#the saints were a marketing tactic

[canary-prince]

If you catch me posting Bible memes I'm not turning into a Christian or whatever the fuck I was before my intense spiritual crisis 2 years ago (or was it three)? I went to school for academic theological studies (analysis of religion from an exterior view point) and recent books have me nostalgic and hyperfixating.

[quercus-queer]

Happy Thanksgiving otherwise known as Drama with a Side of Turkey... if someone picks a fight with you about current events here is a very brief surface level list of talking points

According to Article 3 of the Geneva Convention and Article 6 of Additional Protocol II collective punishment is a war crime.

Israel Katz himself is quoted as saying "they [Gazans] will not receive a drop of water or a single battery until they leave the world."

Furthermore Article 51 of the Berlin Rules on Water Resources prohibits combatants (in this case the Israeli military from removing water infrastructure.

International Humanitarian Law prohibits any siege depriving civilians of essential goods while Yoav Gallant's "defense tactics" are a complete blockade of Gaza. It is well documented by the United Nations and journalists how deprived the civilians in Gaza are by the Israeli aggression.

The so-called gracious “evacuations” ordered by Israel is a crime according to the International Criminal Court under forcible transfer. 

The use of white phosphorus violates Protocol III of the Convention on Certain Conventional Weapons as the Israeli army is using it directly against human beings in a civilian setting.

Gaza is one of the most densely populated areas on earth with 47.3% of the population being under 18 there is no circumstance in which any incendiary weapon should be deployed in Gaza let alone community centers.

In case there is doubt, there are videos of white phosphorous being used in broad daylight and on hospitals (Al-Durrah Children's Hospital).

The air strikes themselves violate international law as Daniel Hagari himself has stated that the emphasis of the Israeli air strikes is on damage and not on accuracy.

The Israeli government has carried out air strikes on the Al-Shati refugee camp sheltering over 90,000 refugees from Israeli aggression.

Targeting commercial centers like the Jabalia camp market which has been attacked multiple times since October 7th is a war crime. 

It is a war crime to target buildings dedicated to education or charitable purposes.

On October 17th Israel carried out an airstrike on the United Nations Relief and Works Agency school in the Al-Maghazi refugee camp. A United Nations school within a refugee camp.

Israeli officials later claimed United Nations workers are Hamas allies

Medical neutrality as described under the Geneva Convention has been violated as stated by the World Health Organization…

Every hospital bombed is another war crime Israel has committed. Bringing back the white phosphorus issue, Israel hit Al-Durrah Children's Hospital with white phosphorus munition. Bringing back water resources and collective punishment (which I hope we established was bad), the remaining hospitals are collapsing due to lack of electricity and water. 

"But Hamas tunnels! Human shields! Guards! Weapons!" None of that negates a hospital's protected status as described in the Geneva Convention.

It is a war crime to attack buildings dedicated to religion regardless of who is housed but especially if its housing refugees... obviously... again its in the Geneva Convention.

The Church of Saint Porphyrius, the Al-Gharbi mosque, Yassin mosque, and Al-Sousi mosque have been directly attacked

The intentional targeting of journalists is a war crime according to the Council of Europe.

There are 31 journalists who have been killed along with their families being targeted.

On October 10th Israel bombed a residential building (war crime) which also contained journalist offices (war crime). You can take a pick of whether they were targeting civilians or journalists, either way it’s a war crime. 

Killing surrendered civilians OR SURRENDERED COMBATANTS is again a war crime.

Israeli officials still have no comment on the video of IDF forces executing four unarmed Palestinian men kneeling on the ground (one of which was waving white clothing).

Videos have also surfaced of IDF soldiers violating international law by assaulting detainees and committing sexual humiliation.

Israel has expanded their attack to neighboring countries by carrying out air strikes in Lebanon, ready to fulfill their manifest destiny of Greater Israel.

Under the 1998 Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court, Israeli settlement of Palestine is a war crime. Obviously that is beyond a lot of peoples willingness to comprehend so lets reiterate what is happening right now. 

The average age of dead people in Gaza is 5.

More facts: Israel does not reflect the Jewish people or Jewish values they are a settler colonial state enacting apartheid and committing genocide. Conflating Israel with jewish people is anti-semetic. Evangelicals are the largest zionist group in the world because they are anti-semetic. AIPAC is the largest donor to politicians. Israel has systemically harmed holocaust survivors (1/3 of survivors in Israel are in poverty, they called them "soap bars", and said they were "inferior" as they were like "sheep to the slaughter"). Israel has violated Ethiopian Jewish woman's autonomy (Depo-Provera (contraceptive) every three months in Israeli clinics without their knowledge) and police brutality. Israel is a safe haven for pedophiles.

[ask-zaukodar]

For those who don't particularly follow gaming, there's currently a hot new game out in the field called "Helldivers 2" and it is making hype train waves like very few games have before. There is also a lot of discourse about why it's doing the kinds of numbers and having the popular support that it currently has, and while I know this may not reach a lot of people I still want to drop my thoughts on things.

Just to recap briefly: "Helldivers 2" is the sequel to the titular PC/PS4 game "Helldivers" where you play satirical Starship Troopers waging a war of aggression pre-emptive strike on alien powers who were content to be left alone dangerous enemies of humanity and democracy in the name of subjugating these powers to steal their resources and technology liberty, freedom, and defending our way of life. It was developed by Arrowhead games, who in addition to the original Helldivers previously made Magicka (not Magicka 2) and Gauntlet (2014), and the devs very clearly knew what they wanted to make in regards to all three games and hyperfocused on making those elements work to make the game the best possible experience.

Yes, there are live services aspects such as a rotating armor shop and a "seasonal pass" in the form of something called a War Bond, but the game has gone to impressive lengths to ensure that you aren't pressured into buying stuff through old tactics like FOMO and the like. And yes, the dev team has been in crisis mode addressing the server issues and fixing bugs and (hopefully) addressing the cheater problems, but they have a clear vision and have been working hard to make sure everyone can enjoy it. But it isn't the no-pressure live service, or the on-the-up-and-up dev team in and of itself, or even the chaotic and satirical nature of the game itself I spotted after playing as long as I have.

Helldivers 2 is a perfect (and perfectly-timed) B-game.

For anyone who never owned a console before the seventh generation (Playstation 3, Wii, and XBox 360) I'll explain briefly: every console had its "big title" (later known as AAA) games: Mario, Zelda, Final Fantasy, Battlefield, Call of Duty, Metal Gear, and all of the other ones an elder millennial can name off the top of their heads. But there also used to be games that very explicitly weren't that big-named that were still amazing games in their own right, like the Legacy of Kain series or Jak & Daxter series or Wild Arms or Guitar Hero or Pikmin or Overlord or Saints Row, there's lots of examples of "great games that didn't have mega-bux budgets". These games were the backbone of any console you owned, ever, and some of the best times you had with friends. They were not priced or marketed like AAA games were, but were the kind of game that kept you going back to any video game store of your choice.

For reasons I still don't fully comprehend these types of titles started drying up in the seventh generation, I don't know if it's because of the always-online culture that started appearing in gaming or if it had to do with the emergence of "indie games" or if it was manufacturers wanting bigger slices of the pie or whatever, but for whatever reason these games eventually fell into obscurity, and everything started to fall into "indie dev" or "AAA studio" with little exception. The few games of this category from this time period that were saved in PC ports are old and clunky and not as enjoyable to play, so people don't appreciate just how satisfying these games could be.

The thing about B-games is that they were incredibly solid. Yeah they might have reminded you of other games that were more mainstream or older games that you played on lesser graphics, but even if you didn't always enjoy the game you couldn't deny that it was decently made and it was the kind of game the devs wanted to make so you could play it. They weren't always the flashiest, highest-poly-count, or biggest marketing budget titles ever, but it still left an impression on you that could make you think back to it even now.

Flashing forward back to the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Twenty-Four and the landscape has changed so radically that the concept of a mid-level game that sets out to do something it wants to do is almost alien. But this is what Arrowhead started doing back in the 2010's when they made a dopey magic game where spells were based on your controller input that could friendly-fire (or outright troll) your friends. They used to be indie, but now they've grown enough to be a legitimate mid-level developer making the kind of games they know they want to make.

And because the gaming community is starved for something remotely original or fun they piled on it like sharks on bloody meat and they are eating it up wholesale. Which is great for the devs! And hopefully great for the gaming community at large, because maybe we'll get a return of some of these "not quite AAA games but still very solid and definitely not basement-developed" games.

[orthodoxydaily]

Icon,Saints&Reading: Thursday, July 25, 2024

july 12_ july 25

THE ICON OF THE MOTHER OF GOD, NAMED "THREE-HANDED" FROM HILANDAR MONASTERY , MT ATHOS

This icon is the exact copy of the original located in Hilandar. It had been offered by the Serbian church to an historical Russian church San Francisco, California

The Iconoclastic heresy swept through the Byzantine Empire in the seventh century. Emperor Leo III the Isaurian ascended the throne and initiated persecutions against the veneration of icons. Despite being under Muslim rule, the Caliphate of Damascus allowed Orthodox Christians freedom in their faith. Priests, monks, and laypeople fled there to escape the heretical emperor’s persecution.

The chief minister of Caliph Yazid II ibn Abd al-Malik was Mansur ibn Sarjun, a devout Christian who enjoyed the caliph’s complete trust. The monarch was not troubled by his advisor’s faith — Mansur’s father had also been an Orthodox Christian and had faithfully served the Damascene court. One day, Sergius (the name of Mansur’s father) encountered a monk at a slave market, shedding tears in deep sorrow as he had no one to inherit his profound knowledge and spiritual experience. After buying the monk’s freedom, Sergius tasked him with teaching his children, Mansur and Cosmas, his adopted son. These two would later become illustrious figures of the Orthodox Church — Saint John of Damascus and Saint Cosmas of Maiuma.

The monk’s pupils received much wisdom, as demonstrated by Mansur ibn Sarjun’s influential work, “Three Apologies Against Those Who Decry Holy Icons.” The Damascene official zealously used his vast knowledge and talent to combat Iconoclasm. He sent letters to his many acquaintances in Byzantium, using Holy Scripture and patristic traditions to affirm the correctness of icon veneration. His writings, secretly copied and shared among individuals, fueled Orthodox believers’ faith and shed light on the Iconoclast heretics’ mistakes.

Eventually, Mansur’s activities came to unnerve even the Iconoclast emperor. The heretics then resorted to their favourite tactic — deception. This time, however, their lies were not about doctrinal matters but aimed at their defender’s reputation. The Damascene minister faced slander before the caliph, with accusations of conspiracy and treason against him.

A scribe forged a letter in Mansur’s handwriting, addressed to Leo III, supposedly promising to surrender Damascus to the Byzantines. This deceitful message was presented to Caliph Yazid II by the cunning emperor-heretic. Unaware of Leo’s malicious plot, the caliph chose not to investigate further. He brutally punished his loyal servant by sentencing Mansur to have his right hand cut off, which he then displayed in the marketplace.

According to tradition, Mansur pleaded with the caliph to return his severed hand. With tears streaming down his face, he prayed fervently before an ancient icon of the Mother of God. Exhausted from moral anguish and physical pain, he finally fell asleep. In his dream, the Holy Theotokos appeared to him and said: “Behold, your hand is healed; do not grieve any longer and diligently labour with this hand.” When Mansur awoke and unwrapped the cloth binding his wrist, only a red scar remained as a reminder of his wound. In gratitude to his miraculous Healer, Mansur composed the beautiful hymn “All Creation Rejoices in You.” To commemorate his miraculous healing, he attached a silver replica of his hand to the icon before which he had prayed. From then on, this image of the Mother of God became known as “Of the Three-Hands.”

News of Mansur's healing quickly spread throughout Damascus. Convinced by the miracle of his minister’s innocence, the caliph sought Mansur’s forgiveness and urged him to return to his governmental duties. However, Mansur’s heart now belonged solely to God. Henceforth, he would dedicate all his strength and abilities to serving Him. Taking the icon that had bestowed healing upon him, Mansur withdrew to Palestine, where he took monastic vows as John. Tradition holds that this was at the Lavra of Saint Sabbas the Sanctified.

The icon remained in Saint Sabbas’s monastery until the thirteenth century. Before he died in 532 AD, Saint Sabbas bequeathed his staff for a royal pilgrim named Sabbas, a great archbishop and man of God, to receive upon visiting the monastery from a distant western land in the future. Seven hundred years later, Saint Sabbas, the first Archbishop of Serbia, fulfilled this prophecy during his pilgrimage to holy sites in Palestine. The monks presented him with Saint Sabbas’s blessing and gave him two miraculous icons: The Mother of God “Milk-Giver” and “Of the Three Hands.”

Therefore, the icon made its journey to Serbia in the thirteenth century. In the fourteenth century, during the Turkish invasion, pious custodians placed it on a donkey and released it into God’s care to prevent desecration. With the precious cargo on its back, the donkey trod unhindered to the Holy Mountain of Athos...continue reading @convent St Elizabeth

St VERONICA, THE WOMAN WITH AN ISSUE OF BLOOD WHO WAS HEALED BY THE SAVIOUR

The account of the woman with an issue of blood, who had the unusual name of Veronica, may be found in the Gospel according to Saint Matthew (9:20-22), in Saint Mark's Gospel (5:25-34), and also in Saint Luke's Gospel (8:43-49).

The Synaxaristes of Saint Νikόdēmos of the Holy Mountain states that this Saint was from the city of Paneada. When the Lord healed her issue of blood, she was very grateful, because for twelve years she had "suffered much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and nothing had helped, but instead she became worse" (Mark 5:26).

She had heard of Christ, and decided to go to Him, believing that she would be healed merely by touching His garment. When she did this, the Savior felt that power had gone forth from Him. Turning to the crowd, He asked who had touched His garment. His disciples were puzzled by the question, since many people were pressing Him on all sides. Saint Veronica came forward and fell down before Him in fear and trembling, and admitted what she had done. The Lord said, "Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your affliction" (Mark 5:34).

In her gratitude, she made a statue of Him and placed it in front of her house, where everyone could venerate it. A healing plant grew at the base of the statue, which was able to cure various diseases.

Later, Saint Veronica became a member of the early Church. After living a life of holiness, she surrendered her soul to God.

Roman Catholics venerate a saint named Veronica, who is said to have wiped the Savior's face with her veil as He carried His Cross to Golgotha. She is not the saint who is commemorated by the Orthodox Church. That cloth was called the "Veronica," or true image (from vera and iconica) of Christ's face. Saint Gregory of Tours uses this word (Vita Patrum chapter 12) for an image (see the Greek word εικόνα). This incident, is not mentioned in the Gospels.

Some uninformed iconographers confuse these two women and depict our Saint Veronica holding a cloth with the imprint of Christ's face, which is not in accordance with Orthodox Tradition. On August 16, the Orthodox Church commemorates the Image not made by hands, the cloth which Christ sent to King Abgar with the imprint of His Face.

Source: Orthodox Church in America_OCA

ROMANS 15:17-29

17 Therefore I have reason to glory in Christ Jesus in the things which pertain to God. 18 For I will not dare to speak of any of those things which Christ has not accomplished through me, in word and deed, to make the Gentiles obedient- 19 in mighty signs and wonders, by the power of the Spirit of God, so that from Jerusalem and round about to Illyricum I have fully preached the gospel of Christ. 20 And so I have made it my aim to preach the gospel, not where Christ was named, lest I should build on another man's foundation, 21 but as it is written:"To whom He was not announced, they shall see; And those who have not heard shall understand." 22 For this reason I also have been much hindered from coming to you. 23 But now no longer having a place in these parts, and having a great desire these many years to come to you, 24 whenever I journey to Spain, I shall come to you. For I hope to see you on my journey, and to be helped on my way there by you, if first I may enjoy your company for a while. 25 But now I am going to Jerusalem to minister to the saints. 26 For it pleased those from Macedonia and Achaia to make a certain contribution for the poor among the saints who are in Jerusalem. 27 It pleased them indeed, and they are their debtors. For if the Gentiles have been partakers of their spiritual things, their duty is also to minister to them in material things. 28 Therefore, when I have performed this and have sealed to them this fruit, I shall go by way of you to Spain. 29 But I know that when I come to you, I shall come in the fullness of the blessing of the gospel of Christ.

MATTHEW 12:46-13:3

46 While He was still talking to the multitudes, behold, His mother and brothers stood outside, seeking to speak with Him. 47 Then one said to Him, "Look, Your mother and Your brothers are standing outside, seeking to speak with You." 48 But He answered and said to the one who told Him, "Who is My mother and who are My brothers?" 49 And He stretched out His hand toward His disciples and said, "Here are My mother and My brothers! 50 For whoever does the will of My Father in heaven is My brother and sister and mother.

1 On the same day Jesus went out of the house and sat by the sea. 2 And great multitudes were gathered together to Him, so that He got into a boat and sat; and the whole multitude stood on the shore. 3

Then He spoke many things to them in parables, saying: "Behold, a sower went out to sow...

[enverracapital]

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[bhavesh2022]

North America Cement Board Market Forecast Estimated to Record Highest CAGR by 2028

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Key companies in this market are

Compagnie de Saint Gobain SA             

Etex NV                                                        

James Hardie Industries plc                          

Nichiha Corp                                                  

Plycem USA LLC                                             

SCG Building Materials Co., Ltd.               

Soben International Ltd                             

Swisspearl Group AG                                   

Visaka Industries Ltd    

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This market research is based on key segments such as products, end-use industries and regions. We intend to keep our clients informed about the latest trends in the market, and potential revenue streams for the forecast period.

Key regions North America Cement Board Market Market Research Report:

North America (U.S., Canada, Mexico)

Europe (U.K., France, Germany, Spain, Italy, Central & Eastern Europe, CIS)

Asia Pacific (China, Japan, South Korea, ASEAN, India, Rest of Asia Pacific)

Latin America (Brazil, Rest of Latin America)

The Middle East and Africa (Turkey, GCC, Rest of the Middle East and Africa)

Rest of the World...

Author’s Bio:

Bhavesh Shinde

Senior Market Research Expert at Business Market Insights

[redwineconversation]

Dijon - Lyon OLPlay Postgame Interviews

I was talking to someone (on private) and I said that there aren't any rivalries that can really compete with Lyon - PSG. Real Madrid Fem is too young for the RM - Barcelona rivalry to actually mean anything; Tottenham isn't on the same level as Arsenal; Arsenal - Chelsea lack the requisite bad blood. Wolfsburg - Bayern comes close, but even it lacks the requisite bloodlust. Lyon - Wolfsburg is a rivalry embedded in deep mutual respect. Is Lyon - Barcelona a rivalry? Only Barca fans seem to think so.

A good and proper rivalry is messy and personal and petty and complicated. It means something. Selma Bacha gets that.

Blah blah standard disclaimers apply; yes I would still give away a vital organ on the black market for either some Earl Grey with soy or a decent bottle of wine; y'all know the speech by now.

SONIA BOMPASTOR INTERVIEW

Bompastor: Yes, hello to everybody. Indeed, the pregame speech today was about moving a little more forward in our objectives with the three points and a win. So yeah. We did that. In terms of results, we're obviously satisfied, we're heading in the right direction. As you said, now there are two important games coming up over the next two weeks: one for the Coupe [de France], one for the league. Those are two finals, we'll have to get the wins.

Journalist: A quick on the performance of the day? We know the team had a little break, who now had plenty of time to prepare for this month of May, the final stretch. Was it also the opportunity for you to do an analysis on how the team is doing?

Bompastor: Yeah, in terms of the preparation for the game and what we were expecting, we're in line with our objectives. It's true that we had some players coming back from injury, we were able to give them some playing time today. And that will allow us as of Sunday to focus on the objective of winning the Coupe de France with a maximum amount of players who are apt and competitive. And there you have it. The choices are difficult [for the lineups], but that's a good thing when you look at the goals we want to accomplish.

Coralie Ducher: Hi, Sonia. We noticed that there was a lot of work on tactics for free kicks. Is that because of the upcoming game or did you just want to have some variety for those sorts of things?

Bompastor: Yeah, indeed, it's something we've been focused on the past weeks. Both offensively for us, because we have a lot of quality so there can be more variety, and also in terms of weaknesses we have identified in our opponents, being able to exploit those weaknesses. In any case, today against Dijon we saw that far post was often open, so we needed to do initial runs to draw defenders towards the front post and we scored the first goal by Vanessa that way. So it's good, it paid off, and that's a good thing.

Journalist: A word, Sonia, before we let you go. Two "finals", and I am putting that in quotation marks, against Paris Saint-Germain. I imagine that you will prepare that in the best manner, most likely by watching the Parisian derby tomorrow between Paris Saint-Germain and Paris FC tomorrow.

Bompastor: Yeah, you said it earlier. It's true that by winning today, we put some pressure on Paris [Saint-Germain]. They will have a difficult game tomorrow, but anyway. They're also really concentrated on themselves and their own performances. They have the quality to beat this Paris FC team. But as I've said since the beginning we are focused on our own performances. And we know that by winning these last three games we will accomplish those two objectives [league and Coupe de France]. We have the potential and quality to do it. So those games, and the one today, will allow us to grow in confidence and serenity in light of the next 15 days.

Journalist: A huge thank you, Sonia, and congratulations. We've obviously going to follow Olympique Lyonnais Feminin the next few weeks with a lot of interest.

Bompastor: Thank you.

SELMA BACHA INTERVIEW

Bacha: No, not for me. I have to do so much better. I'm a person with high expectations. Today I'm not really satisfied with how I played. The most important thing is the team getting the win, and putting pressure on Paris Saint-Germain.

Journalist: If we're sticking to a personal level, despite everything, already the ninth assist for you today. An absolute caviar to Vanessa Gilles. You came close to offering a second to Ada Hegerberg in the second half. You're already doing better - sorry, you're doing as good as you did last season, with nine assists in D1 Arkema. You're top of the rankings. Is that a personal objective for you? It would be a good reward for this D1 Arkema in your eyes?

Bacha: Yes, for me personally, my goal is to finish as the leader of assists in D1 Arkema. Today before the game, I said to one of my teammates that I was going to do an assist. It worked out, I did it. In any case, as I said, what's most important is the team. But personally, yes, I would love to finish first in assists in D1 Arkema.

Journalist: We know all about your loyalty to the Lyon jersey [cf everyone acting like Bacha is up for grabs for free this summer.] The next two games, they're not to be missed, they are two games which will make your blood boil. How do you feel about this double confrontation, these two "finals" in quotation marks, to be played against Paris Saint-Germain?

Bacha: Well already we'll take it one game at a time. First is the final of the Coupe de France. We're going to work hard this. After, we know Paris Saint-Germain really well. They have a lot of quality, a lot of really good players. In any case I love those sorts of games. But we'll be ready, we'll show everyone we're Olympique Lyonnais, and we will win the two remaining trophies.

Coralie Ducher: Hello Selma. You brought it up, you're very demanding on yourself. What would you like to improve on ahead of this rapidly approaching Paris [Saint-Germain] game?

Bacha: What would I like to improve? Well already ... already ... How do I explain this... I lost a lot of balls today, so that needs to improve. After that, stay more concentrated, because I lost balls in a dumb way. But I know I will show up for these big games coming up for me, for us. So you can count on me, on my team, and on the coach.

Timothee Piron: Hi Selma. That sounds like a date. We're counting on you. I wanted you to explain how it went when players like Lindsey [Horan], like Ada [Hegerberg], like Delphine [Cascarino] came in. We saw that the game changed a little when they came in. Is it important before the upcoming games to get those players back?

Bacha: Yes, it's important. After, the coach makes her own decisions. In any case, as I've always said, Lyon has always had a stacked bench. Sometimes we rotate - the starting 11 rotate, I mean. In any case, yeah, we have a stacked bench. As one of the Dijon players said, "wow, your team is just exceptional. Even when substitutes come on, nothing changes." So yeah. The substitutions were good for us, it allowed everyone to get some rhythm before the big games coming up.

Journalist: One last question, Selma, and we'll release you to do that short trip from Dijon back to Lyon. Tomorrow there is a game between PFC [Paris FC] and PSG. Are you the type to watch that sort of game or not at all?

Bacha: I'll be honest with you, I usually don't watch PSG games. But tomorrow I'll have to watch since it's a big matchup. Paris FC has to win [to stay in the race for a UWCL place], PSG also has to win [to keep up with Lyon]. So it'll be a really, really big game. So looking forward to it.

Journalist: Thank you, and congratulations once again, even if you're not concerned you deserved Player of the Match. Congratulations anyway for the win and for the ninth assist of the season.

Bacha: Thank you very much. And Allez l'OL!

VICKI BECHO INTERVIEW

Becho: Well first, hello. We're coming off two weeks without having played [a competitive game]. Today we played Dijon, it was important to come back and find our rhythm again, to score, to impose our style of play again, because we have two important games coming up against Paris Saint-Germain. So it was important to find our bearings again, and then the goals will come.

Journalist: A quick word, Vicki, on your performances. We were looking at the stats before the game. You started - sorry, your participated in 17 out of the 20 games this season in D1 Arkema. You've played a lot, you've often come on as an important substitute, coming in off the bench but still making a difference to the game. This time you were a starter for the 10th time this season, all competitions included. What difference does that make for you?

Becho: For me it shows the confidence the club has in me, the [confidence the] coach has in me. That's really important to feel confident, because it's been complicated these past few days, these past months [cf sale to Michele Kang, Lyon being crippled by injuries, etc]. So it was important to me that the coach showed confidence in me. When you feel confident, the performances follow. And I hope to continue to improve, to always be at my best.

Coralie Ducher: Hello, Vicki. You just said continue to improve. Do you think there has been any difference between when you first came on as a substitute in the beginning and how you are now as a starter? Do the coaches expect more from you? Do you have additional responsibilities? How do you experience it?

Becho: Of course, of course. At the beginning, I think my first game was against Reims, I come in, they give me some playing time, and I knew in that moment I had to take advantage of the opportunity given to me. After there is a lot more - how do I say this - you don't have a lot of confidence, you hesitate a lot more. And now today, even with these players [eg. Hegerberg], I feel that - I feel better. And honestly, it's great. And having playing time, it's great, you can only improve by playing.

Timothee Piron: Hello, Vicki. Indeed, we get the impression that you're improving the more you play. Your goal today, I'm sure you'll see it when the team analyzes the game, there was a really good collective play leading up to it. It's not yet what we've seen you produce in training. I'm often saying, "yeah what Vicki is doing in the game is great, but she's better in practice. The day she does the same in a game, that will really hurt opponents." But I imagine it's nonetheless important for you, and for the team, to gain a lot of confidence ahead of the two massive games against PSG which are coming up.

Becho: Yeah, of course. But I'm going to respond to what you said about the training. In training sessions, I'm more laid back. But in a game I don't want to make a mistake, so I'm a bit more on the back foot. But honestly, the day where I will be able to play in a game the way I play in practice, that will be huge. But yeah, for the moment it's going really well, so I want to continue like that. It's great.

Journalist: Vicki, I'm going to talk to the former Parisian player. You've kept in touch with a lot of your contacts at that club that you know very well. Is there going to be some heckling and bantering? Are messages going to be exchanged between now and the Coupe de France?

Becho: Of course, but it has already started. It has already started. It's been going on for two weeks now, we're ribbing each other, sending each other messages. It's a proper war. I think today as a Lyon player I want to give everything, I want to win against this Paris team. It'll start this weekend, like, I was telling the girls, I hope Paris FC will do us a solid. Then it'll be up to us to do our job. So honestly I think it can be done. It's an objective we set for ourselves since the beginning of the season. So it's up to us to accomplish them.

Journalist: One last question, Vicki. There's a part of me that's hoping you will be on Herve Renard's list of players for the World Cup. You could be the joker coming on in the last minute. Is that something you are thinking about, even a little?

Becho: Of course. As a competitor, I have to be thinking about it. But I also don't want to put pressure on myself for that. We'll see what happens when the list comes out. But for now I'm focusing on the team. I think your performances in a club is what will take you to the top. So why not with the French team for the World Cup? So I hope to be on it, but for now I'm doing my job with my team. We'll see what happens afterwards.

Journalist: Thank you, Vicki.

[greatworldwar2]

• Richard Winters

Richard Davis Winters, was an officer of the United States Army and a decorated war veteran. He is best known for having commanded Easy Company of the 2nd Battalion, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, part of the 101st Airborne Division, during World War II.

Winters was born in New Holland, Pennsylvania, to Richard and Edith Winters on January 21st, 1918. The family soon moved to nearby Ephrata, and then to Lancaster when he was eight years old. He graduated from Lancaster Boys High School in 1937 and attended Franklin and Marshall College. At Franklin and Marshall, Winters was a member of the Upsilon chapter of Delta Sigma Phi fraternity and participated in intramural football and basketball. He had to give up wrestling, his favorite sport, and most of his social activities for his studies and the part-time jobs that paid his way through college. He graduated in 1941 with a B.S in Economics. He obtained the highest academic standing in the business college. Following graduation, he enlisted in the Army to fulfill a one-year requirement of service, although he later wrote in his memoirs that at the time he "had no desire to get into the war" and that he had volunteered so that he would not be drafted later.

Winters enlisted in the United States Army on August 25th, 1941. In September, he underwent basic training at Camp Croft, South Carolina. He remained at Camp Croft to help train draftees and other volunteers, while the rest of his battalion was deployed to Panama. In April 1942, four months after the United States entered World War II, he was selected to attend Officer Candidate School (OCS) at Fort Benning, Georgia. There he became friends with Lewis Nixon, with whom he served throughout the war. He was commissioned as a second lieutenant in the infantry after graduating from OCS on July 2nd, 1942. During his officer training, Winters decided to join the parachute infantry, part of the U.S. Army's new airborne forces. Upon completing training, he returned to Camp Croft to train another class of draftees as there were no positions available in the paratroopers at that time. After five weeks, he received orders to join the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment (506th PIR) at Camp Toccoa in Georgia. Winters arrived at Toccoa in mid-August 1942 and was assigned to Company E, 2nd Battalion, 506th PIR, which later became better known as "Easy Company" in accordance with the contemporaneous Joint Army/Navy Phonetic Alphabet. Serving under First Lieutenant Herbert Sobel, Winters was made platoon leader of 2nd Platoon, earning a promotion to first lieutenant in October 1942, and made acting company executive officer, although this was not made official until May 1943. The training at Toccoa was very tough. Of the 500 officers who had volunteered, only 148 completed the course; of 5,000 enlisted volunteers, only 1,800 were ultimately selected for duty as paratroopers.

On June 10th, 1943, after more tactical training at Camp Mackall, North Carolina, the 506th PIR was attached to Major General William Lee's 101st "Screaming Eagles" Airborne Division. Later in the year, they embarked on the Samaria, and arrived in Liverpool on September 15th, 1943. They proceeded to Aldbourne, Wiltshire, where they began intense training for the Allied invasion of Europe planned for spring 1944. In November and December 1943, while Easy Company was at Aldbourne, the tension that had been brewing between Winters and Sobel came to a head. For some time, Winters had privately held concerns over Sobel's ability to lead the company in combat. Many of the enlisted men in the company had come to respect Winters for his competence and had also developed their own concerns about Sobel's leadership. Winters later said that he never wanted to compete with Sobel for command of Easy Company; still, Sobel attempted to bring Winters up on trumped-up charges for "failure to carry out a lawful order". Feeling that his punishment was unjust, Winters requested that the charge be reviewed by court-martial. After Winters' punishment was set aside by the battalion commander, Major Robert L. Strayer, Sobel brought Winters up on another charge the following day. During the investigation, Winters was transferred to the Headquarters Company and appointed as the battalion mess officer. Following this, though Winters tried to talk them out of it, a number of the company's non commissioned officers (NCOs) gave the regimental commander, Colonel Sink, an ultimatum: either Sobel be replaced, or they would surrender their stripes. Sink was not impressed and several of the NCOs were subsequently demoted and/or transferred out of the company. Nevertheless, Sink realized that something had to be done and decided to transfer Sobel out of Easy Company, giving him command of a new parachute training school at Chilton Foliat. Winters' court-martial was set aside and he returned to Easy Company as leader of 1st Platoon. Winters later said he felt that despite his differences with Sobel, at least part of Easy Company's success had been due to Sobel's strenuous training and high expectations.

In February 1944, First Lieutenant Thomas Meehan was given command of Easy Company. Meehan remained in command of the company until the invasion of Normandy, when at about 1:15 a.m. on June 6th, 1944, D-Day, the C-47 Skytrain transporting the company Headquarters Section was shot down by German anti-aircraft fire, killing everyone on board. Winters jumped that night and landed safely near Sainte-Mère-Église. Losing his weapon during the drop, he nevertheless oriented himself, assembled several paratroopers, including members of the 82nd Airborne Division, and proceeded toward the unit's objective near Sainte-Marie-du-Mont. With Meehan's fate unknown, Winters became the de facto commanding officer (CO) of Easy Company, which he remained for the duration of the Normandy campaign. Later that day, Winters led an attack that destroyed a battery of German 105mm howitzers, which were firing onto the causeways that served as the principal exits from Utah Beach. The Americans estimated that the guns were defended by about a platoon of 50 German troops, while Winters had 13 men. This action south of the village of Le Grand-Chemin, would later be called the Brécourt Manor Assault. winters was successful in destroying the battery, in addition Winters also obtained a map that showed German gun emplacements near Utah Beach. On July 1th, 1944, Winters was told that he had been promoted to captain. The next day, he was presented with the Distinguished Service Cross by General Omar Bradley, then the commander of the U.S. First Army. Shortly after, the 506th Parachute Infantry was withdrawn from France and returned to Aldbourne, England, for reorganization.

In September 1944, the 506th PIR parachuted into the Netherlands, near the village of Son, north of Eindhoven, as part of Operation Market Garden, a combined airborne and armored operation. On October 5th, 1944, a German force attacked the 2nd Battalion's flank and threatened to break through the American lines. At the same time, four men in an Easy Company patrol were wounded. Returning to the headquarters, they reported that they had encountered a large group of Germans at a crossroads about 1,300 yards (1,200 m) to the east of the company command post. Realizing the seriousness of the situation, Winters took one squad from 1st Platoon, and moved off toward the crossroads, where they observed a German machine gun firing to the south, toward the battalion headquarters, from a long distance. After surveying the position, Winters led the squad in an assault on the gun crew. Soon after taking the position, the squad took fire from a German position opposite them. Estimating that this position was held by at least a platoon, Winters called for reinforcements from the rest of the 1st Platoon and led them in a successful assault. Later it was discovered there had been at least 300 Germans. On October 9th, Winters became the battalion executive officer (XO), following the death of the battalion's former XO, Major Oliver Horton. Although this position was normally held by a major, Winters filled it as a captain. The 101st Airborne Division was withdrawn to France soon afterward. On December 16th, 1944, German forces launched a counter-offensive against the Western Allies in Belgium, commencing the Battle of the Bulge. The 101st Airborne Division was trucked to the Bastogne area two days later. Still serving as XO of the 2nd Battalion, Winters helped defend the line northeast of Bastogne near the town of Foy. The entire 101st Airborne and elements of the 10th Armored Division battled about 15 German divisions, supported by heavy artillery and armor, for nearly a week before General George Patton's U.S. Third Army broke through the German lines surrounding Bastogne, reopening ground supply lines. After being relieved, the 2nd Battalion attacked Foy on January 9th, 1945. On March 8th, 1945, the 2nd Battalion was moved to Haguenau in Alsace, after which Winters was promoted to major, and Winters took over as acting commander of the 2nd Battalion.

In April, the battalion carried out defensive duties along the Rhine before deploying to Bavaria later in the month. In early May, the 101st Airborne Division received orders to capture Berchtesgaden. The 2nd Battalion set out from the town of Thalem through streams of surrendering German soldiers and reached the alpine retreat at noon on May 5th, 1945. Three days later, the war in Europe ended. After the end of hostilities, Winters remained in Europe as the process of occupation and demobilization began. Even though he had enough points to return to the United States, he was told that he was needed in Germany. Later, he was offered a regular (non-reserve) commission, but declined it. He finally embarked from Marseille aboard the Wooster Victory on November 4th, 1945. Winters was recommended for the Medal of Honor for his leadership at Brécourt Manor, but instead received the U.S. Army's second-highest award for combat valor, the Distinguished Service Cross. After leaving the Army, Winters worked for his close wartime friend Captain Lewis Nixon at Nixon's family business, Nixon Nitration Works of Edison, New Jersey, rising to become general manager in 1950. On May 16th, 1948, Winters married Ethel Estoppey. In June 1951, Winters was recalled to active duty in the Army during the Korean War. He was ordered to join the 11th Airborne Division at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, but he was given six months to report and in this time he traveled to Washington, D.C., to speak to General Anthony McAuliffe, in the hope that he could convince the Army not to send him to Korea. Winters unfortunately was desired for his service and then reported to Fort Dix, New Jersey, where he was assigned as a regimental planning and training officer.

While at Fort Dix, Winters became disillusioned with his job, finding that he had little enthusiasm for training officers who lacked discipline and did not attend their scheduled classes. As a result, he volunteered to attend Ranger School, where he passed and became a Ranger. He then received orders to deploy to Korea and traveled to Seattle, where, during pre-deployment administration, he was offered the option of resigning his commission, which he accepted. Winters was discharged from the Army and became a production supervisor at a plastics adhesive business in New Brunswick, New Jersey. In 1951, he and his wife bought a small farm where later they built a home and raised two children. In 1972, Winters went into business for himself, starting his own company and selling animal feed products to farmers throughout Pennsylvania. He retired in 1997. During the 1990s, Winters was featured in a number of books and television series about his experiences and those of the men in Easy Company. Despite the many accolades he had received, Winters remained humble about his service, most notably due to the popular miniseries Band of Brothers. During the interview segment of the miniseries Band of Brothers, Winters quoted a passage from a letter he received from Sergeant Myron "Mike" Ranney, "I cherish the memories of a question my grandson asked me the other day when he said, 'Grandpa, were you a hero in the war?' Grandpa said 'No...but I served in a company of heroes'." Winters died on January 2nd, 2011, at an assisted living facility in Campbelltown, Pennsylvania, 19 days before his 93rd birthday. He had suffered from Parkinson's disease for several years. Winters was buried in a private funeral service, which was held on January 8th, 2011. His wife Ethel died in 2012, at age 89.

[sleepingpatterns]

“Should I use InDesign to lay out my books?” - A Passionate Guide

Ok, if you are like me, you recently stumbled upon @armoredsuperheavy​‘s brilliant blog about bookbinding and fanfiction, and now you are excited to throw yourself head-first into bookbinding.

This also means that you are about to invest a fair amount of time into figuring out how exactly to lay out books. What you end up getting comfortable with will most likely be what you end up using long term, so it is worthwhile giving it some thought. The question really comes down to this: who's name will you be cursing for the foreseeable future? Adobe? Or Microsoft?

Full disclosure: I only started using InDesign because I was forced to. I worked as an editor at a newspaper, and that was what we used. The beginning was hell. I won’t sugar coat it, it sucks. In the end it was worth it. Once you figure it out, InDesign’s potential far outstrips Microsoft Word (in my opinion).

That encouragement means very little when you open this treacherous program for the first time and see THIS:

“What?! I will literally give you $100 if you guess what all the buttons on the left are for. How the fuck do I make the margins disappear!?”

So, if using InDesign means figuring out what at least one third of the tools on the left are for, lets talk pros and cons.

Let’s get the cons out of the way.

It is expensive. Adobe is not fucking around. This puppy costs 20 bucks a month (Canadian) to RENT. If this is out of your price range, do you still have options? Yes. Do they range in legality? Also yes. I think I could potentially get in trouble for telling you to find your friendly neighborhood torrenting site and steal this software. I will say, outright, that no one should steal software ever. Got it? I would be very upset if someone were to message me for specifics. As you naturally wish to be law-abiding, there is also the quasi-legal option of repeating the 14-day free trial. My friend works at a professional print studio in Russia, and this is the tactic they use: every 14 days they uninstall all of the software from all of the computers, and reinstall it with a new trial. Every 14 days! At a professional operation! My friend hates working there.

It is not initially intuitive. I’ve covered this, but it bears repeating because it is a serious hurdle. Keep in mind, that with time, InDesign becomes more helpful than other software. Now when I use Word I find myself reaching for keyboard shortcuts automatically, and feeling bereft at the lack of my favorite tools. Nonetheless, expect a time commitment up front learning how to harness this glorious and confusing computer program.

It can run kinda slowly, depending on your computer. Up until two months ago, I had the world’s most precarious laptop. I bought it for $200 in 2015. It once took half an hour to restart. Inexplicably, when it got stressed, it would switch to Spanish. It was literally and figuratively falling apart. And yet, it ran InDesign. Granted, it worked slowly. If I asked it to process too many images at once it would panic (again with the Spanish), but for the most part, it worked. If you have a slow computer and are patient, then InDesign will probably work fine on your computer. If you are not willing to suffer, stick to Word.

You will also need Photoshop (sometimes). Part of what makes InDesign glorious is that it is professional software that is designed specifically to work with print and anything text-heavy. I love that about it. It even manages to do some handy things with images! But, inevitably, you will need to learn some Photoshop to punch up your graphics. I have, admittedly, only learned the bare minimum Photoshop in order to feed my InDesign addiction. It was a pain in the butt. For example, inexplicably, Adobe has not standardized keyboard shortcuts across the suite. As with InDesign, now that I’ve learned the tricks, I adore it. But you should go into this knowing that with Adobe, the fun never ends.

Printing signatures is the WORST. Adobe, please explain to me, in front of God and everyone, why the hell you would make this software specifically for laying out books etc. and not include a method of printing signatures?! I’m livid. This is absolutely where Word wins the day. It is almost worth using Word just to print the signatures so nicely and easily. I’m not kidding. Me—a person who has used InDesign professionally—almost wanted to switch software entirely just because of this. Hands down, InDesign’s biggest goof. Despite this crime against bookbinders everywhere, you have options. You can export your design to a PDF and literally print each signature separately (I am fucking livid) or you can complain enough to your friends that they offer to buy you a lovely program called BookletCreator for your birthday. It costs $20 bucks USD and it was worth every penny. However, Adobe, FOR THE AMOUNT THAT YOU CHARGE FOR YOUR PROGRAM, I SHOULD NOT HAVE TO PURCHASE ANY ADDITIONAL SOFTWARE IN ORDER TO PRINT MY BOOK. Did I mention that I am livid?!

But InDesign must be worth something, right?! Otherwise why would I be writing a long post encouraging people to use it? Let’s talk pros:

The horsepower on this baby will blow your mind. Forget what I just said about printing signatures; imagine using software that was literally made for this. You wanna do a thing? InDesign has got you. Are you a perfectionist? This software was designed by people as pedantic and obsessive as yourself. It gets you. Dream it, google how to do it, and InDesign will deliver. This is really the main reason to use InDesign; it is the professional standard for a reason.

There are so SO many resources available to help you learn. Almost everything I’ve learned about InDesign I learned from Google or YouTube. Honestly, if you have a question, I promise that other people have already asked and answered it. The advantage is that because this software is specifically for laying out books, there is lots of information available specifically about how to do what you want to do. (This may also be true for Word, but I’ll be honest, I only used Word for a book layout once, so I can’t say for certain either way.)

Once you figure it out, InDesign will give you back hours of your life. Things like master page spreads, clipping paths, tint, the eyedropper tool, and the one-hundred-percent adjustable text are just... lifesavers. My experience with Word is limited, so my frustration using it was probably due to my own ineptitude, but honestly, when putting together my thesis, the tears I cried trying to get page numbers to format correctly were some of the most bitter text-related tears I have ever shed. I can take care of the whole operation in InDesign in a matter of minutes. Hours. Of. My. Life. Saved.

This is an actual marketable skill. Ok, bear with me here. I have used InDesign for every single job I have had since I worked at the newspaper. That includes working as a bookkeeper and a kindergarten teacher. Hell, I even made my resume to get those jobs in InDesign. There is no job that I forsee in my future that doesn’t include some form of text-based design. Even when my work has absolutely nothing to do with layout (see: kindergarten teacher) I still found some way to use it. My previous boss was actually so thrilled about my InDesign skills that she had me run a 101 seminar for the other employees. (Did any of them end up using it? I suspect not. Did they look at me strangely for being so enthusiastic about design software? Absolutely.) I’ve even managed to use InDesign to branch out from freelance editing to take on design projects as well. In short: if you learn how to use InDesign, put in on your resume. You will be surprised at how much mileage you get out of it.

With Adobe, the fun never ends. I know I joked about it before, but really, I love seeing what this program has in store for me next. For example, thanks to bookbinding, I discovered that InDesign will do a lot of things that I had previously assumed were the domain of Word, such as spell check. I literally stumbled onto a measuring tool today that I wish existed irl to help me glue my covers together. Part of the beauty of this software being so intricate is that there is always something new you can do. I love learning how to harness a new feature, and then watch my design improve over time. Using this program you really get the feeling that the sky is the limit. Look, just the fact that I’ve now resorted to saccharine platitudes about computer software tells you that InDesign is remarkable. Considering that this program has made me suffer so significantly, I have either seen the face of God, or I have Stockholm syndrome. Take your pick.

TL;DR, at long last:

How complicated would you like to go? Either way, for bookbinding you’ve got to learn to use software in a new way.

Do you just want to get your book laid out reliably with little fuss? Word is for you! Are you interested in delving into the details? Do you have the patience of a saint? Try InDesign!

Both work. Both are good. But you can pry InDesign from my cold dead hands because I adore it.

[ieattaperecorders]

Something’s Different About You Lately - Chapter 5: Gentle, Cheerful Lies

Some doors are opened. Others are shut.

Read on Ao3

Jon stood outside the gate, checking the address against what he’d written down. This was it. He was in the right place.

He looked at his phone . . . he was early, but not too early. He’d expected her to be there before him, and as he waited he tried not to run through all of the possible ways this might go wrong. She could have checked his background and realized something was off. The agency could have decided to send a different person. Worst of all, he might have simply remembered the dates incorrectly and come too late to intervene.

His attention was so centered on trying not to think about these things that he didn’t notice the car until it was halfway into the driveway. There was a moment of shock as the driver exited, giving a polite little wave in his direction. Jon had grown used to seeing that face twisted subtly, with features that swam whenever you tried to focus on them. She seemed so solid now, so real, and it was oddly disorienting. He found himself wondering if there was such a thing as a reverse of the uncanny valley effect, the distress of seeing something that no longer looks wrong.

She’s a person, you ass, Jon thought to himself. And you’re staring at her. Say something.

“Ms. Richardson?” he asked, as if he was uncertain.

“That’s me,” Helen called as she approached. “And you must be - - forgive me, I’ve done five other viewings today, just need a moment to remember . . .” she glanced down at her clipboard. “Jonathan . . . er, Smith?”

“Go ahead and make a joke,” Jon smiled as best he could. “You won’t be the first.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it," she smiled back, crisp and professional. Her smile was not wider than her face, and it showed an ordinary number of teeth. "Shall we take a look inside, then?”

“Yes, ah,” he nodded. “Let’s do that.”

The house on Saint Albans avenue was big enough for a family of five, and if Jon had actually been looking to move anywhere it would have been astronomically out of his price range. He’d worn his best shoes. Hopefully he appeared more financially stable than he was.

“Is it just you today?” Helen asked casually as they walked across the entryway, her heels echoing against the hardwood.

“Er, yes. Just looking for myself.”

“Just curious,” she replied, though he suspected she was trying to size him up, “I’ve mostly been showing this property to families, or young couples planning to start one. It’s a lot of space for one person.”

“. . . I think I’m going to need a lot of space,” he said distractedly, eyes sweeping the walls of the room as if contemplating its size. He was actually looking for anything out of place, unnatural. Distorted. “I, ah . . . entertain frequently.”

“Right . . . well, in that case, you couldn’t do much better than this layout. The living room flows right into the kitchen, and beyond that is an entry to the outdoor patio . . . .”

Jon nodded and followed her from room to room, doing his best to pretend interest in the hardwood floors and the amount of closet space. He spent a particularly long moment in the second story hallway, silently counting and re-counting the doors, finding their number frustratingly consistent. Before long the two of them had returned to the front of the house, tour finished.

Now what, genius? he thought.

He’d been given months to prepare for this, and despite running through a thousand scenarios in his mind the only real plan he’d managed to settle on had been “find Helen.” He'd hoped that if Michael already had an interest in her, his presence would be enough to prompt it to appear. Wishful thinking, probably. But the Distortion was by nature unpredictable, and any scheme that had depended on guessing its movements would have fallen apart all the same, leaving him with no plan at all.

Then again, ‘left with no plan at all’ was where he found himself now. He tried to focus on what Helen was saying.

“If you’re interested in putting in an offer,” she continued, “the office is just down the street. You’re more than welcome to take some time to consider, of course, but I wouldn’t advise waiting long. Confidentially, there are a few other buyers who’ve taken an interest, and if you want to act while it’s still on the market it would probably be wisest to put something in today.”

“That’s a lie, isn’t it?” Jon didn’t speak with anger or reproach, only the pleasant surprise of realization. His search for Helen had led him across a few articles on less-honest tactics that home buyers should watch for. “I’ve heard about that. It’s to press someone into making a decision, get rid of time-wasters, right?”

It was hard not to frame a thing like that against what was going to happen to her. Did it mean anything? There were so many people who, in the course of their job, were expected to gently and cheerfully lie to people. Push false claims, press on anxieties, exaggerate things. Day after day, twisting a thousand tiny falsehoods into their interactions with people, until no longer felt like lying at all. Did that feed Es Mentiras all on its own?

Oh. Helen was staring at him now, and her mouth was a hard line. Perhaps saying that out loud had been a bad idea.

“Ah, sorry. Forget I said that, please.” Jon took a deep breath. He’d run out of pretense and wouldn’t have much time before she shooed him out. It was now or never. “Tell me, have you ever noticed anything unusual happening in this place?”

“Unusual?” Helen looked uncertain for a moment. Then realization struck, and she looked like she might be disappointed. “Ah. You mean . . . ghost stories? Hauntings, things like that?”

“Sort of? Not exactly,” Jon said. “Look, I’m from the Magnus Institute. . . .”

“Ah. Yes. I’ve heard of that one,” the disappointment that had been threatening a moment ago now fell thunderously across her face, as she realized she’d been wasting her time.

“Yes, well, ah, I know it has a reputation - ”

“As much as I’d love to discuss the many, many unlikely haunted house stories I’ve heard in my career, Mr. Smith, I have other viewings today,” her voice was polite, falsely pleasant and sincerely firm as she crossed past him to open the front door. “If you’re interested in making an offer on this property, you have my card, but for now I really have to ask you to - -”

“You’re in danger.” Jon blurted out.

Helen’s hand hesitated just over the doorknob, and she glanced back at him. She looked wary, though Jon suspected he’d only succeeded in making her wary of him. He kept talking, speaking quickly, afraid if he paused she’d resume throwing him out.

“Someone is going to come after you. Someone dangerous. There’s a - a being that calls itself Michael, it might be stalking you already. Look, you don’t have to believe me now,” he held up his hands, “you can think I’m absolutely unhinged now. But if a strange man with straw-colored hair who laughs like a headache shows up at a home you’re selling – I - I don’t know. Try to get away from him if you can? And don’t open any doors that shouldn’t be there. He can trap you behind the doors.”

Helen stared at him. Jon lowered his hands and sighed.

“Really,” he said, “you should quit real estate all together. But I doubt you’re going to do that because a total stranger came by and started raving about doors and monsters. Just remember what I said, if he shows up?”

“. . . Right. Will do.” Helen’s voice was tight. She opened the door - a normal door, one that opened only to the house’s exterior - and gestured for him to walk through. “Good afternoon, Mr. Smith.”

Jon wasn’t sure he’d helped at all, and he feared he might have blurted out too much if any eyes happened to be on him. But trying to push it further would probably make things worse, he ought to just leave before she decided to call the police on him. Resignedly, he walked out onto the porch.

“Straw-blond hair,” he added. “In ringlets, and the door will be yellow.”

“Understood,” she smiled insincerely, eager to move him along. “Thank you for the warning.”

Jon didn’t look back to see whether Helen returned to her car after he left, or just shut herself in a house she didn’t own until he was out of sight. He stuck his hands in his pockets and began the long walk back to the bus stop.

* * *

It was almost a month later when he heard her voice again. Not the bright sales tone that she’d had before or the uncanny echo he’d grown used to. It was shaky, unsteady, with an edge of desperation that was audible even muffled through his office door.

“- -sent me down here,” she said, “I know he works here, I know it. His name is - is Jonathan Smith. Or at least he said that it was - -”

“There is a Jon here,” that was Sasha. “Are you sure that it was ‘Smith’ he said? Not ‘Sims?’”

“If you want to sit down for a moment -” Martin’s voice, it sounded concerned. “We can go talk to him. And maybe you ought to sit down either way . . . .”

He stood and opened the door to his office, looking out. Helen was standing there, disheveled, clutching the back of a chair like it was all that was holding her up. Sasha and Martin hovered around her while Tim stood at the back wall, looking as though he was considering whether to physically insert himself into the situation. When she saw Jon, Helen’s eyes widened and she pointed in his direction.

“There. That’s him. It’s you?” Her voice began as confident, almost accusatory, but by the end it curved into uncertainty. As if hoping he would confirm that he’d met her before.

“It’s me,” he agreed, nodding. He glanced at the others. “Thank you, Martin, Sasha. I can speak to Ms. Richardson in my office.”

Helen nodded. She took a deep breath and straightened her blazer, trying to regain some sense of composure as she walked. Jon stepped aside to let her in. The second the door to his office closed she turned to face him, not bothering to sit down.

“How did you know?” she whispered, deep creases forming in her brow. “How did you know it would be there?”

Elias is watching, Jon thought.

“It’s a long story,” he said carefully. “One of my staff had a run-in with this 'Michael.' I’ve been trying to see what I can learn and, ah, my - - my research led me to think he might come after you. I take it he showed up?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Did you . . . ” Jon took a deep breath, fearful of the answer that he already knew, “go through the door?”

Helen’s face fell, and that told Jon all he needed. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach as she continued.

“I didn’t intend to. When he showed up I remembered what you had said about a man with straw blonde ringlets. I didn’t believe you, of course, can you blame me? But I did remember. And there was something off about him, something unsettling. I told myself I’d let you get inside my head, I was only startled since he matched your description. That plenty of people have blond, curly hair, and I was being irrational. But then he spoke, and his voice,” her breathing slowed, her speech grew calmer and more rhythmic, though the fear didn’t leave her eyes, “it reminded me of having fevers as a child, of trying to fall asleep with my head swimming and- -”

“Don’t!” Jon said, a little too loudly.

Helen was startled into silence, the statement that had been spilling out of her cut off.

“Don’t tell me. Please,” he crossed over to his desk and took out a form and a pen, placing them in front of her. “Write it down.”

She seemed confused, but nodded and sat, picking up the pen. Jon supposed that he’d already given her one bizarre, panicked warning that had turned out to be true, perhaps he’d gained some credit with her. She wrote and he stood anxiously nearby, the irregular scratch of pen on paper the only sound in the room.

Elias was watching. His attention was always a possibility, the paranoia of knowing you might be watched no less maddening than constant and certain surveillance. But Helen would have caught his attention, and Jon didn’t doubt that his eyes were on them now.

He wasn’t sure how much Elias Knew. Not everything, certainly. If he’d known everything he’d have made an attempt on Jon’s life by now. While he lived he was both a needed component to the ritual and a threat to it, and Elias couldn’t possibly allow that. It seemed, then, that he still had some secrets. But Jon knew he wasn’t hiding his contempt for the man well, and the steps he’d been taking to stay human had become a silent point of contention between them.

When Elias noted that he’d stopped recording statements, Jon had spent an afternoon reading out a stack of nonsense and conspiracy theory that went straight into the computer. After a few weeks of that, Elias began directing him to specific statements, real statements, marking them as higher priority. Jon lied about recording them, claiming the audio files were corrupted and unusable. When Elias suggested the tape recorder that he’d been using before, Jon said it was broken. Which it was. Most things become broken when you hit them with a hammer.

It was a strange sort of fencing match that neither would acknowledge they were having.

A week ago, Elias had walked into Jon’s office and placed a folder on his desk. He’d told Jon to make a recording with him in the room, so that he could get a better idea of what the problem was. There’d been nothing hostile in his manner, he maintained a smiling, genial, let’s-work-this-out-together tone. But it couldn’t have been more aggressive if he’d walked in with a gun.

No unnatural hunger had pulled Jon towards the statement, that wasn’t there yet. But still, part of him had wanted to give in. Something in the back of his mind whispered that he could do it just once, just to satisfy Elias, get him off his back for a while. That he needed to or this would keep escalating. That it would be a while before the dreams began, before things would get truly bad. That he’d have to give in sooner or later.

He’d slid the folder across the desk, and spoken in a tight, controlled voice.

You know, he’d said, I’ve been thinking lately that I may not have been the right choice for this position. If you’re so unsatisfied with my job performance, maybe you should just fire me.

It had felt like a dare. He wasn’t sure what the dare was, since firing him wasn’t possible. Maybe he just hoped Elias would drop the pretense. Admit his reasons for wanting Jon to read statements out loud - to a recorder, a computer, an empty room if necessary - had nothing to do with document preservation. One of them would have to blink first.

It wouldn’t be Elias, though. He’d sighed and told Jon not to be so dramatic, that this was only a technical issue after all, and Jon’s overall work had been adequate. He said that perhaps he’d been micromanaging too much, that he would try to be more hands-off in the future. That he was sure Jon would figure out something on his own.

As Elias turned towards the door, Jon had been just foolish enough to feel victorious. Then he paused in the doorframe, smiling with knowing satisfaction.

Don’t worry, Jon, he’d said. I have every confidence that you were the right choice for this. You’ll take to it in time.

Jon had kept silent at that, sure if he said anything he’d say something he’d regret.

If not, Elias had added, pulling the door shut, I’m sure that one of your assistants would be up to the task.

And there it was. The threat that he’d been waiting for.

Jon glanced over Helen’s shoulder. She’d scribbled a maze of overlapping lines at the top of the page - a frustrated attempt to map out the impossible architecture of the Distortion’s hallways. He blinked, feeling ill, and turned away.

When he had the full powers of the Archivist, Jon had pierced the Unknowing and navigated the Lonely. Now he was so human that he couldn’t look directly at Helen’s drawings without his head swimming and his eyes going glassy. How was he going to stop Elias when he couldn’t See him coming? What did he think that he could do for Helen, already claimed by the Spiral? Did he really believe he had a chance of keeping anyone safe when he was so thoroughly defenseless?

It worries me, said a voice in Jon’s memory, when you do the whole ‘curse this flesh prison’ thing.

This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To stay human? To keep himself as free of the Beholding’s power as possible? It was what he needed to do, or everything else would be forfeit. Being human meant being helpless. It meant being toyed with and taken apart by the uncaring world. There was nothing for him to do but accept that, and try to stay alive.

The pen stopped moving. Helen cleared her throat. “I’ve finished."

Jon picked up the small stack of paper from the desk in front of her. He had to read it, if only to find out what was different this time. Maybe there was something in her story that could help her. Maybe he could bring some insight to it.

The beginning was as she’d already described. Michael came to the house on Saint Albans avenue, and she dismissed her own wariness as a sign that she’d let Jon get to her. At least, until the door appeared.

For some reason, it was the color that scared me the most, she wrote. That you’d specified a yellow door. As if a blue or brown or white door appearing there would have been any less impossible, as if that one detail being wrong would have meant anything at all. I suppose it was something to grab onto, though, because it gave me the certainty I needed.

The man was standing between me and the stairs, which were the only way down to the first floor. Getting there would have meant pushing past him and I wasn’t sure what would happen if I tried, so I turned and walked into the master bedroom. Didn’t say anything, didn’t answer his question, just left. There was a tree that grew close to the window, and it was sturdy enough to climb down. No easy task in heels and nylons, but I managed. The man didn’t try to follow me. For all I know he just stayed in the hallway, perfectly still, where I left him.

I didn’t bother to cancel my other viewings, just got into my car and drove. I wanted to get home, to a place that felt safe and normal where I could gather my thoughts. But when I got to my apartment, the door, well, it wasn’t mine anymore. I’m on the fourth floor, apartment B. 4A was there. 4C was there. But between them was that dark yellow door with the matte black handle.

I didn’t know what to do. Obviously I wasn’t going to open it, but there was no other place where the real door, my door could have been. After pacing back and forth for a while and trying to get my hands to stop shaking, I called a friend who lived outside the city and arranged to stay the night with her. But when I reached her house . . . well, it was there too. It was the front door, and the back door. I didn’t dare knock.

I’ll spare you the repetitiveness of the next few hours – finding it waiting for me wherever I went, being dragged screaming from a hotel after looking down the hallway and seeing rows of identical yellow doors. I slept in my car, and the next morning I went back to the house on Saint Albans. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find, really. I just knew that if I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life out of doors I’d have to find some way to resolve this.

I kept seeing it in my peripheral vision as I drove. It was on every single building, except one. The house where it had all started. You’ve seen the front door there - it’s a very distinctive bright blue, isn’t it? I can’t tell you how friendly that color looked as I approached. In hindsight, I should have realized it could only be a trap.

She had opened what she believed was the front door to the house on Saint Albans avenue and found herself trapped in a maze of endless corridors. From there the statement became depressingly familiar - wandering, fleeing from a distorted figure, finally being found on the street and taken to the hospital.

“Er . . . yes,” Helen looked at him oddly. “That’s pretty much what happened.”

Jon blinked, feeling dazed, and only then realized he’d been reading the statement out loud. That . . . wasn’t a good sign. But probably nothing he could deal with at that moment.

“Have you seen it since then,” he asked, “the door, or the man for that matter?”

“No. I’ve mostly stayed in my apartment for the last few days.”

Helen’s thin fingers fidgeted in her lap, knitting themselves together. The thing that took her and later became her retained that habit, but its hands moved in ways best not considered for long. Was there anything he could even do for her now? He’d tried to warn her and it had changed nothing but details. Even if she escaped his office unscathed, Michael could find her anywhere. He'd come for her eventually, someplace where Jon couldn't intervene.

Dekkar’s description of Bernadette Delcour as having ‘the look of an unfinished meal' came back to him, and he felt something fierce and stubborn rise. There had to be something. He knew so much that he hadn’t known the first time, somewhere in his brain there had to be something useful. Maybe if she wasn’t afraid . . . people who survive an encounter with acceptance and calm tend to do better. But fear isn’t something you can start and stop at will.

“I’m glad you managed to escape,” he tried.

“Yes. So am I, I suppose. But, look, you know about this sort of thing. This is what you study here, isn’t it?” She looked at him, “what do I do now?”

It hurt to see that look on her face – tired, strained and pleading. It was the look she’d worn the first time he’d met her, when she came in desperate for someone to believe her. Hoping someone else would hear her story, know what she had been through. She couldn’t have made a worse choice in where to tell it.

“Move on with your life,” he said after a moment, “and maybe consider a change of career.”

“That’s all?”

“You could switch to an open-plan apartment?”

She laughed at that, sharp and with release. “More or less have one already. I took all the doors off by the hinges as soon as I got home.”

“I think I’d have done the same.” He smiled weakly. “You’ve had a brush with something unnatural, and you’re still here. That’s not something a lot of people can claim. The best advice I can give you is to try and get back to normal. And maybe stay with a friend . . . being alone, obsessing over it, you’ll end up-” he was not going to say spiraling, “- end up tormenting yourself. Better to let it fade, until it’s just another bad memory.”

She was quiet for a while, then nodded slowly. “It was real, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” he said. “All of it was real.”

She took in a slow breath and stood, straightening her clothes, gaining back a sliver of the closed-off, professional demeanor he had seen in her a month prior.

“Well. Then I’ll - -” she sighed. “Suppose I’ll take your advice. Do my best to move on - -”

A tug of panic hit Jon as she turned to leave, and his hand shot out to grab her.

She jumped, turning back to him with surprise. Of course she was surprised. He was grabbing her arm.

“Sorry,” he said. He looked at his own hand and frowned. He should let her go. He didn’t let her go. “Sorry, I, ah . . . .”

Why was he grabbing her arm? He – he shouldn’t be doing that. It was entirely inappropriate. But there was a reason, something important. Something he remembered happening. Or didn’t remember happening. Or didn’t remember not happening? Helen’s confusion was turning to alarm, and he knew, he really knew he should let go. But why did he feel certain that if he let her go she'd slip through his fingers and dissolve?

He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, hoping it might have an answer. His eyes settled on one word, and it fell into place.

“Ms. Richardson,” he said, voice low, eyes on the opposite wall. “What color was the door in your statement?”

Helen followed his gaze to the office door and gasped, as if only now seeing what she’d been reaching for. She took a step backwards.

“No. . . oh, God, please . . . .”

His office had one door. It had always had one door. The wall they were facing now had two, both painted the same dark yellow.

“Don’t open it,” he said.

“Of course not!” Helen snapped. “But . . . .”

“We can work this out.” Jon forced a confidence he didn’t have into his voice. He tried to remember what color his door normally was and came up blank. “These things, they play tricks on your mind, fool your senses. But it’s possible to see through them.”

“How?”

The doubt in Helen’s voice was painful. Lord, he wished he could see properly again. Just for one moment. But, no, Basira had done it without Seeing. She put her mind back together one brick at a time, with brute force, until she was able to walk out of the Unknowing. If it was possible there, it was possible here. They just needed something to start with.

He loosened his grip on Helen’s arm, reluctantly. It was a relief when she slid her hand up to take his, gripping it with a furious strength – he wanted to keep a hold of her. If he held onto her, she couldn’t slip through any more cracks. No, cracks was someone else, wasn’t it? The one who cleaned houses. Houses and doors and cracks and – focus. Focus.

“How many doors do you see right now?” He asked. “Let’s start with that.”

“One,” she answered. The quaver that had faded from her voice while they spoke was returning, as she stared at the dark yellow wood. “Just one. The . . . the same one.”

One door? That was wrong. There were two doors to his office. There had always been two doors.

“I see two. But both of them look the same.”

Helen swallowed. “How many does your office usually have?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I think - twenty? No, that’s . . .” he laughed nervously. “That’s way too many, isn’t it? That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does sound like a lot,” Helen agreed.

They stood in helpless silence for a while, looking from one wall to the other. Each one had a door. Some had more than one. Some had less than one. All of them had one.

“Don’t suppose you keep a week’s worth of water and camping supplies in here,” she said weakly. “Just in case?”

“Afraid not.”

“Worth trying.” Helen's eyes traced the walls. “Do you think he’s going to come through one of them?”

“I don’t think so. He might, but -” Jon frowned, trying to remember something. “But he wants us to open his door. It . . . choices matter.”

Choices matter, except when they don’t. Infinite tiny decisions and paths, countless choices with uncountable consequences. Wandering through life, stomping on butterflies.

“Focus,” he muttered to himself. “Helen – ah, Ms. Ms Richardson –”

“Oh, Helen is fine. If we’re going to die together we may as well be on a first name basis.”

“Helen, then. When you came into my office, what did you see? What was the first thing you noticed?

“Wh- I don’t know. Your desk?”

“Picture it. What angle were you seeing it from?”

“You mean . . . oh,” realization hit her, and she turned to face the eastern wall. “The front! I was seeing it from the front . . . so the door I came through must have been on that wall.”

“Right. We can ignore all the others,” Jon turned to face the wall with her. “It’s down to the three on this wall.”

“Four.” Helen corrected him.

“Right, two,” he agreed.

He closed his eyes, trying to picture the door to his office, the real one. It was light stained wood, unpainted, with a bright brass handle. That was right, it felt right.

When he opened his eyes, everything was clear. There was one door on the wall he was facing. Light stained wood, unpainted, the door that led back to the world. Keeping hold of Helen, he stepped forward to open it.

His hand closed around the matte black handle and turned.

Everything stopped making sense after that.

* * *

The door opened again in document storage and spit Jon out. He tumbled onto the floor, stumbling on his hands and knees. He was alone. The first coherent thought he had was that Helen was gone again. She'd been pulled into the corridors and he'd tried to keep hold of her hand, but it was impossible to hold onto anything in there.

A fever-dream laugh echoed from behind him. The Distortion hovered nearby, watching with an expression of amusement.

“That was a very stupid thing to do,” it observed.

“Give her back,” Jon tried to sound aggressive, commanding, but it wasn’t in him and his words came out like a whimper. “Y-you. . . you don’t need her. You’ll take other victims . . . you don’t need this one.”

“Oh?” It laughed, and his teeth ached. “Do you have anyone to recommend?”

“N-no, I meant. . . .” Jon swallowed. “Just give her back.”

“. . . No.”

“Hnn.” Jon found he was laughing, hollowly and without amusement. “You’ll regret that.”

“Are you threatening me?” It sounded entertained at the idea.

“No,” he replied. “It’s just a fact. Keeping her won’t turn out well for you.”

Michael said nothing. Jon stared at the floor, trying to get his bearings. Twisted afterimages were still swarming in his brain, and he felt exhausted. Without looking, he sensed the Distortion moving closer – the dizzy-sick feeling growing stronger with its presence. He grimaced as it touched one sharp finger to his head.

“Do you know that you have spiders in your hair?” It asked.

Jon felt his stomach drop.

“Wh-what?”

A door shut behind him, and he was alone.

[canary-prince]

The Saints were a fucking marketing tactic. I mean. Not totally. Like, they're likely the result of harmonizing local deities/spirits depending on how far west we're getting, and also, conferring special holiness to human beings and believe that they had magic powers or an avid texting relationship with the divine is just something many human cultures do.

But. Like. They were also trying to monopolize a concept from all of Christianity and make it into something they had sole authority over and create these unattainable role models for their people to feel inferior to and also it mirrors a monarchy system and the Church’s hierarchy and also ask me about the Saint Trials aka the forgotten other half of the Witch Panics.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

“We few, we proud”: The Swiss Guards of the Vatican

The Swiss Guards of Vatican, in the Italian language known as Guardia Svizzera, is the corps of Swiss-born specially trained soldiers who are responsible for the safety of the Pope inside the walls of Vatican City.

They are often called “the world’s smallest army” and they serve as the personal escorts to the pontiff, as well as watchmen for Vatican City and the villa of Castel Gandolfo where the Pope resides. These guards are independent of the official Swiss army and are employed by the Roman Catholic Church. Since it is under the leadership of the Pope, they are as well, and they swear fealty to him in a special ceremony at Belvedere Court.

The guards are also called the Vatican City police, however, there is a separate police force charged with the overall security of the small state, while St. Peter’s Square is under the jurisdiction of the Italian police.

Competition can be intense for the inclusion in the Swiss Guards, as it is a prestigious position. All new recruits must be unmarried Roman Catholic males who have Swiss citizenship. Next, they have to be between 19 and 30 years old, and at least 1.74 meters tall. Education wise, they must own a professional diploma or at least a high school degree. They must also have completed basic training as members of the Swiss military.

In previous centuries, all new recruits had to prove they did not have any physical deformities, while the commanding officers were of noble lineage.

These guards have a very special uniform. Normally, they wear blue doublets and blue berets. However, during the many ceremonial occasions, they change into a colorful Renaissance-era uniform that they are famous around the world. These some of the oldest uniforms still in use. It is thought Michelangelo designed them, which is very questionable and probably made up. Their tunics are striped in Medici family colors of red, dark blue, and yellow, and they also white ruffs, as well as high plumed helmets with ostrich feathers colored t in different colors that reflect different ranks. On some occasions, they also have armor. Traditional dress style means the guards carry pikes and swords, however, all of them are also trained in modern weaponry and counterterrorism tactics.

The mercenaries from Switzerland were thought of as some of the best soldiers in the world. One of the proofs for this is a statement from the ancient Roman scholar Tacitus: “The Helvetians are a people of warriors, famous for the valor of their soldiers”. They served various ruling powers of many European countries and were in highest of demands in France and Spain. They started serving the Papal States in during the 14th and 15th centuries, as in 1505, the Swiss bishop and later cardinal Matthäus Schiner, who was acting on behalf of Pope Julius II, proposed that a permanent Swiss contingent be made, under the direct control of the Pope himself. On January 22 of 1506, the first group of 150 Swiss guardsmen that was led by Captain Kaspar von Silenen came to the Vatican.

This small army quickly earned a reputation for bravery and self-sacrifice, which was demonstrated during the sack of Rome in 1527, when just 42 of the then 189 guardsmen died while defending Pope Clement VII. They prepared for similar sacrifices during World War II, when they were vastly outnumbered while defending their positions while German forces entered Rome. They did not have to act, however, as Hitler never attacked their state.

In 1914, thei Swiss Guards was changed to consist of a commandant who holds the rank of a colonel, five other ranking officers, 15 lesser officers, one chaplain, and 110 pikemen. Then in 1959 and 1976, new changes were made, while in 1979 their number was set to 100. They had a commandant, three other high officers, one chaplain, 23 lesser officers, two drummers, and 70 pikemen.

The swearing-ceremony of each recruit is held each year on May 6 because it’s the anniversary of the Sack of Rome in 1527, when only 42 of 189 Swiss Guards survived a ferocious attack on the Vatican by mutinous troops of the Holy Roman Emperor. Despite the carnage, the remaining Swiss Guards were able to spirit Pope Clement VII to safety using a secret passage connecting the Apostolic Palace with the nearby Castel Sant’Angelo.

According to the custom of the Swiss Guards, the new recruits would swear their oaths in the four official languages of Switzerland: German, French, Italian and Romansh, a language spoken by roughly 50,000-70,000 people in the canton of Grisons. Earlier in the day, the guards would also lay a wreath in the Vatican’s small Piazza of the Roman Protomartyrs in commemoration of the 147 members of the corps who died in 1527.

St. Martin of Tours , St. Sebastian, and St. Niklaus von Flüe are the patron saints of the Swiss Guard.

For at least the past six centuries, there’s always been a spirit of “We Few, We Proud,” about the Swiss Guards, the small but elite military force, with their signature multi-coloured uniforms and timeless halberds, responsible for the personal security of the pope.

Yet for 2019 in-take of new recruits of the annual swearing-in ceremony, the word “few” took on a new, and more literal, meaning. The 23 Swiss Catholic males between 19 and 30 who entered the corps represent a drop-off of nine new members from 2018. It’s a worrying trend that the Vatican is tasked to address.

Finding young and qualified Swiss Catholic men that are ready to spend several years in the service of the Pope is not straightforward, and for the past five years now, fewer and fewer candidates have been applying.

The reason may be related to the current positive economic situation in Switzerland; it’s also due to the fact that new recruits are coming from a period of low birth rates. This the view of Ruth Metzler-Arnold, a form Christian Democrat politician and current President of the Papal Swiss Guard foundation, which provides financial support for the institution.

As for finances, recruits receive board and lodging, as well as a monthly salary of some €1,500 (CHF1,711). It’s a decent basic income in Italy, but paltry by Swiss standards.

In Switzerland, the Papal Swiss Guards foundation now pays the tuition fees for children of Swiss Guard soldiers. It also tries to help reintegration in the Swiss or Italian labour markets, once the mandate has ended. It also plans to cover half of the contributions of guards to voluntary pension schemes in the future.

Five years ago, a decisive measure was taken by the Pope to allow guards who have served for five years, irrespective of their grade, to marry. Before, only officers and long-serving guards could marry.  

Now, a guard who wishes to become engaged must be 25 years old and must pledge to remain in service for another three years.

In response to the drop in applications a fierce public relations drive has been undertaken by the Vatican to boost awareness of recruitment on social media and other communication media. The Pontifical Swiss Guards were present for the first time at the Job Fair of central Switzerland (ZEBI), held in Lucerne in November 2019.

In addition €50 million has been estimated for the planned construction of new, modern living quarters for the Swiss Guard. Currently Swiss Guards and officers are housed in three crumbling 19th century buildings. A specially established foundation is currently drumming up funds for the development of the planned new living quarters which have been designed by Swiss architects Durisch+Nolli.

Whether a public recruitment drive or the construction of the new, modern barracks will make signing up as a Swiss Guard more attractive remains to be seen. The Swiss Guards have a storied and rich legacy and it would be a shame if that tradition became harder to continue.

[undermounts]

Empire of Light—Prologue: Of Monsters and Men

AO3 | Table of Contents  | Ashes and Embers | Playlist 

Fic Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of Ash, the party travels across Morella in search of allies to defeat the Empire of Ash, once and for all.

Chapter Summary: In the sparkling capital of Morella, strange things go bump in the night.

Notes: this is a sequel to my first Blades 2 fic, Ashes and Embers. If you haven’t read that yet, you can do so here!

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

Whitetower was not the sort of city that slept.

Even at the oddest hours of the morning, there was always some sort of trouble afoot—sometimes good trouble, sometimes bad, but always mischievous. The evenings were filled with the merry music from open tavern doors, the raucous laughter of drunkards, the rapturous cries of lovers, and other things that went bump in the night. Deals were made in dark alleyways, schemes were carried out amongst thieves atop the terracotta shingles that lined moonlit rooftops, and assassins and mercenaries earned their coin in underground fighting pits, where the wealthy and poor alike frequented to bet on the odds.

The Temple of Light, mercifully, was always quiet, and Cili loved quiet.

Cili, however, did not love Whitetower. He couldn’t wait until he ascended the full rank of priesthood—even though that was many years away—so that he could lead the pilgrimages across Morella or the recruitment journeys that picked up orphaned magic users such as himself, if only so he could get out of the city. It was too loud, and in some places, like the Nooks and Crannies, too smelly. In fact, if Cili had to pick a few words to describe Whitetower, they would simply be, “too much.”

Cili could still remember the day he had arrived in the capital city three years ago, not long after his fifth birthday had passed, when the priests had brought him to live at the Temple. Permanently. To put it quite frankly, that day was one of the most terrifying he’d ever had. 

Whitetower was overwhelming, a sensory overload. After crossing through the city’s borders, Cili had seen more people within a few moments than he’d ever seen on the quiet farm he grew up on. The sheer volume of people that occupied the capital made him nervous—they were a tide he could get lost in, could drown in. He was used to small communities and houses that were fields apart. Even after three years, he was still adjusting to living at the Temple with all of the other acolytes and priests.

The Market District was especially stressful. There were so many people, so many voices, smells, colors, and sounds—all of it blending together into a cacophonous mess that made Cili cling to the sleeves of the nearest priestess and bury his face in her robes. 

And beyond what Cili had experienced in his sheltered upbringing at the Temple were the stories he had heard. Some of the older students at the Temple gossiped about Whitetower’s underworld, the secret guilds of thieves, mercenaries, and assassins. Apparently, there were entire networks of tunnels hidden beneath the capital, dozens of secret passageways, and hundreds of peepholes for espionage.

The first time Cili had heard the gossip was in the hours after lights were out and the acolytes were supposed to be asleep. After that, he had spent the following day scouring the walls and rafters of the Temple for spies. He’d soon realized that he was acting a bit foolishly—the Temple of Light was perhaps the most secure place in Whitetower, right after the palace, but he still made sure to stay close to the priests whenever they were led throughout the city for their weekly services. While the other acolytes spoke of the criminals of Whitetower with some degree of awe or amusement—mostly about a thief dubbed the “Whitetower Reaper” that had mysteriously vanished a few years ago—Cili could only pray that he never encountered such rabble.

Nobles, knights, Light-users, traders, merchants, thieves, and assassins—Whitetower seemed to have it all. 

The one thing Whitetower did not have was monsters. At least not of the beastly kind, with fangs and fur and claws. Although, the same could not be said of those ruled by greed and ambition… No, Whitetower was not home to strange creatures, aside from the occasional noble-owned voxper. 

Or at least, that used to be the case. 

Now, a giant, winged creature stood guard on the city walls with a blazing fire in his lungs. And unbeknownst to the general public, strange beasts prowled the shadows… 

Cili quietly shuffled down the moonlit marble halls of the Temple, collecting and extinguishing the old candles that had been burning all evening and replacing them with new ones he would light tomorrow morning. This was the last part of his daily routine, his final task of the day as one of the younger acolytes, and his least favorite chore. He would never admit it, especially around the older children, but his heart always beat a little faster when he carried out this task, the tempo increasing with every flame he extinguished. Cili was not afraid of the dark, but he was afraid of the things that may lurk within it.

Growing up in the quiet countryside, Cili had never had any reason to believe in the folktales about wicked monsters or strange beasts that would snatch little children out of their beds at night. He’d only ever encountered lapna and kromps, which were more or less content to stay away, especially if rewarded with food. But after the events of the last year—portals opened to the Shadow Realm, the Crown Prince’s death, the Dreadlord’s rise and fall, the Battle of Ash, the Blood King’s ascension, and the guardian dragon’s arrival…. After all of that, Cili was no longer sure what to believe. He only knew that whenever he blew out a candle and stared into the shadows that crept in, he had the sinking, dreadful feeling that something was staring back.

Cili came to a stop in front of one of the white marble statues that lined the Hall of Saints. This statue in particular was of Saint Damaris, who was known for protecting children—especially orphans. This was Cili’s favorite Saint of Light, even if Damaris’ death was one of the more gruesome ones on record. Cili had learned that Damaris had died during the Great War—as most famous Saints did—while protecting a chartered boat of orphans from winged shadow gargoyles as they crossed the Silban River to safety.

Cili looked down at the candles at the base of Damaris’ statue, glanced at the darkening hall around him, then decided to extinguish those ones last. He did not mind having the Saint’s protection for a little while longer. 

Cili continued down the Hall of Saints, blowing out and replacing candles as he went. As he did, he recalled the names of the Saints and their stories, a tactic he had once used to strengthen his memory of the famous figures that had soon become a habit. Saint Ahlai, protector of settlements along the Golden Coast, drowned while defending a cluster of fishing boats from a bloodsquid during a storm. Saint Noa, protector of travellers, stoned to death while protecting a royal procession from raiders. The list went on and on—Saint Pasha, Saint Viktor, Saint Emira, Saint Holland, Saint Calla, Saint Athos… One tragedy after another. 

As he went about his task, Cili wondered if anyone he knew would one day ascend to the status of saint. A part of him hoped not. Revered as they were, almost every Saint seemed to meet a tragic end.

Cili reached the end of the hall, coming to a halt at the base of Saint Alina’s statue. He gazed upon the Saint’s alabaster countenance, her beautiful face at once nurturing, fierce, and sorrowful. She was one of the most popular saints, known as the protector of the innocents. Cili shuddered as he recalled her particular demise: burned while defending a town of human serfs during the Great War. The young acolyte shook that gruesome thought from his head as he withdrew a fresh candle from his basket and placed it at the base of her altar and leaned down to blow the flames out.

The moment the last candle guttered out, Cili felt a sudden chill wash over him, as if he had been plunged into a frozen lake. He inhaled sharply, clutching the basket of candles tightly to his chest as ice spread through his veins and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Something was wrong.

Heart pounding in his small chest, Cili slowly turned around. There was nothing behind him, although he found no relief in this small discovery. With the doors to the outer courtyard of the Temple closed and most of the candles extinguished, Cili was shrouded in darkness. His attention tunneled to the flickering semi-circle of candlelight that surrounded Saint Damaris’ statue, the only source of illumination in the entire hall aside from the watery moonlight

Cili’s blood was loud in his ears. He could not explain it, the inexplicable urge to run. Something was watching him, he could feel it. Waiting for him.

Cili inhaled deeply, his breath shaking ever so slightly as he smothered the urge to run toward the ring of light. Surely this was just some sort of joke. If anyone was watching him from the shadows, it was the other acolytes, playing a prank on him. Cili had a bit of a reputation around the Temple of being easily scared, after all. If they wanted to get a reaction out of anyone, Cili was the perfect target.

“This isn’t funny,” Cili declared, his voice quivering despite his best efforts to keep it steady.

No response.

“Marco?” he questioned as he clutched the basket of candles tightly to his chest and then slowly began to creep toward the other end of the hall, careful to keep his steps steady so he did not betray the immense fear he felt. He did not want the other acolytes to get the satisfaction of seeing him run. “Jude? I know it's you guys. You can cut it out. I’m not afraid.”

Again, no response. Then—

There was a rustling sound, like the flap of wings. Then the scrape of something solid and heavy against the smooth marble stone and—

Cili lost his nerve and ran, dropping his basket of candles as he sprinted for the semi-circle of candlelight around Saint Damarius. No sooner had he begun to run did the creature in the shadows flare to life. 

A horrible snarl ricocheted off the marble and alabaster floors of the hall, followed by the abrupt boom of beating wings and the click, click, click of talons snapping against the floor. 

Something hot and leathery struck Cili across the back of his legs and he stumbled, crashing to the floor only a few paces away from Saint Damaris’ light. Cili’s chin throbbed from smacking it against the marble tiles, but he shoved himself to his hands and knees, hastily scrambling for the ring of light like his life depended on it.

It did.

Cili waited until he was fully within the semi-circle of candlelight, naively believing that the light of a few measly flames would keep the mysterious creature at bay, before he flipped onto his back, throwing his hands up as he finally faced the beast.

His scream lodged in his throat, which felt as if it had been swollen shut with fear.

Cili did not know how to process what exactly was before him. He had never seen a creature like this in his childhood storybooks, had never even heard of a creature like this, either from the other acolytes or the old storytellers that sat around Whitetower’s town square. 

The beast had the face and wings of a bat, although its body was distinctly humanoid, corded with rippling muscle. But the creature’s composition was not nearly the strangest thing about it. The beast did not have skin nor fur, but rather, it appeared to be made of shadow. Tendrils of darkness wicked off of its body like smoke and glowing lines of reddish orange light trailed along its arms and torso, like molten lava bubbling through the cracked, blackened surface of cooled magma.

As it slowly prowled forward, the gargoyle screeched at him, baring a mouthful of razor sharp teeth and Cili flinched back, throwing up his hands defensively. He called desperately upon his teaching of the Light in a vain hope that something the priests had taught him would be useful in warding this creature away, but defensive magic was too advanced for someone his age, its teaching withheld until he reached his tenth year. 

The young acolyte scuttled backward as the beast stalked toward him until his back met the base of Damaris’ statue. Trembling, Cili’s eyes were trained on the gargoyles taloned, hideous feet as it lumbered closer to the circle of light. Closer, closer, closer—

One of the gargoyle’s talons breached the light.

And nothing happened.

Cili whimpered, realizing that there was nothing that could save him, not the candlelight, not Damaris, and judging by the quiet that still settled over the temple, not the priests, either. Desperate, Cili conjured an Orb of Light in his palms, the only bit of magic he could confidently do. In response, the gargoyle hissed, rearing back as a clawed hand swung forward, narrowly missing Cili’s face as the boy lunged back. Almost instantly, due to his fear and lapse in concentration, the Orb guttered out.

Panicked, Cili tried and failed to conjure another Orb of Light as the gargoyle shifted over him. Cili’s hands fell uselessly into his lap as the monster cornered him against the marble statue, its tepid breath ghosting over the boy’s face as it opened its gaping maw wide for the killing blow.

Left with nothing else to do, Cili closed his eyes and began to pray. 

“Light guide me through this endless night and protect me from the darkness. On Viktor, on Calla, on Athos and Alina. On Noa, on Pasha, on Damaris—” Cili broke his prayer and sobbed desperately. “Saints, save me!”

The doors to the Temple slammed against the walls as they burst open, and a flash of Light so bright it was blinding illuminated the room. The beast above Cili was thrown back by the blast and struck the opposite wall with an animalistic whimper of pain.

Cili’s gaze snapped to the open doorway where two cloaked figures appeared, silhouetted by the night sky and the mist that drifted across the cobblestone roads of Whitetower. The one on the right, distinguishable by the taller stature, swayed ever so slightly as the one on the left lunged forward with incredible grace and speed. Cili just barely caught the glint of steel before two blades shot out of the cloaked figure’s gloved hands. It was only until Cili followed the path of the blades that he realized the Shadow beast had gotten up from its supine position against the wall and had begun to charge toward him once more. 

The blades sunk into the gargoyle’s stomach, slowing its advance. The monster roared in pain and frustration as its wings snapped out, lifting its body into the air. There was a whizzing sound and sickening squelch as an arrow embedded itself in one of the beast’s wings, quickly followed by another arrow that struck the other one, causing it to crash to the ground once more. Cili looked to the taller figure, who now brandished a glittering bow of silver and gold metal. Beneath the folds of their coat, he could just make out the silver hilt of a sword. 

No sooner had the beast fallen from the air did the second figure with the knives spring forward, gripping the protruding shafts of the arrows and using them as leverage to shove the gargoyle back, pinning it to the wall. The Shadow creature howled as Cili’s rescuer used their weight to trap the beast, then yanked the arrows down, shredding its wings to the point of uselessness. The cloaked figure pulled back, unsheathing a knife strapped to their thigh, and raised the gleaming weapon high, prepared to stab deep into the beast’s heart.

Cili’s breath caught in his throat. He could not believe what he was witnessing, could not believe that he was about to watch these mysterious heroes defeat this monster, could not believe that he was saved.

Cili’s heart dropped like a stone as the creature lashed out with its snapping teeth, forcing the cloaked figure to jump back, leaving just enough room for the gargoyle to swing out with a muscled arm. The back of its taloned hand caught Cili’s defender across the midsection, batting them aside. As the figure tumbled to the ground, their hood fell back, revealing a head of shoulder-length, dark, and wavy hair. The face underneath was tan and ruggedly handsome, distinguishable by a well-kept beard and a scar that crossed a single eyebrow.

The beast shoved away from the wall, lurching toward the doors out of the Temple in a desperate attempt to escape with its life. But then the other figure was there, moving faster than a wicked wind as they darted forward and struck with their gauntleted fist, catching the gargoyle with a blow so savage and powerful, the weakened creature rocked backward, stunned.

Like the gears in a well-oiled machine, the man on the ground swung his legs out, catching the beast by its shadowy ankles. The Shadow creature slammed into the ground just as the man rolled out of the way and shoved himself up to his knees. He brandished his dagger once more, stabbing clean through the monster’s shoulder to pin it to the ground.

His voice was low and gruff as he demanded, “Do it!”

Cili watched in awe as the taller figure unsheathed the sword at their side—the strangest blade Cili had ever seen, crafted of steel but threaded through with a blueish, crystalline substance that resembled forks of lightning. The figure lifted the sword high, a silver glow—The Light, Cili realized—emanating from their hands and spearing down the blade as they stabbed down, piercing the gargoyle’s chest, and presumably, its heart.

There was a bright flash and Cili watched as the Shadow beast dissipated into nothingness.

When the Light faded, Cili gaped at the space where the creature had once been. There was nothing left behind to indicate that it had ever existed within this temple, nothing but a few soot stains on the milky white marble floors.

A soft, tired sigh drew Cili’s attention away from the marks on the floor and he looked up in time to see the taller figure rest the tip of their sword against the floor and lean against it as if winded. The man quickly retrieved the blades that had clattered to the floor after the Shadow beast disappeared and tucked them away before snatching the arrows as well. He clambered to his feet just as his hooded companion straightened, nodding gratefully as they slid the offered arrows back into their quiver and sheathed that peculiar sword.

Cili watched in awe as his rescuers righted themselves, the realization dawning on him. “You’re Saints, aren’t you?” he breathed, slowly pushing himself away from the base of Damaris’ statue. “That’s why you saved me.”

Immediately, Cili’s rescuers stiffened, their attention snapping to him for the first time since they arrived as if they had just remembered he was there.

“Aw, hells,” the man muttered beneath his breath as he quickly yanked the hood of his cloak up, concealing his face beneath the shadows once more.

The two figures wordlessly glanced at each other as Cili’s gaze flicked between them, awaiting an answer. He could not believe it. They had heard his prayer. The Saints had come. The Saints—

“We aren’t Saints of Light.” The voice that replied was dulcet and sonorous—a woman’s. Cili thought he could listen to her speak all day.

“But I saw you use the Light,” Cili insisted, shaking his head as he got to his feet. There was still a slight tremor in his legs, his body still thrumming with adrenaline, although he paid no notice. “I prayed for you and you came—”

“We aren’t Saints,” the woman repeated gently, glancing over her shoulder at her companion before she took a slight step forward. “We’re just… devout followers of the Light. Purging the realm of darkness.”

Cili tilted his head, leaning forward in an attempt to see under the woman’s hood. Sensing his efforts, the woman pulled away and Cili frowned, although his disappointment was short-lived. Another thought crossed his mind. “So you’re… like adventurers? Heroes, like those in the storybooks?”

Cili had a feeling the woman was smiling as she tilted her head to the side. “Something like that.”

Cili nodded slowly, his gaze sliding from her concealed face to the soot stains that marred the floors. “What was that thing?”

“Just a monster,” the woman replied. “A bad guy. But it’s gone now. You don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Cili chewed the inside of his lip, sidestepping away from the spot where the creature had died. The danger was gone, but he still felt unsettled. “Will more come?”

It was the man who replied this time. “Not if we can help it.”

Cili frowned, unconvinced, but did not reply.

As if sensing his unease, the woman reached out with nimble fingers and swiped something off of the man’s person, much to his dismay, but before her companion could protest, she knelt before Cili.

“Do you want to know what you can do if one of those beasts ever comes back?” she asked gently.

Cili’s eyes widened. He was nodding before he even realized he was doing so.

The woman held up her hand. Between her slender fingers was a small, sheathed knife. But Cili’s attention was not on the blade. Instead, his gaze lingered on her skin, which was a pearlescent shade of blue and horribly scarred as if it had been severely burned. A single gold ring adorned her thumb. 

The woman took Cili’s hand and pressed the hilt of the blade into his palm as she spoke. “The priests at the Temple will teach you how to protect yourself and others,” she told him. “That sort of training will be invaluable. But magic won’t always be there to help you, especially if you choose not to use it.”

Cili’s brow furrowed. “But why—”

The woman shook her head. “That is a choice you will make when you are older and understand the world better. And you must make it for yourself. But until then, you should know how to defend yourself without magic, too. Just in case.”

She curled Cili’s fingers around the hilt of the blade. “This can help protect you, but you must only use it if you are in grave danger, understand?”

She waited for Cili to show that he did. When he nodded, she continued. 

“If one of those beasts ever comes again,” she said slowly, a teacher guiding a student. “You take this—” She squeezed his hand, guiding it toward her chest. “—and put it here. Understand?”

Cili swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked up then, peering beneath the woman’s hood. He just barely glimpsed her pointed ears and a blur of green that was so bright, he thought they might be gemstones, and caught a whiff of starflowers, pine, and mist, before she pulled away. The woman dropped his hand as she straightened and stepped back.

“Be careful,” she instructed him. “And only use that when absolutely necessary.”

Cili nodded.

The woman stared at him for a few moments longer, her gaze heavy without being seen. Then she bowed her head. “May the Light guide you.”

Cili echoed her response, still shell-shocked as she turned on her heel and faced her companion.

“Uh, yeah,” the man said, reaching into the folds of his cloak. When he pulled his hand out, a glittering silver coin danced between his fingertips. He flicked it towards Cili, who caught it against his chest, confused.

“This’ll be our secret, yeah?” the man prompted, his hood shifting as he gazed around the Temple and sighed. “Bet they don’t pay you enough for this stuff. Wandering around creepy hallways at night.”

Cili did not know how to tell him that the Temple did not pay him at all, so he only nodded and replied, “Yes.”

“Right,” the man said slowly, before turning on his heel to follow his companion. As he went, he gave a lazy salute. “Light guide you, kid.”

Cili watched, stunned as his two rescuers made their way toward the doors that led out of the temple, their whispers carrying in the empty hallway.

“Please tell me you did not just bribe him.”

“Yeah, well you’re the one who taught him to kill a man, so I don’t think either of us are winning role model of the year, kit.”

Cili waited until they were halfway down the marble steps that led up to the Temple entrance before he scrambled after them, hiding behind the door to watch them go. They both moved like shadows, lithe and nimble as they stuck to the darkness and leaned against each other, as inconspicuous as any other couple wandering around the city after a night in the taverns. 

Bewitched by the two figures that had just saved his life with magic and steel—he was still not convinced they weren’t Saints—Cili followed them as quietly as possible off the Temple grounds and into the misty streets of Whitetower.

It was not until they reached the end of the block that his rescuers straightened, putting a casual distance between them. As they shifted apart, Cili saw why.

Cili watched from behind a barrel, mist swirling around his calves as his rescuers met up with two more cloaked figures, hidden in the shadows of an apartment that sat atop a shoemaker’s shop, which was closed for the night.

“I thought I told you to stay home,” the woman murmured, her voice nearly inaudible as she brushed her hand along the slope of another figure’s shoulder. Her other hand twisted behind her back, the mist churning with it. “Where it’s safe.”

“Oh?” the figure replied liltingly with a teasing edge as his head fell to the side. “Are you giving me orders now?”

A low laugh filled the air, full of warmth and affection. The sound was so entrancing, Cili almost didn’t notice that the mist had thickened around them, nearly concealing his saviors from sight. By the time the woman finished laughing , they were just fading blurs in the fog. 

“I would never do such a thing,” Cili thought he heard the woman reply, “Your Majesty.”

Cili’s breath hitched and he moved to follow, but the fog was so thick, he could barely see his own hands.

He tried to find the mysterious figures by sound alone, but when the mist cleared, they were gone.

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

Notes: And we’re back

Tagging:  @diamonds-and-decorum, @kelseaaa, @xsweetnspookyx, @tyrils-star, @maeksoo, @tylorswft, @somin-yin, @vesselsynths, @mikewawazoski, @rainesenator, @desperatetrashwives, @choicesficwriterscreations

Let me know if you would like to be tagged/removed!

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

Bard's Run for Life (Jaskier x reader, Part 2.)

Description: Geralt of Rivia isn’t always there to watch over Jaskier, his best, yet incapable bard friend. Sometimes, when the Witcher knows that there is bad blood between the bard and someone else, he writes a contract and offers a job - silently watching over Jaskier traveling the roads.

Part Summary: Just as you schemed your grand plan to save the bard from being killed, you wanted to execute it. And Jaskier had the time of his life during it. 

Warnings: A lot of whores. Also, I already mentioned that the reader is bi, so don't be surprised. There will be something happening. Also, I am going with the book Foltest since the series one sucked shit and wasn't accurate at all.

Word count: Not counted for now

Tagging: @nemodoren​ @marioverthere

Series master list: The Incapable Bard’s Contract

The morning was slowly creeping behind the windows, making the birds sing and woods darken. You were sitting at the window, watching the quiet space in front of the door. This day was different from the previous one - instead of the sun, there were dark clouds with a storm coming your way from the north and instead of dust, there was mud all over the ground. You inhaled another smoke from your tobacco pipe, slowly let it out to crawl on the contours of your face. 

The whole night was a nightmare for you since you couldn't fall asleep, and when you almost did, simple screeching could wake you up. If you wanted to leave the inn, and at the moment, you were ready, you could - you packed all your clothes into one of the leather bags, Jaskiers to his. Today, it was an all-black day - you didn't want to wear anything colorful as you sat there in a black cloak and smoked. Anyone came in or out in the last few hours, it was clean outside. Time to leave. Time to disappear like a cloud of smoke.

Carefully, with the tip of your boot, you kicked the bard into the hip almost playfully, watching him gasping for air in the next second. You probably kicked something important, but you didn't care. The theatrics he pretended took a while, but after that, you gave him an unamused look. 

“Wake the fuck up, sleepyhead. There's a big day in front of us. Better move.” - You stood up and hammered the tobacco into the burning fireplace as the ashes fell onto the warmed up stone. You weren't the one leaving clues behind you.

“Calm down, woman. It's barely seven in the morning and I don't wake up until ten.” - Jaskier growled from under the blanket and turned on the other side. You took a small rock and threw it next to his head, yet you missed on purpose. You could hit his right eye without trying to, even from that angle. A loud bang made him jump. But it was enough to wake him up. Where did that rock even come from? Did you want to know?

“Did I stutter, bard? Wake up, stand up on your feet and let's go. We don't have enough time and we are already late.” - You said coldly and hooked the leather bag over your shoulder. Jaskier abruptly stood up and looked at you. - “Did you even slept through the whole night? You, you scary woman, are bloody crazy!”

“Do you want to find out how crazy I am? I didn't sleep the whole night, so I'm deprived, I'm grumpy, hungry, my muscles hurt like a living fuck, whatever you want to say - but just do whatever I want to do and we won't have a problem.” - The coldness in your voice was a thing Jaskier could almost touch. The daggers on your back were uncomfortably pressed into the small of it through the leather straps. Jaskier was a mister in abrupt dressing up, as you noticed. Slowly, he drank the rest of the glass of wine, following you. 

He tried the tactics he started yesterday - asking a question after a question, slowly climbing up on your nerves. When you were about to take a dagger out, you just calmed yourself down with thinking about what could happen to the man if you would just tie him up to the tree and leave him just there at the spot. 

An hour passed by from the moment you've left the inn, but you finally stood in front of the grand city of Vizima. It looked just breathtaking with its hundreds of towers rising up to the iron dark clouds. There were only two legal ways to get to the city leading on two bridges - but you weren't dumb. You knew you will have to take a little detour if you wanted to smuggle Jaskier to the city without being seen.

"You're from here, fair lady? That's where you've been born? I've been to Vizima once or twice, but that's long gone to even remember." - Jaskier looked at you, sincerely smiling at remembering something. You didn't answer or asked for details, you just hummed grumpily and dragged Jaskier to a path seemingly going around Vizima; but when you knew its secrets, you could get into the city without guards noticing you. It was fairly soon in the morning, which was only playing into your hands. You could ace it.

You lead Jaskier through the city's sewers which you knew by heart. You were leaving the city with this exit many, many times before - you had the whole Vizima map on the back of your head. That was also the soldier reminding you that you still had it inside. Instincts and intuition. You knew the city.

You climbed the iron bars leading you behind the city's walls. You climbed after Jaskier and with all his stuff in your hands since he wasn't exactly the best at physical activities. The only thing you could say was that you looked exactly like Saint Nicholass bringing some gifts to the children. From there, it was rather simple for you to go off the main roads leading to places like market and school - it was only hard for Jaskier to shut his damn mouth. So you took the cloth of his shirt and slammed his back to the wooden building behind him.

"One more word and they're after us, do you understand? We need to be quiet as a shadow." - A low growl of your angry voice could be heard as you pressed him to the wall. You’ve been barely hissing and Jaskier truly had the feeling that you will most probably chop his head or other body parts.

Just as you wanted to tell him other, more terrifying scenarios and consequences you could construct at the spot, you heard a sound known to so well, that you got goosebumps. Two soldiers, clapping of steel on their bodies, going in your direction. You knew the men, just because you were doing that work for a few years. Good armor, yet the men could barely run in that thing. 

You could run away, yes, but just as you knew the soldiers and their duties, you knew Vizima. Also, that would catch too much-unwanted attention. Quickly, you glanced over Jaskier's outfit, looking as fancy as it did yesterday. Just as great Vizima was, so it had its darker side full of alcohol, drug usage, promiscuity, and whores. And since you worked like a guard and a soldier in Vizima for your fair amount of time, you were aware of some... Back doors in the law. 

When you looked wealthy and fancy, and Jaskier surely fulfilled both of the categories, the guards were able to close their eyes a tiny bit. Without giving it too many second thoughts, you got on your knees and tugged the bards pants a bit lower, nodding at him, yet not revealing nothing. Jaskier, as proven the day before, was a good actor, playing along with your scenario. His palms gently tugged your hair, but the expression of his face was far from comfortable. Will you just bite his weenie off if he's going to upset you? He truly didn't want to test that theory out at that moment.

Sure, the guards glimpsed over the two of you for a while, laughed a bit, but then, they turned around and continued with their duties. You exhaled out loud and pushed yourself off of Jaskier, standing up. 

“That was somehow weirdly attractive and almost too risky for me to believe that it will ever work out. You must know this place, don't you, scary lady?” - Jaskier asked again after a short moment, letting his mouth loose again. Your head slowly turned to the bard and you gave him an ice-cold gaze. Jaskier just nodded with an unsure expression, his eyes quickly took their look off of you. You almost chuckled when you saw the man covering his junk with palm nervously. 

The rest of the way was quiet and swift, as you dragged Jaskier to the other end of the town, knowing exactly where you’ve been the whole time. That was when you’ve seen it for the first time in a long time - a house on a hill, always brewing with life, alcohol, and sex. The Vizimian Whorehouse, known also as The Pit of Passion, was standing out in the city - it was made of fancy, dark wood with pink stained glass windows where you could see the courtesan’s and naked women's silhouettes. You smiled. This place almost felt like a second home to you. The passionate music and chattering could be heard from where you've been standing, the house never slept.

Jaskier surely was fascinated with your choice of a spot to take hideout at. No, he was more excited than that. And dear God, when you took him in, he was in heaven. Beautiful women, a lot of fine wine, music, laughter, moaning - that was all fulfilling the essence of the house. 

A moment after you took the cloak of your face, not one, but two women ran to you, hugging you with a giggle before giving you a kiss. Both of them circled their arms around your sides under the cloak and lead you to the counter. Jaskier couldn't process that information for a full minute, seeing as you turned from I Hate Everyone on the Whole Fucking World to I Love Chatting, Women and Laughter in a second. Could that mean that you were...

Sure, Jaskier didn't have anything against women loving women or men loving men, but he thought that the rough treatment you were giving him was maybe a really weird way to flirt. Geralt, even if he wasn't flirting with Jaskier, was giving him the same treatment which Jaskier called tough love - Geralt acted like if Jaskier was a pain in his ass, but he secretly took the bard as his best friend. And he thought that maybe you are a similar case since liking Jaskier was not a simple thing to do. 

Obviously, he was wrong. 

As you chat with the two girls, leading all of you to the counter, where a lady in her best years stood, curly hair falling down onto her left shoulder as she gave you a rather seductive look. Jaskier was still in shock and to his own surprise, he was attracted to your behavior around women. But he went with being silent, instead of telling you he smiled at the woman behind the counter.

“Ma’am Rosmerta.” - You greeted the older woman, watching the two girls running off with giggles. You gave her a small bow with a wink, leaning even closer to her. - “Haven't seen you in a while and it is rather pleasant to see you again.”

“My dearest soldier, Y/N, my love. I thought you’ve forgotten about my house and about all of us. You haven't shown in a while, nor you sent a message about your well-being. I was worried.” - The woman walked from behind the counter to give you a long, proper hug. She liked you - you were a woman who was visiting her house recently on the days while you were serving king Foltest and you always showed respect for her and her girls, always leaving a good coin behind you. 

“Long travels away from Temeria, dear Rosmerta. A lot of contracts leading me all over the Continent. You know the rest probably.” - You laughed it off, but Jaskier's mind stopped over a minute ago when Rosmerta called you a soldier. A soldier serving to who exactly? To an enemy or a friend? Should he be worried? Yet, he didn't ask about any of that, listening to your dialogue to know even more things about you.

“How may I help you and this fine young man today, Y/N? I owe you a lot of favors. Just tell me.” - Rosmerta kissed your cheek nonchalantly and you laughed quietly, letting go off her waist. 

“Exactly, that's why I am here. I need a favor from you and your girls. If you want, I will pay you.” - You gave her a smile, whispering every word. Rosmerta nodded and looked around, wawing her palm at you. Both of you followed Rosmerta to her room when you could talk properly in private. 

“Tell me, love, what do you need from me and my lovely whores?” - Rosmerta chcukled ironically. She showed you the room and Jaskier must've said that it was a nice room full of sin. There were pillows covered in satin, aromatic candles, a few bottles of good Temerian wine and a huge bed. Rosmerta wasn't shying away at all. And when she saw Jaskier looking around the room, she even showed a bit more of her cleavage when she sat down in one of the big, plush chairs.

“Are you still sending your girls to the castle on a wagon? You know, that old deal with Foltest - he pays for the girls so his men wouldn't run from the castle to get laid?” - You asked just straight to the point, closing the curtains. The glass was stained and pink, but you didn't want even your silhouettes to be visible.

“I almost forgot that you know everything about the king. You two were a particularly good strategist together, at least before you left. His current ones suck shit if you ask me.” - Rosmerta lightened up a tobacco pipe and laughed coldly. The whores had a particular power in politics - since Rosmerta’s house was the only one in the city, most of the politicians and visitors went there to have fun. Rosmerta knew almost everything about what was happening in the background of the ruling of King Foltest. - “Yes, I still send my girls to the castle and for a good coin and special leniency from the king.” 

Jaskier was invested in the dialogue even if he wasn't talking at all. You were Foltest’s soldier - or at least before you left. That was at least explaining how were you able to snap someone's neck and end it with an elegant roll. Obviously, you've already retired from your service to the king of Temeria.

“Great. I need to speak to Foltest, the faster, the better. He is probably the only one who can help me now.” - You sighed and sat down to the chair opposite of Rosmerta. She offered you her pipe while she took your knee to her palm. Jaskier looked away and took a deep, but a quiet breath in. The situation was just exciting him in all wrong ways. - “What happened, Y/N? You know you can talk to me, love.”

“Someone’s after this idiot. Whoever’s people it is, they're not shying away from the dirtiest assassination methods I've seen in a long time.” - The pipe was on your lips as you slowly inhaled the smoke in. Jaskier also watcher as you lowered your palm on Rosmerta’s, smoothing it probably without even realizing any of it. - “They’ve sent seven men after him. All of them are most probably dead now, but... I feel like this was only the beginning. These weren't the last nor the best one that the someone behind all of this has.”

“I hear you, love.” - Rosmerta kissed your knuckles and nodded, standing up. She trusted you since you knew each other for probably more than five years. You had never lied to her about anything. - “I will send Foltest a letter beforehand so he knew that he should expect both of you with the evening wagon. Until then, one corner on the second floor is all yours, no coin charged for you or your friend the whole day. I will tell Tomira that you're here. Best wine and food on my good behalf.”

With that, the older woman left, still smoking on her pipe with a thoughtful face. Jaskier sat to the chair where she was sitting before a few seconds ago. He looked at you with a furrow, so you gave an annoyed look back. 

“What?” - You mouthed, watching his expression and widened watery eyes.

“You were Foltest’s soldier? You are a woman.” - Jaskier told you and you thought about punching him in his nose. - “Should I be shocked? Wait? Should I check on my pants if I still have a vagina? What the fuck do you want from me, idiot?” - You asked with a cold voice. 

“I didn't mean it like that, and you know it. You women are bloody crazy! You don't even let me talk properly and jump straight to conclusions! Bloody hell!” - Jaskier stood up and threw his hands in the air. As you watched him, something seemed seriously funny about that, so you started to laugh as a lunatic. For a while, Jaskier looked at you, but then he started to laugh as well.

“All right, bard. Maybe, I will tell you something about what you've heard once I take a bath, eat and rest.” - You stood up, ready to leave the room. Oh dear God, you’ve been looking forward to seeing Tomira after such a long time. She looked like a Rusalka - fair skin, hair reaching her waist and huge blue eyes. And you wanted her to bathe you so much it was almost hurting you. But before that, you turned to Jaskier with a slight smile. - “You're doing pretty good. I thought that get to this house will bring far more trouble than it did. Good job.” 

Jaskier watched the door closing behind you. You smiled at him. And praised him for doing the best he could. You were... Maybe even proud? No, you were just glad that you didn't have your ass jailed. That was it. No matter what lead you to praise him, it made him smile.

As Rosmerta told you, the girls truly took good care for the both of you, since you were her guests of honor. She let you take the promised corner on the second floor, gave you the best pillows, fresh grapes and baked chicken from the market along with ale, wine and some girls for both you and Jaskier. Even if you had a girl on your lap, he wasn't able to exactly give his full attention to any of the girls that were trying to occupy him.

You looked like a siren, maybe even something more seductive. You were sitting on one of the pillows in a fresh black shirt and pants with wet hair and burning cheeks. The bard tried desperately not to look at you as the girl fed you with grapes and laughed at your adventurous stories. But when it just wasn't possible to get a hold on anymore, he stood up and started to play loudly. 

At the first moment, it almost looked like you'll stand up and tell him something bad again, which he would greet with grace, but then you looked back at Tomira and let him play. He could yell Toss a Coin to Your Witcher of The Fishmonger’s Daughter for all he wanted and you let him, drowning in the sight of your Rusalka. It got weirdly personal for Jaskier when she leaned to kiss you before leaving to take another plate of grapes. 

“He's sweet. What's his name? Don't you want to leave him with us, Y/N?” - Yolana, another girl who knew you for a long time asked you when you watched Jaskier yelling his ass out. He was funny to you. You looked at her, leaning into your elbow, having a smile on your lips. You raised your eyebrows. - “His name's Jaskier. He's some bard or what. I don't know him. He's just a contract.” 

“You two aren’t here together? I mean... You aren't in any kind of relationship?” - She smoothed your hair without putting too much thought of it. - “If you want to call me protecting his ass a relationship, go on. I won't be stopping you.” - You giggled and took another sip of water. Tomira tried to make you drunk, but you knew your limits well. - “Why?”

“Eh... It's probably nothing. Don't think about it too much, alright?” - Yolana smiled at you and almost left, but you caught her palm and kissed the inside of it, staring into her green eyes. Temerian women were simply beautiful. That was your way of making Yolana talk. 

“I don't know. He didn't want me nor he touched my body, he barely noticed me, Y/N. When I asked why - he just... Quickly looked at you and stuttered something out. There's something going on. I can feel it.” - Yolana whispered and you chuckled as your fingers entwined for a moment. - “Bullshit, Yolana. That man is fucking terrified of me.” 

That was the moment when you felt hands on your waist and lips on your neck and the way they smoothed over your skin. Tomira was back. - “Come to bed. You're here after such a long time and I'm not sure if I'll ever see you again.” - She cried to your neck quietly. You smiled sadly and smoother her thigh, taking her leg off your hip. You could have her on your bed just like that. A word was all she needed. Yet, you didn't do anything. You didn't accept her offer, instead you left the whorehouse two hours later. The ladies got you some dress. To say you were uncomfortable was on point. How must've Jaskier felt?

He had dress on as well, they even did him some good make-up and gave him a wig. He looked just hilarious. Just as Rosmerta promised, she sent you with the first wagon to the palace.

"Ey, some girls, finally. I can't even see how horny I am, mate!" - One of the guards let out a comment as soon as the horses stopped behind the king's residence gate. Sweet offer, yet you weren't there to suck cocks and to be fucked. You gladly let the opportunity to others. - "Oy, two girls for Foltest boy himself, huh? Where are the lucky ones?" - He shoved his head inside and you greeted him with a deadly stare and you middle finger risen up.

"So Foltest is into some tough ones, oy? Funny. And... Are ya even a girl?" - One of the guards poked to Jaskier as soon as you both got off. You took the guard's chunky face to your fingers, turning his look to your eyes instead of your cleavage.

"One more rude comment to her and I'll kick your balls so hard, that you won't have children. Ever. Are we clear?" - You hissed, clearly not backing off. Your years in the service taught you how to be tough. Men like this were no fucking problem for you. He got pretty sweaty and nodded rather quickly. You let his face go and patted his cheek, further asserting your dominance. - "Take us to the king. And remember what I've told you."

Without any other unnecessary talking, the guard led you though the servant's quarters and though the rather unknown rooms of the palace. It still looked as presentable as back in your days. You stopped in king's secret chamber, where the guard bowed to you as politely as he was able to at at his drunk state. Then he left without a word. Much to his wonder, Jaskier couldn't let his eyes off you. He was bullying him, almost revealed him in front of everyone and if weren't for you, Jaskier wouldn't be able to defend himself.

You saved his ass. No matter if you had to or not, that was just brave in Jaskier's eyes. You both sat there in silence, at least until the doorknob moved and other hidden door opened up.

A rather handsome, tall and pretty strong man entered the room. He was dressed as a noble, his clothes were tailored to suit his body and were made of the most luxurious materials. He had fair hair and blue eyes, a nose of an eagle, since it was visibly at least once broken. To that was king Foltest of Temeria, Jaskier wondered.

In a minute, there was no sign of the tough, aggressive and dominant you - you knelt down on one knee, put one of your hands on your heart and bowed deeply to the man. Jaskier did something that could be barely a bow, but he tried his best to not killing himself in that gown girls have him. He looked so funny that even the king chuckled.

"Stop with the formal theatrics, will you, Y/N?" - Foltest smiled at you and offered you a palm, which you caught. Jaskier's jaw nearly dropped, when you kissed it with grace and looked at your king.

"It's so relieving to see you, my king." - You stood up with a smile. Foltest gave you a bow as well, introducing himself to the bard behind you.

"Pleasure is on my side today just as luck and destiny is, soldier. So, what's ailing you, will you tell me?"

[enverracapital]

TGX Markets Review 2024

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