filed off, along with some extra details that we can use for some delightful adventure hooks. Here's some Nagpa lore, with some of my own revisions:

Originally a coven of thirteen wicked mages, The Nagpa sought power above all things, eventually getting it into their heads that if they devoured the flesh of a god, they could ascend to a state of semi-divinity. This led them to attempt to summon, bind, and slay a god/throw their lot in with a divine civil war/whatever blasphemous action works with the backstory of your campaign

For this action, they were cursed so that their appearance befitted their monstrous character (withered vultures) and forced to wander eternally, abandoning their fine holdings and preventing them from easily congregating in one place. Still in possession of their great magic however, it's not unusual to find a Nagpa in possession of a number of lairs, a portable fortress, or flying domicile, skirting the rules of the curse while allowing them to maintain their opulence.

Because of their secretive dealings pre-curse, all Nagpa have an ability to detect when anyone within 100 miles speaks of them or any of their conspirators. They usualy hunt and kill those who are loose lipped about their existence, allowing them to remain secret for centuries and making them amazing narrative boogymen.

Maintaining schemes that last for generations at a time, it's not uncommon for a down-on-their-luck Nagpa to attach itself to some group using its lifetimes of knowledge and magical ability to bargin for what it desires.

Before We get into the adventure hooks, I wanted to share this amazing youtube comment that I found while doing research for this post:

Phileas Liebmann:

This is such a great scene. In just a few shots we learn everything we need to know about the Skeksis: they're decadent, they're cruel, they hold themselves higher than all other life, they despise each other, but are obligated to dine together nonetheless, hinting that they are traditional folk. Show, don't tell at its finest!

Hooks:

The locals speak of a withered figure who stalks about the badlands, trading treasures for secrets and enacting powerful magic at terrible prices. After dealing with one or two knockon effects of this entities dealings, the party end up meeting it through dumb luck or desperate need, at which point the vulture headed man introduces himself with humble modesty as "Your humble Grandfather Greatest". Grandfather can pay in rare treasures if they're willing to do him some favours, each a small step towards his return to true power.

A beloved sage is dead, murdered by magic, and his young apprentice is on the run. The bounty is steep, but when the party catch up to their quarry they hear a very different tale from her recounting: She and her teacher had spent years delving into a trove of lore from a fallen elven kingdom, but were attacked by some kind of vulture-witch after finishing their latest translation. Apparently the creature is still after her, and by telling them she's put them in danger as well.

Finding that a rover's life quite suits her, one of the nagpa has set herself up as advisor to a clan of travelling marauders, making herself indispensable by using her sorcery to aid their raids on various settlements. Convinced that the initial nagpa ritual still could have worked, she steers these brigands towards temples and other holysites looking to strip the meat off demigods and knaw the marrow of saintly relics.

Art

[maulfucker]

Ok some thoughts about senator Maul AU because I keep thinking about it

Palpatine never finds an apprentice in this AU, so he ends up not being such a huge threat

The events of Phantom Menace only kinda happened - Naboo was attacked by the Trade Federation, but there was no Sith to pursue them and kill Qui-Gon, so things got resolved much more easily

Qui-Gon lives, so he gets to train Anakin, and Dooku doesn't get tempted by the dark side

I think Dooku still quits the Jedi Order, but this time it's because he feels like he could do more good as a politician than as a jedi. He keeps a good relationship with the Jedi Order and the Republic and doesn't become a separatist

Every time he's in Coruscant he visits Qui-Gon and Anakin (and Obi-Wan) and chats with them over a nice lunch, which is good because it gives Anakin a politician role model that isn't Palpatine, and a better perspective of his options - he can leave the Order if he finds a new purpose, it's not a betrayal or a failure

Maul was raised in Dathomir so he's not a sith murder machine, but since he's such a powerful Force-senstitive he was raised closer to his mother and the Nightsisters than to his brothers and the Nightbrothers

(Savage and Feral are alive and happy btw. They visit Maul in Coruscant sometimes. I think he might also have one or two sisters because why not)

He still doesn't like Jedi but it's like. He doesn't want to kill them, he just thinks they're way too limiting and self-righteous. Like how Obi-Wan doesn't like politicians

He rarely makes speeches on the senate, so hearing him speak is a rare treat

Picture holonet social media hornyposting under every clip of him speaking because he has a very sexy voice

His outfits are also pretty daring (read: sexy) compared to most (male) senators. The entire Dathomir delegation dresses pretty similarly, but he gets the most attention

Maul vs Padmé who wore it better type posts

He and Padmé have this weird kinda-rivalry because they're very opposite in a lot of ways, but they still vote on the same side in a lot of topics since they both have a very "I am doing this for my people" mentality

He also absolutely hates Palpatine because he gets extremely rotten vibes from him (he's more attuned to the dark side than the Jedi so he probably Feels Palpatine's dark side vibes better than the Jedi. He Feels Palpatine is Bad)

When/if the Jedi Order ever finds out Palpatine is a sith he will be very unsurprised

Ventress is a representative and Maul's "apprentice", learning the Senate life from him

I'm making her younger than her "canon" age here (by about 10ish years) because it makes more sense to me and because giving Maul a government-assigned baby sister is funny

From what we see in the movies each world seems to only have one senator but I want the Dathomir delegation to have at least two because I think it's more fitting (and realistic, every world needs more than one senator what the fuck)

I think it would be funny if Maul swears he's gonna quit soon and Ventress will take his place in the senate but then the other senator retires first and makes Ventress her successor so Maul has to stay a senator for longer. He just wants to get out of this fucking planet

On the Jedi side of this AU I think Anakin grows into a much more disciplined jedi because Qui-Gon the rules bender would definitely stay in contact with Shmi so Anakin's anxieties regarding his mom will be more controlled, and they would be contacted immediately when she gets kidnapped by the tuskens so they save her faster and she doesn't die and neither do the tuskens and everything is fine

Plus Anakin gets to know his new family better and have a brother and add a new dad to his collection <3

Maybe Obi-Wan gets Ahsoka as a padawan this time, so she can have a master who actually wants to teach, and also be kinda-siblings with Anakin and cause chaos with him while Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan aren't looking

The Separatists never really take off, so the clone wars never happen, but I think the attacks on senators that were happening at the start of AotC still happen because I think it's fun to have drama and have Jedi escorts assigned to senators (read: good excuse to set up an obimaul and allow the anidala plot to happen)

I want Maul to be miserable wet cats with Obi-Wan on Kamino so I am allowing the clones to exist. Purely for comedic plot opportunity. And because I love clones so I want them to exist

But I think this time they only made a single batch of like 10-100 clones and were waiting for the Jedi to get back to them with approval to make more

Maul sees this and goes "Absolutely the fuck NOT" so no more clones are made after those. Sad!

With Maul there to help the Jango fight is much more successful (and 50% less humiliating on Obi-Wan's side) so they capture him and no one has to die

Sidious had to hire Jango this time since I am not letting him have an apprentice, so Jango is like "I was hired by some old weirdo in a cloak who called himself Darth Sidious who sounded and looked a lot like the chancellor from Naboo" and Maul feels so fucking vindicated that YES the bad vibes he gets from Palpatine were correct can we PLEASE kill him now

Jango gets arrested and maybe he makes a deal to work under the Jedi instead of staying in jail so he can take care of Boba instead of leaving him to his own luck

Boba being raised with Jedi younglings while Jango is busy offworld....

The clones also become part of the Jedi Order so they can help Jedi with peacekeeping and defense and stuff

Palpatine gets found out and arrested and/or killed by the Jedi and everyone else gets to live happily ever after. Eventually.

... this is. Way longer than planned. I'm having fun

[brandogenius]

i’m desperate need of masc!grumpy!reader and julien hc😩

omg anon!! this AHHh!!! i love this sm!! i hope i did it justice id love to turn this into a au 👀 maybe

‼️RPF‼️

(not proofread)

HC - Masc! Grumpy! Reader x Julien!

- sun and moon dynamic? sun - julien, moon- you

- being taller in this duo you always wrap your arms around julien, hugging her from behind, resting your chin on the crown of her head.

- she’s also the little spoon in this scenario. and she doesn’t mind tbh. she likes to cuddle in your arms

- you like to pay for her coffee / food when you go out just to see her shock flustered face

- both of you go shopping through the small alleyway markets, buying and looking at the rings

- silver is your go to jewellery, you love silver rings and chains.

- your favourite piece of jewellery is a silver chain julien bought for your birthday

- both of you get matching tattoos together. you draw some tattoos for julien.

- youre a tattoo apprentice! julien lets you work on her sometimes.

- always holding onto julien. hands in her belt buckles or around her waist. you’re dubbed as her guard dog. always glaring at anyone who dares look at her the wrong way.

- hair ruffles. your favourite thing is to run your hands through her hair

- when julien and the boys go to the club, you happily hang out at the bar drinking water. an arm wrapped around juliens waist.

- your favourite thing is grabbing julien and plopping her onto your lap.

- you get quite grumpy until you’ve had your daily iced coffee

- you like to go to one specific cafe where they know you by name and order at this point

- some people say you’re a black cat and julien is the golden retriever

- one core memory is going to the theme park on your fourth date and julien wanted this big stuffed bear so you won it for her

- seeing julien grin to herself holding the bear nearly as big as her was adorable you had to admit

- you like to hold the bags. whenever you go shopping you’ll take the bags off her and hold them, walking behind her.

- you get agitated pretty quickly. when a design isn’t working out the way you wanted it to be you’ll get pretty frustrated.

- you’re someone who has a bad time expressing your emotions. small acts of kindness such as cooking dinner or paying for coffee is how you role.

- at this point you have your own way of saying i love you.

- you get grumpy too when julien has to work. wrapping yourself around julien when she’s song writing. pouting like a child whilst you wait for her to finish.

- both of you trade jewellery, swapping rings and chains

- you don’t use social media that much. fans see you and julien from her instagram posts and fans eat it up.

- you’re considering getting an eyebrow and lip piercing but unsure

- julien thinks it would be so hot.

[mrsharringtonskywalkersnow]

No Cure For Us (Ch.1)

Ch. 2 // Ch. 3

Chapter Warnings: Implied violence. Mentions of human/species trafficking, sex work, and slavery.

Pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Fem!OC

Summary: A sharp increase in the slave trade creates a unique mission for a young padawan Skywalker to explore in the Coruscant night life.

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: gotta be perfectly honest guys, haven't written fanfic in well over 10 years (im old af don't start) but I'm just going to go for it. I've had this idea for an Anakin Skywalker X Fem!OC fic since HaydenmothafuckinChristensen graced my screen last year and reignited my BURNING childhood crush.

Is this blatant self insert writing? Probably.

Is the plan for this fic a long ass haul? Bet your ass.

Will I ever finish it? Who the hell knows.

All I know is, I've got 5 more days left of sick leave post ✨️brain surgery✨️ and ima just gonna go for it.

Honestly, idgaf if anyone reads this. I have like no followers tbf. It's honestly something I just wanted to do and say I did it. I have another half baked fic in the back of my mind but I'm such a completionist, idk if I can multi tasks fics.

—-------------------------------------------------

The low hum of the council walls haunted Anakin’s bones as voices echoed back and forth between Obi-wan and the other masters. Something about the last mission. Something important. Something about following directions. Anakin huffed a small laugh to himself as he felt front of his boot hook into the well worn-out spot of paint of the council floor’s intricate design. How easy it would be to lift the lines of the design up from the floorboards –

“Ehem.” Obi-wan’s throat cleared and it didn’t take the knowledge of the Force for Anakin to feel his eyes. The apprentice looked sideways at his master, expecting to be berated, instead to find equally frustrated disinterest in his eyes. Mace Windu and Plo Koon were murmuring amongst each other as Kid-Adi-Mundi seemed agitated to get a word in. The room was buzzing with far too many whispers for a successful mission.

“It would seem our efforts on Rentor were – too effective.” Obi-wan sighed quietly while smoothing out the creases in his robes. “Although it would be helpful to receive less criticism from the council if you would simply follow the outer rim protocols.”

Anakin rolled his eyes. There was always something that wasn’t perfect enough. He was the very best swordsman and bested every opponent in duels, however, he must not use THAT form. He had an in-depth knowledge of each assigned mission to a needle-point, yet, he must not become fascinated with the cultures. He could fly circles around any pilot, royally trained or smuggler, but, he must caution against enjoyment of out-matching their skills. And there was Obi-wan, ever the faithful gentle reminder, to nudge him into a straightened back.

“It is extremely worrisome that you did not consult the Chiss Ascendancy prior to your excursions on Rentor.” Kid-Adi-Mundi warned in Anakin’s direction.

“Forgive me, Masters, I wasn’t aware I required permission for the search and seizure of a hostile gangster with Jedi temple files in non-Republic spaces.” Anakin bit back at the put-off Master. “I’ll make sure to consult the Hutts the next time we ‘happen’ to intercept a spice run.”

“Anakin.”

There it was. The nudge. Anakin gathered his robes tighter around himself, looking for anything in this forsaken room that could distract him.

“What my padawan means to say is, there was really no other recourse once the target was identified. There is hardly any space for Republic Jedi to operate in the Outer Rim and we brought him back, as instructed.” Obi-wan’s voice lilted at his last two words.

Yoda hummed. “Brought back three broken ribs and nose with, the instructions were not.”

A feeling like molten lava simmered within Anakin as he recalled finding the Zygerrian gangster. “He brutalized–”

“Nonetheless, brought back with the temple files intact and suitable for questioning.” Obi-wan interrupted. “If the approach of apprehension is the issue, then forgive me, I do not see how this requires a council audience? Unless there is another role we have to play in this.”

Whispers and murmurs again. The words slithered around the room like a Vexis sizing up her prey. Mace’s throat cleared and before he pressed his crossed fingers over his lips. "There had been an unsettling amount of slave trade activity in the Outer Rim. So much so that it has extended to the Inner Rim. The increase parallels the rate of incidence before the Jedi Order enforcement."

Plo Koon turned to face the pair. “Obi-wan, how prepared is your padawan for the trials?”

Anakin looked with wide eyes at his Master, filled with hope for validation. As Obi-wan’s hands came to his beard, Anakin’s stomach became a gaping pit. “I would say it would depend.”

“Depend on what?” Anakin interjected incredulously.

“Alone, you have not been. Successful without assistance, you were not.” Yoda began.

“Anakin, you have failed to show true restraint and discipline with the skills that you have been taught.” came Plo’s even measured tone over Anakin's simmering anger. “You have demonstrated an innate affinity for skill mastery yet it is squandered on your recklessness.”

Images of the mission are blurred behind his eyelids. The ice cold moon. That dark cold warehouse. That fucking cat-faced Zygerrian. That poor sweet girl. “The files were retrieved,” he muttered robotically.

A thoughtful grunt came from Yoda. “New threat, uncovered this has. Alone, you must go.”

“Anakin, we are tasking you with the sole mission of tracing back the steps of the Zygerrian.” Mace continued. “From our interrogation, he was not acting alone and is associated with the Zygerrian Slave Empire. The uptick of slave trafficking from the Outer Rim appears to be leading towards Coruscant.”

“How they were able to get a hold of secure Jedi temple files, is concerning in and of itself.” Obi-wan added. “Coursant is a long way for a trinket.”

Anakin’s eye’s cleared from it’s smog of anger. “What is the relationship between the growing trafficking and the missing file?”

Plo nodded in agreement. “An excellent question, padawan. I belive—”

“One we cannot yet answer.” Kid-Adi-Mundi interrupted. Anakin's attention shifted to the Cerean in confusion, who looked rightfully irritated. 

“There was a contact we had on the lower levels of Coruscant who, in the past, had provided us with information regarding mass trafficking to and from the planet for a price. Although, it's been…difficult to make contact as of late.” Mace revealed, cautiously. “The Buyer.”

The anger built deeper within him. Slavers. Buyers. What kind of person bargains the lives of others for a price?

“Find him. Determine his price for information on who is infiltrating the temple files. And do it while separating yourself from the emotions you attach yourself to.” Mace commanded.

Obi-Wan patted his apprentice’s arm gently. “Remember what this new mission means, Anakin.”

Anakin took a deep breath. His shoulders sagged.

He nodded. “Understood.”

Plo took a step forward. “If you are unable to complete this mission by yourself, we will consider you unfit for the trials.”

Anakin bowed his head submissively as white knuckles formed over his clenched fists. “Understood, Masters.”

—-------------------------------------------------

Once they had left the meeting hall, Anakin made his way down to the detention level. He paused just outside the door. Control the anger.

Inside the detention area, an anxious air hung heavily in the atmosphere. The Zygerrian had draped himself dramatically over his cot and was coddling his still bloody nose. Anakin tried to contain his disgust. Had he known this was also a slaver when he beat him within an inch of his life, he would've broken his hand as well.

"You." The wounded cat seethed. "You broke my fucking face."

Reaching out, Anakin let the Force carry the nearby chair towards himself, making sure to hover momentarily by the prisoner before setting it upright beside him. "Trust me, it's an improvement. Please, take a seat."

With a snarl, the alien dropped himself into the seat and glared up at Anakin.

"You Jedi are all cowards. Leave me in here but you will never finish the job." Blood stained spit spewed out of his fanged mouth over the edges of Anakin's robes. Teeth gnashed against teeth and Anakin honed his composure. The Zygerrian snickered. "You want to kill me, ah?"

Anakin looked down at the cold metal floor and felt how malleable the Force would be able to make it before looking back up at the wounded cat. "What do you know about The Buyer?"

The shit-eating grin fell off his face as he leaned back into the chair. "We don't speak of The Buyer."

"So you work for him?"

A laugh burst from the whispered face and the smile returned. "Work for --?! The Buyer is trouble for all of us. Especially you, young Jedi."

Anakin tapped impatiently on the hilt of his lightsaber. His impatience was going to prove fatal to both of them. Without another word, he pulled it free and ignited the blue blade. A waft of cool energy shimmered around it before disappearing altogether. The blue blade reverberated in front of the snickering cat as Anakin grabbed him by the collar, bringing the prisoner closer to his face.

"My, my, what a big blade for a little boy." The Zygerrian jeered, laughing becoming painful as he braced his broken ribs. "Too bad you'll never really know how to use it."

"Just give me some information on the Buyer and I'll leave you to your worthless existence." Anakin spoke through gritted teeth, pulling the cat closer. "Where do I find him, slaverscum!?"

"The Violet Kibo, if you're smart, that's where you'll start." He growled between pain filled breaths. “Lower level night club.”

Releasing the Zygerrian, Anakin sheathed his saber and made for the detention doors.

"Word of advice, pretty boy." The Zygerrian's strained voice called. Anakin stopped at the steps. "Lose the robes. The Dolls are much too smart to loose their lips over a little warlock."

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The Violet Kibo was truly no Outlander.

Settled at a busy corner between what could only be an adult holofilm shop and the most over-stocked market store, the purple lights framed the darkened doorway where patrons shuffled leisurely in and out. A heavy beat of the bass line echoed from within the club like a heartbeat that beckoned. Scheduled rain hazed the streets and beaded over the hooded coat Anakin had acquired from the Temple Archives. Leaning against a nearby data box, he glared through the drooping neon flower stamped over the doorway to the floors above it. Eight total. There must be a way to covertly enter. I could easily break into the third window on the fourth floor. Jump up and smash the window in with the hilt of – Anakin’s mind came to a halt. Obi-wan had advised him against using brute force tonight. He was advised of much tonight. “I am unsure that there has been enough preparation for you to approach the club tonight,” Obi-wan warned as Anakin sought to leave for the evening. Anakin sighed in relief, remembering he had no one on coms in his ear constantly reminding him. No one to guide me either…

With a sigh, he shrugged the rain off his coat and abandoned heavy handed strategy. Anakin approached the Violet Kibo, the pulsating music resonating through the air like a siren's call as he entered the purple-hued darkness. Drunken men and giggling women glided closely past Anakin down the hall until they came to the heart of the club.

A row of two seats faced each other on either side of a small dance floor in the center of the room. Like a wave pool, tables extended outward around it, leaving a large clearing on either side. The ceiling stretched to what Anakin had previously believed was the third level of the building, with each “floor” serving as viewing balconies to the fun below and entrances to privacy rooms. The sparse lighting gave off a pale violet hue to every surface in the club except the small stage behind the bar and its tender. Similar platforms were littered throughout the club, however sensually dressed girls of all species were making quick use of them as either platforms to lie on provactively or expertly contort themselves around a silver pole – all with eager viewing and paying customers. The Dolls, Anakin thought to himself making his way toward the bar instead. Best not to get made so early in the night.

“Stars, the Eyeblaster is phenomenal!” a Mon Cala girl gushed as she pushed past the young jedi towards towards her group who no doubt were on a girl's night. “You think I could get on the platform too?!”

“Not if she wants to loose an eye.” came a velvety voice from behind the bar. 

Anakin's eyes fell on the Kiffar bartender who had now angled her hip against the bar to rest. Her golden eyes peered into his and the echoing heartbeat of the nightclub returned to his chest. Her face, which had started stern, morphed quickly into a soft smile – the black lines of her qukuuf now curving over her cheeks. “What can I get started for you, Flyboy?”

“One Eyeblaster, please.” Anakin ordered confidently as he removed his hood. 

The Kiffar woman's eyebrow raised before huffing out a small laugh, leaving Anakin in panicked confusion. “One Eyeblaster coming right up, darling.” She shrugged and turned to the bottles lining the shelves behind her. 

Flyboy, she had called him. “How did you know I'm a pilot?”

“I didn't. You just told me.” 

Anakin winced. Hadn't even been here for an hour and already blowing his own cover. 

“Don't get so ruffled.” she chided over her shoulder, long brown tresses cascading down her back with one thick braid down the middle, hands in constant motion to pour, mix, shake, and clean. “Your hands are dirty. Too dirty to be a stuffy politician or businessman but not dirty enough like the ground level mechanics who come through here on their paydays.”

Anakin brought his hands out from under his coat and saw the oil that stained his nails from earlier this morning while fiddling with the temple speeder. The bartender turned to face  him to reveal a sickly yellow drink in a dainty class with an equally dainty solarshade nestled atop it. Anakin grimaced, unable to hide his disgust. “That's the Eyeblaster?”

The tender nodded and slid the drink across the bar. Anakin groaned. Obi-wan often said undercover missions were a pain because he loathed the drinking but this seemed a cruel start.

“Don't be shy.” Her velvet voice startled him at first, then agitated him. She'd known his order was foul, and yet he'd let her distract him. He had a job tonight.

He grasped the foot of the glass as he brought the edge to his lips and tipped the drink back, eyes locked on her amused face. The liquid burned down his throat and left a sour pinch in his cheeks. He slammed the glass back down, hoping by Force the urge to gag would pass.

It didn't. The gag came as audibly as her laugh. "Damn, that's TERRIBLE!" He burst out over coughs.

"Aw, there, there, darling." She coaxed mockingly. "I'm sure I can find something more suitable for such a mighty pilot like yourself."

Anakin stifled the embarrassment as he watched her pick up a stout glass and an amber bottle. "So you must see all types coming in and out of this place?"

She nodded nonchalantly — never stopping, pouring here, a lit flame there, and drop of something blue there. "Much less than you, I'm sure."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're a freight pilot, right?" She looked up from scooping ice cubes. Anakin gruffed something like "Oh, yeah, of course. But they don't talk to me much."

That smile again, the one that pulled against those tattooed lines. "Ah yes, I often get the talkers."

Right hand rested on her hip, the other held his amber drink as her wrist twisted to swivel the drink within the glass. He saw how the black top she wore clung tightly to her chest and fully covered her right arm and hand, leaving bare and her left shoulder down. Anakin could feel his courage rebuilding, the Eyeblaster now officially in his veins. "Yeah, some of our passengers are just the worst. There was one scrawny guy going on about some 'Buyer person' who cheated him out of a game of Sabacc. So he pushed and shoved his way into the front of the craft like he owned the place! As if they don't get enough free public transport!"

There was a firm clink of the glass hitting the bar counter. The curvy Kiffar woman had both her shoulders pointed squarely towards Anakin now. "Which port did you say you docked at, Captain...?"

"Anik-Ani." choked out the padawan. Fuck. "Captain Ani. Sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"You didn't." She smiled again, left hand firmly planted on the rim on the glass. Anakin noticed how her right hand had now drifted beneath the edge of the bar. She held the glass out to him now, offering it. "Moogan Tea, darling."

Anakin could sense the way the Force seemed to shift around him, like uneven steps. Whatever he did next would be wrong. And she didn't look like someone who'd just let him leave.

He grabbed the drink with her fingers still grasped around it. A simple graze but it was enough — Anakin could feel like pieces of the Force were being unraveled within him like string and then violently shoved back in. 

"Jedi!" She hissed. A crisp line of icy blue light rounds his periphery. A simple breath and release is enough for Anakin to call his lightsaber from his hip and intercept the vibro ax barreling to his left ear. The short weapon's hilt is connected to the sure grip of a now seething bartender, her amber eyes burning into him. "If you know what's good for you, you and your religious vampires will keep that shit away from me and leave."

Her weight shifted so her entire body faced Anakin and an angry energy current rushed between them. She brought the glass forward, palm facing the front of his chest. His vision shifted sideways to see her hand a hairsbreadth from touching his skin.

"Clearly, I'm not leaving." Anakin taunts as several patrons begin to leave the bar. "But I'm not sure if you can afford to loose more this early in the night."

Frustratedly, she chucked the drink at him which he waved of with the Force and it crashed to the ground ceremoniously.

Around them the crowd remains startled, however only enough to move their leisure to the periphery of the club. "Classy place." Anakin chides. "I just need an audience with the Buyer and I'll be out of your very long hair. I came with compensation."

The bartender doesn't acknowledge the comment and sets down her vibroaxe at her side. A dulled buzz begins to fill the room as customers return to their conversations but Anakin sees how she still counts the empty tables.

With his weapons secure Anakin stands slowly and gathers himself before leaning over the bar. "I'm pretty persistent as far as Jedi's go so you either can try to kill me now in your very nice night club or hook me up with The Buyer so you can be rid of me."

"Pretty boy like you, would be such a tragedy to kill." The woman thought for a moment and sighed before activating her comlink. "GiGi, prepare a suite for a night companion."

"Certainly, doll."

"This way." Anakin swallowed thickly as he followed behind the woman who had only moments ago attempted to chop his head clean off and now began to lead him past thoroughly pleased patrons towards a passage leading to a door covered in kibo flowers. Anakin noted how the male patrons watched him with jealousy and longing as he and the bartender neared the doorway.

"So The Buyer is a Doll? One of the dancers?" Anakin surmised.

"You could say that. You just have to pay for all the bells and whistles." She opened the door to reveal a large room cushioned with couches and benches of odd shapes and seat arrangements (Anakin couldn't begin to fathom how one would sit comfortably there) surrounding a large bed. No sooner than Anakin's eyes could register the furnishings a servant droid bounced into his vision.

"Oh, please do make yourself comfortable in any seat of your choosing." The droid offered, lifting a tray. "Do you anticipate requiring more than one towelette?"

"I'm sorry —"

"GiGi, he's not here for services. You can go back to the other girls." The bartender urged the droid. "Unless you need anything else?"

"No thanks, we're fine." A confused Anakin replied, forcing himself to relax his posture and expression. GiGi scurried off to resume serving the other clients.

"Now," she started, seating herself on the edge of the bed. "We have exactly one hour of uninterrupted and unmonitored conversation — well, 35 minutes actually until you have to assist with ensuring my patrons believe I'm worth what I charge — so let's not waste each other's time.

"My name is Myyra — The Buyer. Now, what is the Jedi Council so desperate to know?"