#raevsky

[thebaroquehuman]

1877-1882 Princess Maria Grigoryevna Rayevskaya, née Gagarina - Ivan Makarov

[acupofbritishearlgrey]

Oleg Yankovsky as Raevski

'Open book' [orig.: 'Открытая книга'] (1977-1979), Episode 2, dir. Viktor Titov

[goatsandgangsters]

dominikolai ep 6 hurtcomfort pls <3

an excellent choice, my friend! I know basically every character was having A Very Stressful Time during s2, but Nikolai had like. a RIDICULOUS AMOUNT of Stressful Major Life Events crammed into what couldn’t be more than a couple days tops between The Engagement Party From Hell and showing up at Dominik’s fort in need of a GODDAMN HUG, and I'm feelings about it

The great tangled knot that had taken up residence in his chest—woven between his ribs and pulling his lungs too tight to breathe—eased with Dominik’s arms around him. He exhaled his first good breath at the familiar scratch of wool and the scent of his skin.  It didn’t last forever, the rolling tide of everything crashing back over him again. But for the first time in days—it had only been days—he felt like he could withstand the sand rushing out from below his feet.  He gave a tactical briefing to Dominik and several of his people about Kirigan’s last known location. Patterns of attack, what they could anticipate for his next move, fortifications. It kept the knot at bay, taking action, but the strings tugged tight as soon as the others were dismissed, and he and Dominik were left alone with the maps and the papers and the hollow, empty weight of it.  Nikolai adjusted the buttons of the First Army infantry coat he’d borrowed. He hadn’t changed his shirt or his waistcoat or his trousers since— “I’m not sure if word has reached you yet,” he said carefully, lifting his eyes from tracing the patterns in the flagstone. “But Raevsky was—among the fatalities.”  The brief slap of shock on Dominik’s face tug, tug, tugged, another loop woven around his ribs. Dominik swallowed and said, “Saints receive him.” 

send me a wip and I’ll give you a snippet of fic

[vorbarrsultana]

one of things that drive me insane about the grisha trilogy is the fact that nikolai consistently is a non-factor in the political calculations of both, the darkling and his father. even genya, whose job is to spy on the tsar's inner circle, is like "it's just nikolai, they call him puppy, he surprised everyone by joining the army and then left to study in kerch or something, who cares".

meanwhile nikolai in question:

was a major of the first army. a senior officer one rank away from colonel, and two ranks away from major-general!

was person no. 2 in his regiment, the one in charge of 2000+ men daily. and, considering how much colonel raevsky and his soldiers seem to love him, managed them well.

was a decorated war hero of the struggling nation perpetually at war with its neighbours.

what i mean is that there absolutely should have been the party of grand duke nikolai aleksandrovich at the court (re: the succession), opposing the party of tsarevich vasily, the official heir. the people who want him to be ravka's next tsar, bastardy allegations be damned for the good of the country.

it could have been such an easy way to explain why nikolai was exiled sent to study abroad — his military record would have made him too popular compared to his brother. and it could have explained why nikolai is so sure of himself in siege & storm: he already has his own political party, and alina throwing her support behind him simply completes the puzzle.

also, when tatiana called nikolai "puppy" in ruin &rising, i was like. m'am, hate to break the news to you, but your cute puppy hasn't been that for the last five or so years. by now he is actually a wolfhound with very long and very sharp teeth.

(very much not the point of that post, but when i find time to work on my pre-canon!darkolai fic series, i usually imagine the ravkan political landscape before alina as "the army party" (nikolai, the darkling, senior officers of both armies + probably some diplomats, who also see what's going on with shu-han and fjerda) vs "the court party". by the shadow & bone events, the first splits into nikolai's moderates & aleksander's radicals, and the latter became irrelevant after vasily's death.)

[happyhauntt]

stay, i pray you — nikolai lantsov.

series masterlist | writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: nikolai has a decision to make. anya makes it for him.

─── pairing: nikolai lantsov & anya kamenev (original character.)

─── warnings: takes place during seige & storm just after sturmhond reveals himself to be nikolai. angst, hurt/no comfort, pre-established relationship. this one's gonna hurt.

─── word count: 2.1k.

     "I've had an idea."

     The military encampment at Kribirsk is as familiar to Anya as the freckles on Nikolai's nose, the garden of her father's estate, the brittle ache of her injured knee. Crashing the Hummingbird had not been part of the plan — and her body had certainly not appreciated the impromptu swim in the nearby lake — but the First Army officers had recognised her and Nikolai, affording them all the honours of their stations and escorting them to the commander's tent.

     Anya hadn't felt all that comfortable with it. She may have been Lieutenant Corporal before her discharge, but it has become increasingly difficult to love the army that raised her while it serves the country that abandoned her. General Raevsky had once been her commanding officer. She and Nikolai had served under him on the northern border, oh, how many years ago now?

They'd both been green as grass, infantry grunts who'd never handled a rifle, never fired a shot or seen a battlefield begin to bleed. Raevsky greeted her like an old friend when they stumbled onto shore, asked how she was fairing as if he hadn't seen her only a few months ago, before she helped the Sun Summoner flee Ravka by smuggling her onto a ship bound for Novyi Zem.

     The tent Anya finds herself in is small but serviceable, with clean, fresh clothes laid out on the bed and a small plate of food waiting on the table. Nikolai disappeared shortly after their arrival, most likely to offer up an explanation to the commanders, but when he finally reappears, he finds Anya combing out the knots of her damp hair with her fingers, changed into a clean, loose shirt and army-issue trousers. She feels as if she never left the army and the thought makes her nauseous.

     "You have an idea?" She raises an eyebrow at him as he steps tentatively inside, allowing the tent flap to fall closed behind him. A playful smirk dances over her face. "Given that your last idea sent us crash-landing into a lake, I must admit I feel a little apprehensive."

     He huffs at her, an almost-chuckle that sends alarm bells ringing in her mind. A jibe like that would usually send him on a ranting spiral, fussing all about how his invention hadn’t been the reason they crashed and had, actually, worked exactly as intended for the majority of their journey.

     Teasing him is easy, and the way he smiles when she does sends warmth pouring through her. Seeing him so subdued is… troubling, to say the least. He hangs up his sword and crosses the tent to perch on the edge of her bed. His eyes remain fixed on the floor the whole time.

     Kneeling in front of him, she allows her fingers to graze over the bruise blossoming on his cheek. His eyes fall closed for a moment. "She really got you, didn't she? Our dear Sun Summoner has a mean right hook."

     "Believe me, I know. Scrappy little thing." Nikolai flexes his jaw and opens his eyes, and all once, Anya knows. It's written in the tiny lines between his brows and the quirk of his mouth and the ache in his eyes.

     "What is it?" she murmurs. Her fingers linger on his face, and he leans into the warmth of her, just slightly. Her knee protests, but she doesn't dare try to stand up. "What's happened?"

     He swallows roughly. "I've told you before, haven't I, about coming back here and helping Ravka. About fixing it before it's too late."

     Whispered conversations in a dimly-lit cabin flutter through her mind. Wishes pressed against her skin with kisses, hopes and dreams caught up in a lover's embrace. I could be better than Vasily, he'd said, and she had believed that, the way she believed the sun would rise in the morning. I could save Ravka.

     She hadn't told him the truth, then. She'd taken his dreams and folded them up into her own chest, to keep safe beside her heart, but she hadn't wanted it the way he did. Anya would sooner see Ravka burn. She cannot bring herself to feel mercy, not where this Saints-forsaken country is concerned. Not after it abandoned her when she needed it most.

     Now, she nods. A damp tendril of hair falls past her eyes. "I remember. You said you... you would find a way to convince Vasily to step aside, and your father would make you the heir. But it wasn't a plan. You said you didn't know how you'd do it, yet. Just that you wished you could."

     She may never forget it. The panic that struck her, bone-deep. The way his ambitions have haunted her ever since. He may not have known it then, but a ticking clock had been set that day. Anya never knew when their time would run out. Only that she would never be ready for it.

     He smiles, now. A rueful thing. There is no need to hide with her, no need to put on that winsome devil-may-care act he wears like armour. She is not a politician he can sway to his side, nor a danger he can charm his way out of, and yet he smiles at her. She is so beautiful, and soft, and she's not wearing her armour, either. Not here, not with him. There is nothing to smile about, and in a few moments it will all be different, but right now she is his, so he has to smile. He has to.

     He may weep, otherwise.

     "Kolya." Her voice is so quiet, barely more than a whisper, and he is so sure that she knows, already, without him having to breathe a word.

     His throat goes horribly tight, an invisible hand wrapped tight around his windpipe, as if that will stop his confession. His eyes flit to the roof for a moment. They start to sting.

     "Alina's power is the key to Ravka's survival," he says. Every word feels like lead on his tongue. "The Apparat has turned her into a living Saint, and the people love her. If I'm to make a bid for the throne and convince Vasily to step aside, it can't just be that I'm the best man for the job. That won't matter. But an alliance with the Sun Summoner might sway the odds in my favour."

     Anya watches him for a long moment. He holds his breath as time stretches, and eternity seems to pass before she even blinks. She withdraws her hand, allowing it to rest lightly on his thigh. The absence of her touch lingering in his face burns like a fresh bullet wound.

     He wonders if you can die from missing someone who hasn't gone anywhere yet.

     "An alliance with Alina." Anya narrows her eyes as the pieces click together in her mind." You mean—"

     "I'm going to ask her to marry me." His throat feels rough as sandpaper. "A political marriage, in name only. The game has changed and Alina is the only one who can level the playing field."

     He keeps talking, but Anya can hardly hear him. Her brain began to buzz with white noise the moment she heard the word marriage, as if her skull is home to a thousand angry wasps and someone suddenly decided to shake the nest. She can feel her blood rushing in her ears, her heartbeat thudding in her throat, but she doesn't dare give herself away.

     Anya Kamenev is a soldier, but she is also a future duchess. Her mother would be proud to learn that all those etiquette lessons didn't go to waste. Summoning a decade of training, her old governess' instructions rattling through her mind, her face remains delicate and empty. Not a muscle twitch or a quiver of her lip, not a hint of sorrow flashing in her eyes. She might as well be carved from marble. Her heart sits in her chest like a stone.

     "Nastya." The nickname he gave her in their army days is salt in an open wound. Nikolai reaches for her, grasps her hands in his as if she is all that can anchor him to this world. "I don't know what to do."

     "Of course you do." Somehow her voice is gentle, even though she feels jagged at the edges, like touching her might make him bleed. An instinct tugs at her, to curl her fingers around his own and hold him just as tight, but she can't bring herself to move. "You wouldn't bring it up to me if you hadn't already thought it through. You're a clever man, Nikolai. The cleverest I know, and don't let that go to your head. You know what you have to do now. You just want my permission to do it."

     Is it crueller, somehow, to ask for permission? To hand over her heart, and the knife too, as if that will make it hurt less when he carves it from her chest?

     A wet laugh bubbles out of him. "Trust you to keep my ego in check even now, Anya."

     "Someone has to," she says. She heaves herself into a standing position, wincing as her knee cracks and tiny bolts of lightning spike up her leg. "Although I think Alina will do a brilliant job. I don't mind handing over that responsibility to her."

     "Don't." Nikolai is on his feet in a moment. One hand remains in hers, his grip tight as a vice, but the other curls around the back of her neck. His thumb brushes softly over her cheek. The warmth of it makes her shudder. "Don't say that like you're going anywhere. I'm not sure I can do any of this without you."

     "Of course you can," Anya murmurs. Saints, she isn't sure the torture she endured at the hands of Shu Han's scientists hurt this much. If she closes her eyes, she can almost believe he's taken a blade and gutted her right here, like a fish on the deck of his ship.

     A ragged breath tears out of him as he says, "Alright, perhaps I can. But I don't want to."

     When he kisses her, it doesn't feel like a kiss goodbye. It doesn't feel like their last kiss in a thousand. There's a ferocity to him as he clutches her, teeth clashing, but that doesn't change the truth of it. He can hold her as tightly as he wants, but they both know she has always been smoke in his hands.

     “I would give you anything,” he says against her mouth, pressed together like hands in prayer. She feels his breath stutter against her tongue, hitched with a sob he will not set free. “Name it. Palaces and jewels, the moon, a temple built in your name, the heads of every man who ever harmed you served on a silver platter. Name it and it’s yours. Just stay.”

     Your heart. The tear slides down her cheek unbidden, and he kisses it away as he has done a thousand times before. She catches his lips with her own and kisses him again, fingers tangled in tendrils of his hair, still rough with saltwater no matter how many times he washes it. Your heart, your hand, a life with you away from this Saints-forsaken country.

     She’ll stay. She will, because Anya is a soldier, and though she no longer has any loyalty to Ravka, she still believes in him. And there is no pain in the world that could hurt more than abandoning him now, no matter how much she wishes she could.

     “Anything.” His voice, barely a whisper, a plea to those forgotten saints who have never seen fit to bestow a miracle upon them. “Anything, my darling.”

     He sinks to his knees before her, presses his forehead to her stomach. She leans and kisses the crown of his scalp, lingering a moment to breathe in the salt and sea of him. Ravka will never know how lucky it is to have a prince so loyal. She doesn’t know what they’d done to earn such devotion.

     “I know.” Despite the tears, her voice is deceptively still. Your heart. But he had already sworn it to his country, long before he ever loved her. “I want the same as you, Nikolai; peace and prosperity for Ravka.”

     He snorts against her stomach. His arms wrap tightly around her middle. “Liar.”

     “Always.” Pushing him away would not be the worst torture she has endured, but she worries it will scar her far longer than any blade could.

[ricardian-werewolf]

Chapter 10: The Show Must Go On!

Summary: Nikolai is faced with a conundrum in the leadership of his beloved Ravka, and Alina comes to him in the night needing more support than either Genya or Zoya can provide. Things escalate quite a bit. taglist: @lordbettany, @malkaleh, @fauxraven

Chapter below the cut

Kirbirsk, First Army Encampment, 3 days later.

Nikolai’s fingers clasped tight around the tin mug of coffee Isaak had handed him hours ago.

With it having gone cold, he found his fingers frozen stiff with the reality of riding for three straight days from the north of Ravka to its western edge. Standing as he did now, he found his toes cracking and popping inside the prison of his knitted socks. It was warmer here, frightfully so, and Nikolai had been quick to remove his scarf and goggles in succession. They were tossed carelessly along with his jacket over the back of his chair. Staring up at him, brows furrowed, was Colonel Raevsky of the 22nd Regiment. On Dominik’s orders, he’d been informed that Nikolai was following the Black General’s convoy. He had been told also, in stilted code, that the Sun Summoner was here.

Raevsky regarded him with a raised brow. 

“What do you intend to do, Major?” He asked, crossing his arms. Nikolai sipped his coffee, grimaced, and ran his hands over the mug to strengthen the metal. Placing it on the rim of the oil lamp at his elbow, he turned back to the colonel. It would be easy for him to say that he intended to lead the First Army into the Fold in a victorious charge a la the Light Brigade, but that would be a tactical disaster.

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!” he said.

Into the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

He knew, from Dominik and Isaak, that First Army’s entire 24 regiments had been sent from their forts and posts to witness this miracle. However, the need for First Army to be there to witness the actions of such a man as the Darkling confused Nikolai. He knew that the Apparat had helped the Darkling take the throne from his father - Genya’s poison had worked too well.

Good riddance.

But Vasily was hardly the man to lead Ravka. Too many of his father’s ministers would use the power vacuum to seize ownership and legitimacy where they would have none under Nikolai’s rule. For that matter, the idea of Vasily leading his cavalry regiment to witness Alina’s saintly coronation frightened him. She was something far too precious, far too unique to be drowned in the mire and muck of court rule in the hands of the older generation. Nikolai found himself gnawing at his thumb cuticle as he thought all of this over, and flexed his free hand worriedly.

“What would you suggest?” Nikolai threw back, worry creasing his brows. He turned to his coffee and sipped it, relishing in the warmth. Colonel Raevsky glanced over his papers, shifting a few of them across his desk. He unfolded several tactical maps of the Unsea and its markers. Neither man knew what the Darkling planned, and it frightened both of them. “The other regimental leaders are assuming that whatever the General has planned, it’s a diversionary tactic. With our Tsar in such poor health, the cabinet has moved to speak with the war Ministry on whether to take up martial law or not.”

“Martial law?” The cup of coffee fell from Nikolai’s fingers with a clatter , and he cursed. “Has the ministry been informed of this happening-” He waved his hand outside at the general setting up of the second army’s tents in the one space set aside for them.  “Was my brother told?”

“Of course.” Raevsky’s moustache quivered as he huffed in evident displeasure over the coffee staining his ottoman rug. Nikolai gave him a dark glare. “And he elected to mention that he wished to delay any sort of troop movement until his father was in better health.” 

“For fuck’s sake!” Nikolai ground his teeth. “And-”

“As a result.” Raevsky pressed on, ignoring Nikolai’s curse. He shifted some more files on his desk and then held out a manilla folder stamped with the ministry’s seal. Printed in bold cyrillic across the top were the words: PRIVATE. FOR PRINCE NIKOLAI’S EYES ONLY.

Nikolai’s brows furrowed once again as he lifted the seal’s edge with a penknife and tore open the file. Staring him clearly in the face was a piece of blue carbon papers with more typed words, and a TOP SECRET stamped in the right hand corner. His hands began to tremble as he realised just what he was holding. In the case of the heir being unable to work proactively with the war ministry in place of the Tsar, the ministry had the ability to hand the power of rulership to any of the Tsar’s other sons.

Even if they were a bastard.

Nikolai chewed at his lower lip and began to sift through the files. The papers discussed what would happen in terms of military structure, absorption of Second Army under the crown’s rule in case of the Darkling’s uprising - which had happened! - and who would be punished. Nikolai winced at the thought of having to execute these orders, and turned his head to look out the tent flap. Sparing only a few of them would mean that First Army would bay for blood. The fragile and strained relationship between the two armies could be his undoing. But his going after the Grisha would alienate Alina from him perhaps forever. Nikolai ran a hand through his curls.

“When’s this meeting?”

“So you accept?” Raevsky muttered. “Good.” His eyes brightened, and he slid a box toward Nikolai. Nikolai’s pulse thundered in his ears as his gaze shifted to the box. The Tsar’s rule was legitimised by both the crown on his head, but the coronation ring. Where the Lantsov Emerald was the Tsarina’s ring, the Alta Ruby would go only on the Tsar’s finger. Nikolai’s fingers twitched. 

“It’s not like Vasily to not claim power when it’s given to him.” He said aloud suddenly, quickly snapping the file shut and winding the ribbon around it. Fear made him uneasy, and the reality of such a heavy burden on his shoulders caused him to pause. Looking at Raevsky, Nikolai sighed. He needed verbal confirmation that what was happening was the truth. He’d been hunted, shot, nearly died twice, and all to protect Alina from the Darkling. Now power was being handed to him on a silver platter, and he was expected merely to scrape and bow and say yes to the massacre of people who may have allied themselves with a monster who went against the crown? All in order to protect them? Nikolai twitched again.

“His Highness is not in much order to do anything .” Raevsky replied dismissively. “He has abandoned the capital for the fields of-”

Careyeva. Where he goes, as is his veteran’s right - despite seeing no action - to drown out his memories. If only he knew a mere scrap of what the horrors of war can appear as.

Nikolai’s thoughts churned with all the anger of a tempestuous sea, and he glanced down at the box again. He could slip that ring onto his finger, take control of First Army, and go toe to toe with his brother. Rain down hellfire and fury. But the Grisha who had been so effortlessly persecuted even without Fjerdan propaganda seeping into their states like rot, there was still danger. Ravka had only recently become better. If he did not take control of First Army, steer her toward the shore of the nation over the people, he would be no better than his father!

“I’ll do it.” 

The words fluttered from Nikolai’s mouth and he stiffened, feeling at once that uncanny dissonance between his mind and body that he hated with all of his heart. He stopped, and glanced down at the ring again. Before his mind could catch up to his body, Nikolai flipped the lid on the red velvet jewel box open and stared down at the Alta Ruby. Men of lesser spirit than him had worn this ring and died wearing it. They’d made Ravka into what she was in this day, yet also doomed Fortuna's wheel to spin ever onwards. 

He’d break the wheel.

Let his false father and mother see what their adopted, feckless, second son could do with Ravka under his control. This ceaseless war against Fjerda would end. The Fold would be torn to pieces, cast out with Alina’s holy light. The Apparat wished to venerate her? He’d have to do so from the very depths of hell where Nikolai knew, he would one day bring that monster to.

Nikolai flexed his hand, feeling the bite of the gold band of the Tsar’s ring dig into his flesh. Raising a brow, he met Raevsky’s gaze again, and gave the man a hint of a smile. He glanced over his shoulder to the huddled tents surrounding the largest camp on this side of the Fold, and then turned his head back. Protocols would need to be followed, and he needed new heraldry if the crown was to be his. Nikolai rolled his shoulders back, tucked the manilla envelope under his arm, and reached for his kepi.

“Tell the men by the morning.” He ordered, and turned to leave. 

“Yes, Moi Tsar .” Raevsky murmured, bowing his head. Nikolai smiled softly, and left as rapidly as he could. Crossing the expanse of packed earth to his tent, Nikolai watched the soldiers still not yet abed smoke and play cards. Some, he knew, found solace in the whorehouses scattered like small satellites near the edges of the once sleeping town of Kirbirsk, near the single chapel with its blue onion domes and gold crosses. It had been here he had made his first Fold crossing at 17, weeks after saving Dominik from the jaws of death. It had been here that he’d been posted before crossing once again to head back to Os Kervo and the Volkvolny. 

Here, had been Alina.

Now, as he raised his head and looked across the sea of canvas tents to the Grisha pavilion with the massive, ink-black tent and the smaller tents hosting the other Grisha orders, Nikolai shivered. The darkness inside him, the shadow summoner he was by birth and from the Darkling’s magic with the stag, writhed . It wanted Alina close. It wanted her safe, free from the Darkling’s corrosive and controlling grasp. Nikolai turned his head away from the pavilion. However, as he did, he felt the darkness within him perk up. Turning back, he saw the tent flaps part and a familiar, little form creep out. Clad in a jet black cape with gold sunburst embroidery and her hair braided, Alina crossed down the set of rickety wooden steps and crept through the camp. The wind tugged at her braid, sending strands flying every which way. She looked sicklier than ever, which caused Nikolai’s heart to tug in his chest. He stopped in his tracks, and then crept closer.

“Alina.” He breathed, watching her turn. In the half light cast by the flicker of an oil lamp, she looked like a saint sent to this place to either redeem his soul, or cast it into darkness. She stared at him a moment more, and then began fumbling with her cape’s hooks. As she unclasped it, he saw not the black and gold kefta of the winter fete, but a milk-white nightgown, simple and unadorned. She gave a weak smile, and shivered. The cold air sliced through her like a knife, and she drew the cape more tightly around her shoulders.

“Come on.” Nikolai murmured, gently throwing his arm around her. With not even a whisper of protest, he helped her toward his tent. Flipping the flaps back, he nudged her inside. Once more, to his eyes, the ornate and redundant heavy tapestries kept the light filtering in at only a weak trickle. The warm Fjerdan pelts were thrown on his set of armchairs upholstered in rich emerald velvet, between which stood an ice cold samovar. With Isaak retired for the night, Nikolai had let things slide a little in his absence. He busied himself with making tea as Alina let her cape drop to the floor in a puddle of ink-black silk and corecloth. Unknown to her, light wreathed her skin and caused her body to glow much in the way fireflies did. She examined the tapestries hanging on the walls of his tent with gentle, prodding fingers. Silence hung over them, crowding in at the edges much like the shadows that pooled about in the tent’s far corners. Nikolai examined his bundle of leaves and let them set about steeping. Raising his head again, he caught Alina’s gaze stuck on the tapestry he ’ d commissioned - the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, cursed to wander eternally through the underworld until the lord of death would be kind enough to let Orpheus guide his lover from the cold and dark of the world below. He had honestly no idea why at the time he’d commissioned it. The artist, while an excellent weaver, had given Eurydice white hair and a gold gown.

For saint’s sake, Orpheus wasn’t blonde either.

Nikolai shrugged and returned to his tea making, while Alina cocked her head to one side.

“Who are they?” She asked, tapping the tapestry he’d just been examining. Nikolai sniffed, and finally seated himself on one of the two armchairs. His fingers dipped into the drawer of the samovar’s table, and he began fiddling with the bag of gears he’d been working on the day he’d been sent to take Alina east. 

“Orpheus and Eurydice.” He replied, finally.

Alina raised a brow. “I didn’t learn Greek myths.” She answered, and crossed her arms. In this low light, the white of her nightgown made her look more ghostly than mortal. Nikolai sighed, and returned to his tinkering. 

“Orpheus was a mortal man who, given a lyre by Apollo that made it impossible for man nor beast to resist his music, fell in love with a woman named Eurydice. They were both very happily married, until one day Eurydice was dancing with a group of Nymphs, got bitten by a snake and died instantly.”

Nikolai paused in his tinkering to fish out two tea glasses, and made Alina a cup of tea exactly as she liked it - a splash of milk and a hint of sugar. Alina accepted the glass and sipped it wanly, scrunching up her nose. “Sorry.” She apologised quickly. “I’ve been struggling with food… lately.” She winced and scratched the back of her neck. “My powers…” She gestured weakly to the antlers sticking from her skin, and pressed her knuckles to her lips. 

“Fucking hell.” She added shortly. “I think…” Tears blossomed in her eyes. “Either I’ll make it through whatever the Darkling’s planned for our wretched little crossing tomorrow, or I’ll die tonight. I’ve still not decided.”

She looked at him then, her eyes dark and wide with an animalistic fear - the kind of glance a creature caught in a trap gave its potential saviour. Nikolai’s brows furrowed and he placed the glass of tea in his hand down onto the table. Standing up, he coaxed the glass from her hand and found that her palm was bleeding from the jagged edges of her grip. 

“Alina…” He breathed, touching her cheek. “Why didn’t you have Zoya or Genya tell me…?”

“They didn’t know!” Alina burst out, closing her wounded fingers into fists. She ducked her head and looked down at the rug and rush strewn floor. “I didn’t want them to know. I didn’t…” She broke off again, and pressed her hands to her temples. Blood dribbled down her cheek, and she curled inwards on herself, pressing her chin to her chest.

“I can’t be what you need.” She breathed. “I can’t be what anyone needs.” With all the effort of a dam breaking, Alina’s legs wobbled and she collapsed. Nikolai’s hands reached out and grasped her tight, one hand snaking up into her hair while the other steadied her back. Pressing her face into his shoulder, Nikolai ran his fingers through her curls as Alina sobbed without remorse. They were the kind of sobs that wracked her entire body and frame, with the sick gasps of someone pushed too far over the edge into the dark. Nikolai merely held her tight and ran his hands through her hair. He could do little else, even as his heart tore and cracked under the strain of his lover’s pain.

Oh yes. He thought, brushing his lips against the crown of Alina’s head. I love her. I love her with all of the fire and fury this world has to possess, and I would destroy myself for her.

“You are exactly what I need. You always have been.” He murmured against the shell of her ear, tucking himself to be partially coiled around her. Nothing would touch her as long as he was here. “And for what anyone else needs?” He tilted her chin up, glancing down into those fathomless depths of the rich earthen brown of her eyes, and smiled.

“Fuck them. They don’t need you. They don’t deserve you.” He breathed. “The Darkling wishes to make you his Saint, the Apparat his martyr, my father his little ornament. But you are none of those things, sunshine . And you never will be, unless you wish it so.”

Alina hiccuped, and sniffled.

“You say that, and yet…” Her hand snaked up to the antlers, smearing her blood across the surface. She glanced at him again with those widened eyes, and Nikolai sighed, gently reaching for her hand. He pressed his lips to the bloodied skin, and Alina’s eyes widened, but she did not pull back.

“Yet, you are still wounded. Still someone else’s.” His hands dropped from hers and reached up to the antlers. His fingers skimmed the chilled bone, searching for a hinge, a catch. But David’s work was seamless.

“But this will not be your shackle for long, sweetheart.”

Alina swallowed and looked at him long and hard.

“How can you be so bloody sure?” She whispered.

“Morozova made more than one amplifier. There is another.” He lifted her hand and pressed his thumb and second finger around the expanse of her wrist, which made Alina’s skin prickle with gooseflesh, albeit welcome. “The Darkling contracted a notorious privateer to find it.” His expression was turning wickedly charming, and Alina felt her heart skip in her chest.

“You…?” She whispered.

“Who else?” He murmured, touching her cheek again. “Come west with me, Alina. Leave Ravka behind. As a member of my crew, you would be honoured. Be amongst fellows such as yourself. Grisha. Orphans. Outcasts . We could put a head start on the Darkling, get the sea whip before he even thinks to follow you. Return to Ravka, and…” His ringed hand cupped her other cheek, and she felt the cold sting of the gold. 

“...Claim the throne of Ravka. There are two thrones on that dias. Think of it, Alina. Us, ruling, justly and fairly. Two outcasts made into the most powerful people of Ravka. Our dynasty would be eternal. Endless.”

Alina’s eyes widened. She could see it as easily as he described it. And, for the first time in her short life, she didn’t feel fear about such a momentous change. It felt right . Welcome, like she’d felt when she’d figured out how to call the light willingly. Now, she would be stronger than what even the Darkling could offer. He’d called her his Queen, yes, but that had been in a place of subservience. Now, it was an equal partnership being laid at her feet.

“Yes.” Alina breathed, her eyes widening. Without thinking, she brushed her lips against Nikolai’s in a chaste kiss, and pulled back, shock colouring her cheeks. The look Nikolai gave here was devilish, sinful. With a smirk, he cupped her cheeks once more and brought his lips down upon hers. The crash of his cracked lips against her raw ones was not unwelcome, and she smelt his scent of brandy and sea salt against her nostrils as his lips melded effortlessly against hers. Distantly, she felt him pull back, only to lay open-mouthed kisses down the expanse of her throat. His fingers pushed aside the buttons of her foppish and conservative nightgown’s collar, and she heard his voice softly murmur something.

“Tell me to stop.” He breathed.

“Don’t.” She replied. This was all moving so fast, so suddenly. But unlike with the Darkling, who had been all take with nothing given back, this was warm and welcoming. Nikolai gave and ensured none of her was left wanting. She felt his hands skim down her back, lifting her, and her head lolled back. Her hands skimmed up the back of his tunic and fisted in the seams of his shoulders as they fitted together. The height made for some awkwardness, but Alina’s back was soon sinking into the expanse of the featherbed mattress topping Nikolai’s cot.

She quickly lost herself to the passion of the moment, and when bliss came, it was as welcome and filling as she had always read about in the stories Ana Kuya had told her were for older girls. But, as Alina lay tucked against Nikolai’s chest, his arm over her stomach and lips pressed into her shoulder, she realised that this was what love was about. The horrors of the world were far easier to handle when one was given the rock solid support of a lover. 

Which, Alina knew as she drifted off into that calm and endless post coital bliss, she had with her fox prince. 

End of chapter 10.

[stromuprisahat]

An older man broke through the lines, wheeling his horse around to confront Sturmhond. With a start, I recognized Colonel Raevsky, the commander of the military encampment at Kribirsk. Had we crashed so close to town? Was that how the soldiers had gotten here so quickly? “Explain yourself, boy!” the colonel commanded. “State your name and business before I have you stripped of that uniform and strung up from a high tree.” Sturmhond seemed unconcerned. When he spoke, his voice had a quality I’d never heard in it before. “I am Nikolai Lantsov, Major of the Twenty-Second Regiment, Soldier of the King’s Army, Grand Duke of Udova, and second son to His Most Royal Majesty, King Alexander the Third, Ruler of the Double Eagle Throne, may his life and reign be long.” My jaw dropped. Shock passed like a wave through the row of soldiers. A nervous titter rose from somewhere in the ranks. I didn’t know what joke this madman thought he was making, but Raevsky did not look amused. He leapt from his horse, tossing the reins to a soldier. “You listen to me, you disrespectful whelp,” he said, his hand already on the hilt of his sword, his weathered features set in lines of fury as he strode directly up to Sturmhond. “Nikolai Lantsov served under me on the northern border and…” His voice faded away. He was nose to nose with the privateer now, but Sturmhond did not blink. The colonel opened his mouth, then closed it. He took a step back and scanned Sturmhond’s face. I watched his expression change from scorn to disbelief to what could only be recognition. Abruptly, he dropped to one knee and bent his head. “Forgive me, moi tsarevich,” he said, gaze trained on the ground before him. “Welcome home.” The soldiers exchanged confused glances. Sturmhond turned a cold and expectant eye on them. He radiated command. A pulse seemed to pass through the ranks. Then, one by one, they slipped from their horses and dropped to their knees, heads bent.

Siege and Storm- Chapter 8 (Leigh Bardugo)

Someone knows how to make an entrance!

I want to see him and Aleksander trying to outdo one another with their dramatic performances, then violently make out, when they're unable to agree which one did it better.

[eremaleksein]

Memorial to the Founders of Novorossiysk / Event

(Мемориал основателям Новороссийска / Событие)

Date: 12.08.2022

Founders of Novorossiysk N.N. Raevsky, M.P. Lazarev, L.M. Serebryakov. In 1838, on September 12, the navy under the leadership of Rear Admiral L.M. Serebryakov, Vice Admiral M.P. Lazarev and Lieutenant General N.N. Raevsky arrived to carry out the seizure. The unprepared Turks were defeated. After the capture, it was decided to build a fortress. In 1839, construction was completed and the fortification was given the name “Novorossiysk”.

(Основатели Новороссийска Н.Н. Раевский, М.П. Лазарев, Л.М. Серебряков. В 1838 году 12 сентября морской флот под руководством контр-адмирала Л.М. Серебрякова, вице-адмирала М.П. Лазарева и генерал-лейтенанта Н.Н. Раевского прибыл для захвата. Неподготовленные турки были повержены. После захвата, было решено построить крепость. В 1839 году строител��ство было завершено и укреплению присвоено название «Новороссийск».)

[monkeyssalad-blog]

Elisabeth-Louise Vigée-Lebrun - Portrait of Aglaé Angélique Gabrielle (1787-1842) by Pau NG Via Flickr: Elisabeth-Louise Vigée-Lebrun - Portrait of Aglaé Angélique Gabrielle (1787-1842) In July of 1789, in the wake of the fall of the Bastille, Aglaé Angélique Gabrielle’s mother (the Duchesse de Guiche), grandmother (the Duchesse de Polignac) and some of the most unpopular members of Queen Marie Antoinette’s entourage fled France in the first wave of the Émigration. For almost twenty years, they led a peripatetic existence in European countries that had not been invaded by French troops. Aglaé Angelique followed her mother from country to country in search of a haven, finally ending up in Latvia and Russia. In August of 1804 she was living in Mittau (Jelgava), where the exiled Bourbon King Louis XVIII and members of his court, which included the Duchesse de Guiche, were in residence. There the girl married an officer in the Imperial Russian army, the somewhat older Colonel Aleksandr Lvovich Davydov (1773-1833).1 The groom was one of the sons of Lev Denisovich Davydov (1743-1801) and his wife, the prodigiously wealthy Ekaterina Nicolaievna Samoïlova (1755-1825), a niece of Potemkine and a sister of Count Aleksandr Nikolaevich Samoïlov, whose wife and children sat to Vigée Le Brun for a full-length portrait now in the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg. Davydov’s half-brother was General Nikolaï Nikolaevich Raevski. Aglaé Angélique and her husband had three children: Ekaterina Aleksandrovna (1806-1882), who in 1826 married Ernest de Cadoine, Marquis de Gabriac (1792-1865); Adel Aleksandrovna Davydova (1810-1881), who eventually became a nun in the convent of the Trinità dei Monti in Rome; and Vladimir Aleksandrovich Davydov (1816-1886), who also became an officer in the Russian army. Aleksandr Davydov took part in campaigns against Napoleon’s army and was present at Austerlitz (1805) and on battlefields in Poland and Finland (1807-1809). During the Campaign of 1812 he served at Winkovo, Maloiaroslavets, Viazma and Kraznoi. The following year he lead the troops under his command at the Battles of Lutzen, Bautzen, Dresden and Kulm. When France was invaded in 1814, Aleksandr Lvovich was assigned to Bar-sur-Aube, Troyes, Arcis-sur-Aube, Fère-Champenoise and Paris. He was promoted to the rank of major general in mid-June of 1815. After the Napoleonic wars had come to an end, Aglaé and Aleksandr Davydov spent considerable time with their children and other members of the Davydov-Raevski clan on their vast Ukrainian estate of Kamenka the Caucasus near Kiev, a center of the secret Green Lamp society whose membership was conspiring against some of the worst excesses of the czarist regime in their homeland, among them the system of serfdom, the Turkish domination of Greece and antisemitism. Aglaé Gabrielle de Gramont and her husband formed an odd couple. While she was svelte and physically attractive, he was a giant of a man, tall and monstrously overweight. In the course of her marriage, the flirtatious Aglaia Antonovna Davydova was a notoriously unfaithful wife. Russia’s greatest poet Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin (fig. 1) was a friend of the Davydovs and a guest at Kamenka in late 1820. It was at this time that Pushkin was writing A Prisoner in the Caucasus, in which he gave vent to his liberal convictions. The writer, who was stationed as a translator with the army in the nearby Moldavian town of Kishinev, fell under the spell of both Aglaé (Aglaia) and her twelve-year old daughter Adel Aleksandrovna. Henri Troyat, Pushkin’s biographer, wrote of the general’s ravenous appetite for food and drink. He cites Pushkin: “Alexander Lvovich was a second Falstaff : gourmand, cowardly, a braggart but no fool, totally devoid of principles, full of self-pity, and obese. He had one distinctive feature, however, which gave him added charm: He was married. Shakespeare never had time to marry of his bachelor, and Falstaff died without knowing the joys of cuckoldom or fatherhood. In Eugene Onegin Pushkin wrote of A magnificent cuckold [an allusion to A.L. Davydov], Ever content with his person, His dinner, and his wife. (…) Repelled by serious manhood, Pushkin fell back on frivolous femininity. “Much champagne, few women…” True, there were not many women at Kamenka. But Mrs. Davydov, the “magnificent cuckold’s” wife, was as good as a harem. The fair Aglaia was born de Gramont; she was French, and thirty years old. She had a plump face, a pert nose, a soft and velvety mouth, a downy bosom. Her grace, her wantonness, her eternal coquetry turned the head of every general and cornet who came to the Kamenka estate. Aglaia was happy only when she was in the center of a ring of admirers, and there was always someone around to admire her. Pushkin himself fell in with the custom of the house and paid court to the pretty Frenchwoman, out of habit and because he had nothing better to do. But she wanted to play the romantic heroine in the grand manner, and the poet, frightened by her intensity, beat a hasty retreat before obtaining anything more from her than smiles and a brush of the lips. These flutterings with fat Alexander’s wife irritated Pushkin, and he relieved himself by composing epigrams [in “To My Promiscuous Aglaia” he quipped]: Some have had my Aglaia For their mustache and braided coat, Some for money—that I understand; Or because they were French. Leo was no doubt impressive, Daphnis sang so well; But tell me, my Aglaia, what Your busband had you for? Pushkin sent this epigram to his brother with the comment: “For the love of Christ, don’t let it get around. Every word of it is truth.” In another epigram, he preached restraint to the eager Aglaia: Let us leave impassioned fevers… (Our day is drawing to a close) You, my dear, to your oldest girl [sic, meaning Adel Aleksandrovna], And I to my young brother… Pushkin’s allusion to Adèle, Algaia’s eldest daughter, was not fortuitous. “She was a very pretty lass of twelve, and he was not above bestowing some of his attention upon her. Pushkin imagined,” [Ivan Dmitriyevich] Yakushkin wrote, “that he was in love with her, he kept ogling her, coming up to her, clumsily teasing her.” In December of 1834, after her Russian husband’s death and she had returned permanently to France, she wed the Corsican-born infantry general, Horace-François-Bastien Sébastiani della Porta (1772-1851), who in his youth had been so handsome that he was known as the ‘Cupid of the Empire.’ Having served in Italy in the revolutionary wars, he had been a high ranking officer in the Grande Armée of his fellow Corsican, the Emperor Napoleon; moreover, he had served as an officer in the Spanish (1808-1811), Russian (1812), Saxon (1813) and French (1814) Campaigns. In 1815, after Napoleon had returned to France from his exile on the island of Elba only to be defeated at Waterloo, Sébasiani alligned himself with him during the so-called Hundred Days. When Louis-Philippe d’Orléans came to power after the fall of Charles X in 1830, the liberal-minded Sebastiani served his government as Minister of War and then as French ambassador to Naples. By his first wife, Antoinette-Françoise-Jeanne de Franquetot de Coigny (1778-1807), he had a daughter, Françoise-Attarice-Rosalba (Fanny) Sébastiani della Porta (1807-1847). Aglaé Angélique died in Paris on January 21, 1842. Sebastiani della Porta survived her and went on to become Louis-Philippe’s Minister of War and his ambassador to England. Vigée Le Brun’s close relationship with Aglaé Angélique Davydova’s family were considerable. Prior to the revolution she painted several portraits of her grandmother, the Duchesse de Polignac,4 and her mother, the duchesse de Guiche.5 And during the period of the Émigration, she painted a bust-length portrait of Madame de Guiche wearing a blue turban, a red dress and a necklace of coral beads, a work done in Vienna in 1794, as well as pastel likenesses of two of her younger brothers, one of which, the profile portrayal of Jules de Polignac, was recently acquired by the Louvre. Finally, around 1805, Madame Le Brun painted a pastel image of Aglaé Davydova’s older sister, Corisande de Gramont, Countess of Ossultun and future Countess Tankerville (private collection). Vigée Le Brun’s portrait of the blue-eyed and still strikingly beautiful Aglaé Angélique Davydova, despite her thirty-seven years, depicts her subject in the open air against a cloudy sky. She is attired in a short-sleeved velvet gown with a deep neckline over a muslin chemise with gold trim, and around her long neck hangs a gold chain to which is attached a gold pendant. Her dark hair is styled in ringlets, or "anglaises" falling onto her brow, and those strands that are piled high on her head are held in place with a gold and coral diadem. Over this hairdo is draped a muslin veil she clasps to her bosom with the long, tapering fingers of the hands crossed over her breast, and the end of this length of sheer fabric floats in the wind behind her. The portrait was executed by the artist around 1824, the year of Louis XVIII’s death and the accession of his brother, Charles Philippe, Comte d’Artois, to the throne of France as Charles X. The portrait exists in two autograph examples: the present rectangular canvas and an oval version at one time in the Bartholini collection as a portrait of ‘Madame de Talleyrand’ and later with the Paris dealers Nathan Wildenstein and Arnold Seligmann (it is today in a private collection). An anonymous copy of the painting under discussion (oil on rectangular-shaped canvas, 81 x 65 cm.), in which Madame Davydova is shown without the gold chain, was featured in a recent Paris auction. Joseph Baillio www.sothebys.com/en/auctions/ecatalogue/2014/the-courts-o...

[mundomultipolar]

O Saker Latinoamérica está de mudança

Quantum Bird, em nome da Comunidade Saker Latinoamérica

Caros leitores, nosso blog está mudando de endereço. Nosso termo de hospedagem nos servidores da Comunidade Global de Notícias Saker chegou ao fim, juntamente com o fechamento do próprio servidor, que também hospedou por mais de uma década o lendário Saker Blog (www.thesaker.is), de nosso grande amigo e fonte inspiradora Andrei Raevsky, popularmente conhecido como The Saker.

Nós acreditamos que nosso valor mais precioso consiste em nossa honestidade intelectual, que é apenas possível graças ao exercício da coerência e independência editorial. Assim, nos recusamos a rodar anúncios, comercializar itens. Além disso, nessa época de acirramento da censura e perseguição das vozes de fato independentes – que assume uma dimensão totalmente nova na América Latina e Europa, onde o conceito de liberdade de expressão basicamente não existe – decidimos que era imperativo evitar a exposição dos dados bancários de nossos colaboradores para pedir doações em dinheiro para manutenção dos nossos custos.

Superamos o desafio de manter nosso projeto vivo graças à generosidade de outro amigo e colaborador, que cedeu sua infraestrutura para hospedar nosso blog. Aproveitamos para agradecer a Herb, nosso caríssimo amigo da equipe de TI do The Saker pela sua ajuda inestimável para operar essa migração, e a Andrei Raevsky, que garantiu o funcionamento de nosso blog em seus servidores mesmo depois do fechamento de seu próprio blog.

Assim, a partir de 01 de março de 2024 nosso endereço será:

www.sakerlatam.blog

Nenhum conteúdo será perdido. Todos os posts deste blog ( www.sakerlatam.org ) estão disponíveis no novo endereço. Portanto, salvem a URL acima em seus bookmarks. O antigo endereço permanecerá ativo até o fim de março de 2024, após esta data, tentaremos configurar um redirecionamento para o novo endereço.

Um forte abraço em todos e aguardamos a sua visita na nossa nova casa.

Caros leitores, por favor não se esqueçam de impulsionar o nosso canal. Clique aqui.

https://sakerlatam.org/o-saker-latinoamerica-esta-de-mudanca/

[raevsk]

January 31, 2022

Блять, сколько грозит срок за подделку справок?

Сегодня был просто сумасшедший день. Меня выгнали из моей шараги, из-за температуры 37°. Причём приписали 38,5. Пиздец.

Естественно, я пошёл домой, чтобы меня не отпиздили преподаватели. Все бы ничего, но ключи от дома я, благополучно, проебал.

Позвонил всем, у кого только могут быть дубликаты, но все, либо на работе, либо на учёбе. Делать нечего, поплелся к родственникам, у которых отсидел 3 часа. Позже пошёл до подруги, там часик проебал, а дальше к одному другу заглянул на стопочку коньячка, там же живёт второй друг, к которому я так же зашёл.

И спустя 6 часов я, наконец-то, дома.

Я заболел, снова, и мне, чтобы не тащиться в больницу, пришлось откопать стариную справку, которую я, благополучно, забыл отдать, замазал все рукописи нахер, отксерокопировал и вуаля! Новая чистая справка. Надеюсь, мне ничего не предъявят.

Очивки за день:

► Отныне записан в контактах у друзей как "Даша путешественница"

► Поставщик справок по болезни и освобождения

Знакомую выгнали из шараги вместе со мной, так как у неё подозрения на ковид, а меня приплели к ней же, теперь с нас просят тест этот ебучий.

Что если я не хочу его делать?

Какое право вообще имели меня в шиворот гнать из учебного заведения?

Хотя, я не огорчён. Я пропустил много плохих новостей, от чего я нигде не был засвечен. Порой, я удивляюсь сам, как я сухим вылажу из, казалось бы, мокрого дерьма?

Это так сложно быть мной. Врагу не пожелаю такой участи, но я, так же, ни о чем не жалею, так как я всем доволен. Хотябы не прожигаю свою жизнь только в интернете и/или дома. Не говорю, что это плохо, но мне нравится быть в центре внимания, пусть даже и плохого. Главное, что не материнского.

Когда нибудь, конечно же, я расскажу матери о всех моих похождениях, но это будет точно не в этом десятилетии, жить хочется.

[illustratus]

The Courage of General Raevsky by Nikolay Samokish

The Battle of Saltanovka depicting General Raevsky personally leading his men into battle, with his two young sons at his side.

[kramlabs]

Read this about the “Asch Conformity Experiments”, then ponder images at bottom…

.

Apply the Asch experiment results to what you see here:

.

:::

:::

Via The Saker’s commentary from 2010:

“I suppose that for types like myself (disrespectful of social dogmas and norms, oppositional and defiant towards authority, rebellious and aggressive by nature, deeply contrarian on an almost knee-jerk level, libertarian in outlook) the outcome of the tension between what I feel and what I am told to feel results in a long battle against the established order and dominant ideology” —the saker

[dmitry24raevsky-blog]

Thinking is not effective

Perfection is like an unwritten number, something that can never be achieved, but it is still something that helps to find the meaning of life: the search and finding perfection in everything — no matter what — will reveal the mystery and meaning of life. Richard Bach writes about the Seagull, which wanted not only to eat, but also to fly, in flight honing skills and achieving perfection. Finding it is one of the methods and even ways of coaching. 

“The crisis of meaning occurs when our accumulation of knowledge exceeds the moderate influence of our values. With the onset of the crisis, we lose the false sense of security created by the illusion of power and certainty that great knowledge gives us. Wisdom is higher than knowledge and much deeper than it. It provides foresight, is often paradoxical, and offers different kind of security to the person emerging from crisis,” writes John Whitmore, one of the “fathers” of modern coaching in his bestseller “high performance Coaching.” He states that coaching leads to wisdom: the view that you have on things, being unusual — a view from different sides — leads to the fact that you begin to understand things in their entirety. You begin to form, to create not your own opinion on things, but you begin to understand the real essence of things.

And when you understand this, you find that this understanding is not yours: it does not belong to you. It’s like the look of someone better than you who understands things differently from your usual understanding. It’s like an insight and an astonishing question after it: “What is it? I do not know and could not know this before!” This is actually the touch to perfection.

It is so simple, but it fills with such motivation that you do not want to stop, because perfection is unattainable: there is always something more perfect than you have achieved. And when you feel his breath next to you, it inspires so much that everything else does not matter.

Where to start? It would be good to start with the understanding that you know nothing. And if it seems that you know for sure that you do not understand anything, then you can ask yourself: do I really understand it deeply? Is it possible to understand it more deeply? Maybe to start suffering from it? To cry from powerlessness and feeling borders? The first and most important thing is always to understand that before you begin to push the boundaries of your nature and thinking, first you need to find these boundaries. And what helps to understand the limits of thinking? It’s possible by studying philosophy, trying to understand what great people understood, facing the limitations of understanding.

And when you begin to learn and understand — preferably together with friends, like-minded people or with a mentor who helps you, who shows you very different things and from a different angle — then this is the first step towards understanding your boundaries. You understand that it’s possible to push the boundaries. You will see the way how to move them. And this extension of boundaries is similar to what has just happened to you. Once you are convinced that they can be moved; then you break through them and see, and on the tenth attempt you begin to understand the technology.

This means that you have learned to learn. And now no one will forbid you to learn. Moreover, understanding the unusual in the usual knowledge, you will be delighted with it every time, surprised by this. And each time it will motivate you more and more. We know that all processes in the world are exponential. First comes the accumulation of quantity, then — the rise of quality and the transition to a new stage. Therefore, when you learn how to study, the learning process will be very different from that the regular one.

It will look approximately like this: you look at the field of knowledge, think about it for five minutes and then you express something beyond possible capabilities. Why? Because you can spend the minimum time at maximum efficiency. The best programs for training top managers are based on knowledge of the exponential development of thinking: to create those who do not spend much time on thinking.

Thinking is not effective. Much more efficient is to “put an on shelf” of thinking, wait five-ten minutes and obtain the answer, which you recognized. The answer is correct and indisputable, it is also the most effective of all existing.

So thinking looks like a fiery process: you threw the wood of knowledge into the furnace, and get the fire of solutions. But you don’t burn the fire “manually”: it ignites by itself. As you know, this is a very different type of thinking than we are all used to. It’s much more effective. To come to this type of thinking is to become a perfect disciple, that is, to learn from everyone and everything. And at the same time to develop exponentially, when you improve during a year more than other people do during the whole life.

In the West, people with such thinking are called coaches. What is the secret of the coach, or how to reveal the inner potential of a person? In one company I was asked: — When a conflict situation occurs — how to resolve it? I say, “ Very simply. Tell people directly what the problem is, and people will listen. — They said they didn’t listen. — Oh! So, it is necessary to become the one who is listened to. The root of effectiveness is in the personality of the manager.

There was a great Russian teacher Makarenko. He wrote a book about his work. This book is known to all teachers, but no one can repeat his feat. Why? Because it’s all about the personality of the teacher, his look. It’s important how the teacher looks at children. One child changes for the better, and the other — for the worse or does not change. And it is not because of having competencies and knowledge of the teacher: even the smartest ones demonstrate the worst performance.

So, look at children, the personality of the teacher — what it broadcasts in addition to the school subject — that’s what changes children or does not change them. And, indeed, the best coaches in the world have already realized that the secret of the development is concluded… in the personality of the coach.

Human development is the goal of coaching, and therefore the whole armada of coaches is constantly puzzling over how to make the development process more effective. How a coach develops people? I’ll tell you the secret. You will probably nowhere find this solution: it is necessary to see the future development in the other people. We must try not to imagine it, not to draw, not to visualize, but, looking into the essence of man, to find his more perfect essence — as miners find emeralds in the mines. And when a coach finds, sees these emeralds, he will be surprised: his look initiates development in people!

[atimefordragons]

BOURGEOISIE ACADEMIA

☾♔; October 9, 2021 ☾♔; 11:45am ☾♔; sotd: Bajito (Ana Guerra) ☾♔; cotd: Tobirama Senju ☾♔; Bourgeoisie Academia ☾♔; Conceptualizing and Notes (I guess)

lol, I say this every time, but I really have just completely forgotten how to make sets. I can't even replicate my own, I use them for reference, but I struggle. and any time I step away for a little bit, I get even worse. lmao. honestly, at this point urstyle is just a smoking habit I can't kick. but whatever, I'll always miss polyvore and the other alt sites suck ass. (yeah, I said it)

anyway, voila, been deep in the fantasy for, well, months, and wow server made me nostalgic talking about rosá, so a new wip recycling a bunch of old ass rich people in academia characters. aging them all up to be older, cause not in a stupid high school mood, cause any rich people high school that isn't ouran based is lame, and changing a bunch of backstory stuff and relationships. so ya know, ignore mah incoherent notes, lol.

- Rodion, is like 22 maybe? possibly 23, was adopted as a dad by his youngest brother? He had no say in it. Literally, not-damian joined the family and straight up arranged HIS OWN move to dresden to live with Rodion. He spent like 10 minutes with Ivan and went, you suck, I want Rodya to be my dad. - what even is el majoring in? how is she is so many classes? #hasatimeturnerconspiracytheory - katzaya canon - izana unintentional angst (lol, poor babu) - DEEVCAS SUPREMACY!!! - recast rosá, from ana guerra --> marina ruy barbosa - rosá & lucas = cousins? paternal probs, cause I don't wanna change de la fuente from either of them, but I think both have reyes has a maternal surname, and might wanna change that, lmao - cut out the secret love child plotlines from deevi's story, it was all I could basically think of for HM anyway, lol - rename seb onii-chan to Valery (viktor was his original name, found it in me notes) - maybe kill off kat dad? ohhh, lmao, survived a poisoning (1 guess who) and now in exile. it's dramatic, but it's like kinda funny. - maybe let ileana live? let kat have like (1) good adult in her life, lmfao - ruri did the idol thing for a year or two, but then quit to go study something else maybe? might still consider dramatic acting, but I don't think it's for her honestly. Oh, ruri is the lost girl; she didn't enjoy being an idol, the constant pressure, etc, etc, was in the idol group "lily white", named after umi's sub group in ų's, since ruri has a few personality traits similar to sena, lol - recast adya, from sean o'pry ---> diego barrueco - emil, from louis hofmaan ---> freddy carter maybe? not sure what I want to do with him. - shion, recast from dilireba ---> adeline rudolph, and change her backstory to idk what yet though. maybe give her bratva connections, which is how ivan ended up as her dad? idk

[benkitabinincisi]

"Yarın bu saatlerde Os Kervo'da limanda oturmuş okyanusa bakıp kvas içiyor olacağız"

Bir ileri bir geri sallanan Dubrov'a baktım ve gülümsedim "Dubrov mu ısmarlayacak?"

"Sadece ikimiz olacağız", dedi Malyen.

"Gerçekten mi?"

"Her zaman önemli olan sadece ikimizdik, Alina"

-Leigh Bardugo