#water war of attrition

[like-the-cut-of-your-jib]

Just a quick note to followers, although I am following The Ocean Race, I likely won’t be blogging about it. There is only so many hours in the day!

Frankly, using the IMOCA foils in the Southern Ocean on a super LONG leg seems to me a recipe for disaster because the ability to slow down and not speed up is key.

Talk about alarms ringing and being in continual crisis management on the boats. Thank g*d they are using an autopilot to steer the boats, because the crews have enough to contend with…And let’s not talk about difficulties eating, drinking, being sea sick while attending to one’s natural needs combined with the biggest sleep deficits known to sailors.

Anyway, I sincerely hope that I am wrong about this iteration of The Ocean Race. Especially since they have announced that the IMOCAs will be used for the next iteration of the The Ocean Race and the The Ocean Race Europe as well.

NO BETS on the number of boats who will actually finish this race.

[matchavellichor]

okay huge fan of your dark!seb but hear me out…… dark!ominis

A.N: I absolutely adore dark!ominis omfg—I have like five diff dark omi drabbles in my google docs that i've abandoned bc i feel like no matter how i write it, it seems too out of character for him, then i end up hating it LOL. This isn't as bad as my dark!seb but here's Ominis doing some.....uhhhh questionable things to MC under Imperius.

Just This Once

dark!Ominis x f!MC - NSFW/Angst - 3.1k words - ao3

Tags: !!Non-Con!!, Pining, Obsession, Inappropriate Use of Imperius, Unconsensual Kissing/Touching, Masturbation, Omi Being a Lil Pervball

Summary: Ominis' infatuation leads him to break some of the principles he's held dear to him for the better part of his life.

Part 2, Part 3 (づ￣ ³￣)づ

The fireplace in the Slytherin common room has long gone out for the night, only a few crackling embers to fill the silence. Moonlight seeps in from the windows, through the murky waters of the Black Lake, casting the room in a palid, green hue. 

Despite the hour, he knows he’ll find her there. 

He wonders if it’s one of the rare nights where she’s asleep by the time he arrives, curled into herself on one of the armchairs with her book forgotten on her lap. 

One of the rare evenings where he can afford himself a bit less self-control. Indulge in the silkiness of her skin, trace his fingers over her features until the point she inevitably stirs, and he’s forced to retract himself as if he’d never touched her. 

It doesn’t matter if it is. Tonight, he’ll touch her the way he wants to, either way.

His skin prickles with warring emotions as he makes his way soundlessly down the steps of the dormitories. Shame, guilt, disgust—overwhelming anticipation.

The dizzying feeling of want overshadows them all.

An ugly, marred tug of obsession claws its way under his skin like a parasite. He can’t escape it, can’t make it stop—hasn't been able to for a while now.

He’s grown accustomed to it. Grown used to the way his nerves burn when he touches her, the way his lungs scream for oxygen when he catches her scent.

He always wants, yet he never gets, and he’s so, so tired of wanting.

Just this once. 

The reminder eases through him like a breeze, quelling the incessant pounding of his heart in his ears, the thin sheen of sweat settling itself over his skin.

His hand trembles when it dips into the pocket of his robes as he approaches the familiar set of lounges in front of the fireplace. He feels for his wand and tightens his hand around it, the wood biting into his skin, a sensation almost comforting in nature.

Just this once.

“Was wondering when you’d show,” her voice is warm and sleep-rough, a hazy melody that proves just as useful in easing his nerves. “Long day?”

“Something like that,” he murmurs. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, weighted with attrition for something he has yet to do.

She waits for him to sit down beside her, but instead he stays in place, hovering over the side of the couch.

He clears his throat, nerves stiffening his voice. “Do you think we could read in the Undercroft tonight?”

She looks at him perplexed, until her lips curl into a smile.

“Since when did you become such a rule breaker? Sebastian finally rubbing off on you?” She humors, stretching her sore limbs.

“I’d just prefer it. Change of…scenery.”

She snorts. “Change of scenery, huh?”

He nods sheepishly, cheeks burning. Change of scenery? Really, Ominis?

He can feel her staring at him, contemplating. He’s half-convinced she can hear the way his heart is nearly beating out of his chest.

“Please,” he adds for good measure.

His fingers find his wand again, tucked surreptitiously behind layers of fabric. He supposes he could cast it here, even if that isn’t part of the plan. The thought makes anxiety trickle up his skin. He doesn’t want to stray from the plan.

When she rises from her seat with an acquiescent sigh, his entire body sinks with relief.

“Alright, fine, let’s go…but we’ll have to be quiet.” 

The walk to the Undercroft is spent in the silence of disillusionment spells and muffling charms. Inside the darkened cellar, with only the soft sound of her humming as she settles onto one of the old chaises, a flurry of second-thoughts numb his brain in white static. 

Disgust settles itself like a boulder in his gut, the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat as he takes a seat beside her, as he considers over and over again what he’s about to do. 

He can feel her thigh press against his when she shifts in her seat. It’s strangely grounding. He feels the taste rescind.

She’s so incredibly warm, so terribly close, that it buries any trepidations he holds deep into an untouchable part of himself, until he can think of nothing but the prospect of more of her skin on his, until desire overshadows any inkling of guilt he might possess.

The urge to touch, and taste, and caress, subjugates the contrite voice in his head that repeats a litany of you promised, you promised, you promised.

His nausea blends into something else as he quietly slips his wand from his pocket, and any vows he’s made to himself about never doing what he’s about to do, dissolves into inexistence as the spell passes through his lips in a whisper.

“Imperio.” 

The incantation takes effect with such fluidity, with such little effort, that in that moment, despite all his years of fervent resistance, he has never felt more like a Gaunt.

He resists the urge to double over and be sick on the flagstone floor. 

He can barely hear the sound of the book in her hands falling to the floor, nor his own wand slipping from his fingers with a dull clatter. The ringing in his ears is far too loud to allow it.

His core buzzes with the thrum of dark magic that washes over him, a mordant reminder of what exactly he’s done, one that he can feel impress itself on his very soul. He takes a fortifying breath.

Just this once.

“Turn to me.” 

The command works over her immediately, and though he can’t see her, he can hear her shift in her seat to face him. He’s never been more grateful for his blindness than in that moment, that he can’t see the glazed-over appearance of her eyes, her vacant stare. He’s certain it would break him.

He shifts forward himself, and when he touches her for the first time with trembling hands, the incessant ringing in his ears ceases. The drove of self-reprehension comes to a halt, replaced by something starved, replaced by the instinct to take.

He drags his fingers unsteadily over the ridge of her cheekbone, traces the contours of her brows, down the bridge of her nose, the same way he’s done before only briefly in her sleep, though this time with more unabashed exploration.

The thrill of not having to be careful awakens something in him. He wants to commit every millimeter to memory.

His thumb brushes over the gentle arch of her cupid’s bow, then over the plush pillow that is her bottom lip. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s been holding his breath until his lungs burn for oxygen. His hand takes hold of her jaw and he dips forward, so that his first inhale is made up of nothing but her, his nose pressed to the soft hair at her temple. 

He tilts his head and lets his lips land on the smooth plane of her cheek. Her skin is warm and silky, just as he remembered from the brief bits of contact he’s allowed himself in the past. He lets out a contented sigh. 

Slowly, patiently, he works himself up to his destination, planting tender kisses along her face, reveling in every little sensation, until he reaches the corner of her mouth.

Her mouth.

He’s almost convinced he’s dreaming. 

He takes a shuddering breath and connects their lips the way he’s wanted to for an agonizingly long time.

If he’s ever known softness before, it’s incomparable to what he receives from her lips, from her face cupped in his hands.

He’s filled with the insatiable desire to know more, to drown in it, to suffocate on the feeling of her against him. 

His tongue brushes over her bottom lip, tentative and a bit too cautious. He’s not exactly sure how to kiss her, but he notes rather morbidly that she won’t mind either way. It’s not like she’ll remember.

He tries again, experimenting, prodding at her lips softly at first, but she doesn’t part for him the way he expects her to, doesn’t grant him entrance. It’s… not right.

His brain blares with alarms in deafening repetition that it’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong.

She’s stiff against his lips, frigid and unmoving. It’s not how it should be. It’s not how he wants it to be. It’s askew and breaks him out of his fantasy and it makes him angry. 

Makes his fingers dig too harshly into her skin, makes him crowd her against the armrest of the lounge and press his mouth to her more forcefully, as if he can brutalize the compliance out of her. 

A whimper escapes her, a brief breach in her trance-like state, and he’s snapped out of his overwhelming frustration. He breaks the kiss and pants against her skin, the reminder of the power he has over her surging back. 

“Kiss me.”

Relief oozes into him like the trickle of a downpouring stream, cooling his blood and letting him melt into the feeling of her lips finally moving against his. His touch retreats back to tenderness. 

There’s a clumsy sort of uncertainty in the way his mouth moves against hers, an unpracticed mess of tongue and teeth. He doesn’t mind, doesn’t let himself dwell on the chagrin that is his first kiss.

It’s all he’s ever wanted with her. She tastes sweet on his tongue, the culmination of all his desires being fulfilled, and yet still, somehow, it’s not enough.

Even as he kisses her deeply, tenderly, until his lips feel raw and kiss-bruised, and there’s a delicious soreness in his jaw — he can’t shake that little, driving pain in his chest of want. 

No, not of want. Of need. 

There’s a part of him that he doesn’t quite understand, a part of him that aches for more without being conscious of just what more is. 

He’s aware of it, though. He feels it in the tension pulling just below his navel, the heat pooling in his blood. He recognizes it in the depraved instinct to slip his hands up her blouse, to hike up her skirt, and— and—

He contemplates straying from the plan for the second time that night.

All he wanted was to kiss her, just this once, just this once— but as he tips her back onto the cushions, as he hovers over her with his lips never leaving hers, he realizes that isn’t true.

He lets himself sink against her. Her body molds with his, presses against his own, plush and warm and indescribably perfect. He pins her down with his weight—even if he’s aware he doesn’t have to, he finds some sick sense of security in knowing she can’t escape.

He wants more.

He slots himself between her legs and tugs one of her thighs around his waist. It’s almost too much, his breathing scattered and uneven. 

He wants more.

Even if he isn’t sure what more entails, he possesses some idea as his hips begin to rut against hers of their own accord. The whimper he lets out makes him burn with shame.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck to hide his mortification. He inhales, until the dizzying scent of her perfume numbs his brain.

He’s subtly aware of the fact he’s grinding right against her knickers, her skirt bunched up haphazardly at her hips to accommodate him between her legs. He tries not to think about it.

His thoughts feel hazy as he contemplates the fact that only a thin piece of cotton separates her cunt from rubbing right against the front of his trousers. It would be so easy to—

He can’t.

He forces himself to keep his hands above her waist, far from temptation. He doesn’t force them not to wander, though.

Just this once, he repeats, as his fingers hover over the front placket of her blouse. He muffles his breathing with his lips pressed to her throat.

He trails his hand up to her collar and unclasps the first button with trembling fingers. He tries not to think about it, either.

He concentrates on how she tastes when he dips his tongue out to lick a stripe just under her jaw, and for a moment he doesn’t care how lewd it is, doesn’t care how utterly debased he’s acting.

Her breath hitches, just the subtlest change in pitch, but it’s enough for him to pretend that she wants this. That she wants him.

Little, brass buttons clatter to the stone floor of the Undercroft in quiet clinks, byproduct of his impatience, of his self-restraint slipping from his fingers in the hasty manner he undresses her. 

The same hasty manner he fumbles with his belt—before he can think too long about what he’s about to do—until he’s gripping his weeping cock and biting down on his lip to stop the shameful noises threatening to escape his throat.

He palms himself shakily, remorse adling his unsteady movements, while he tries to work the courage to actually touch her. It isn’t long before his hand is slick with his arousal, and the skin of her neck is damp with his heavy breathing.

His hand hovers over the bare skin of her midriff, fingers twitching with the desire to sink them into her soft flesh, to trace over her curves and memorize the contours he’s only felt in daydreams. 

His voice is raw when he commands her, riddled with shame. “Ask—ask me to touch you.”

She obeys in a whisper. “Please, touch me.” 

It’s wrong, it’s all wrong, it’s not—

“Ask me to touch you and say my name.” 

“Touch me,” she breathes, and he can feel the vibration of her voice where his mouth is still latched onto the base of her throat. “Please, Ominis.”

There.

His name on her lips strikes his nerves on fire, lights the very blood in his veins alight. He caves.

Her skin is warm under his fingertips. He can feel her heartbeat where he presses his palm to her sternum, a frantic pounding— undoubtedly a reflection of her subconscious beneath the influence of the spell.

He doesn’t allow himself to feel guilty, he can’t. Not now. 

Instead, he indulges. Pushes the sheer material of her chemise the rest of the way up, until it’s over her chest, and he can feel.

Her nipples pebble as they come in contact with the cool air of the Undercroft and he runs his hand over the stiffened bud, rolls it between his thumb and index. 

She’s overwhelmingly soft. It disgusts him how badly he wants to defile her for it. 

He notes wryly how revoltingly weak he is, if all it took was some poorly-placed obsession for him to do away with every last principle he’s spent the better part of his life cultivating. How easily an Unforgivable spilled from his lips at the prospect of feeling hers.

He’ll scrub his skin raw afterwards in the shower in a desperate attempt to forget all of this, he promises himself. He won’t do this again, he can’t—

Just this once.

His head sinks to her chest and he murmurs against her skin, “Again— Say, say it again.”

“Please, Ominis.”

He sighs in blissful relief. “Yes.”

He counts the rows of her sternum with a drag of his tongue. Her chest is already sticky with his saliva when he takes hold of his cock again, the dripping tip sullying her untouched skin.

His hips rut into his own hand and the Undercroft fills with the sounds of his quiet grunts. He squeezes his eyes shut and imagines it’s her he’s thrusting into as he fucks his fist, his other hand groping blindly, fondling and squeezing her supple flesh until he’s sure he’s left marks in his carelessness.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, because he likes to pretend it’s real. “So–so good, angel.”

She lets out the softest whimper, and it’s enough to make his jaw fall slack, a pleasured groan escaping his parted lips. 

He presses his forehead to hers. “I love you. I love you so much. Tell me— tell me you love me. Please say it.”

“I love you.” 

She obeys too fast, her voice too vacant. It’s unnatural. He doesn’t care. Those three little words are enough to wrench a strangled sort of sound out of his chest.

“Again,” he begs, voice hoarse, and he’s only distantly aware of the wet tracks running down his cheeks. His thrusts are sloppy and frantic, so close to his undoing. “Say my name.” 

“I love you, Ominis.”

“Fuck,” his voice cracks, his head dropping to her shoulder.

He’s pushed over the edge with a sob, painting her stomach and chest in ribbons of milky white. An endless litany of I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry pours from his lips as he shudders through his climax.

Shame sears through him like fiendfyre and he moans his forgiveness on a cry against her lips, kisses her tenderly as if it’s an act of retribution.

His hand finds her stomach, his palm rubbing into the incriminating mess of his seed on her skin, and the satisfaction he feels with it only serves to amplify his self-disgust. 

He kneads the sticky flesh beneath his fingertips, as if he can make it so that even after the scourgify, some part of him will be there, a memory only he’s aware of. He doesn’t want to let her go, he can’t— he—

He does so anyway. He forces himself off of her on unsteady legs and tucks himself into his trousers. 

He cleans her with all the care in the world, as if his tenderness will somehow make up for how crudely he’s violated her trust tonight.

Everytime his hand brushes over her skin as he redresses her, he repeats to himself that it was just this once. Brands it into his brain, lets that contrite voice repeat it over and over again until he might go mad. 

He takes her back to the common room and sets her down gently into that same armchair she was waiting for him in at the beginning of the night. Brushes a lingering kiss to her forehead that stretches for a moment too long.

He mutters a reluctant finite incantatem under his breath, pairs it with a heavy sleeping spell, and retreats to his own dorm before he can fall to temptation again. 

Only then, behind the drawn curtains of his four-poster, skin still prickling with the memory of every way he’d touched her, is he made certain of something he’s been trying desperately to deny all evening.

This was the first time, but it certainly won’t be the last.

[dagaz-s-disastrous-descent]

I had to make this post or I'd explode. Death Korps of Krieg and Vostroyan Firstborn are really similar, yet they show how your experiences shape you as a person.

Lets start with the Krieg boys and girls. They are a uniquely dour bunch that are willing to give their lives just to buy some time for their allies or to gain mere meters of ground in prolonged conflict. Contrary to what popular memes will make you believe they are not suicidal (hell during the Vraks conflict there is one recored instance of krieg soldiers executing their commissar because he ordered a suicide charge on enemy positions), they and their generals just see themselves as assets to be spent atoning for sins of their past. In one of the best books from 40k verse i've ever read "Dead men walking" it's portrayed briantly. Local populations inducted into DKoK regiments are stripped of their personalities and made to forget their names, their past lives and faces of their brothers and sisters to turn them into perfect meat shields ready to kill and die for smallest of advantages. Honestly, that book was brutal and it showed how dehumanising the training regime Kriegans go through really is, and to think that they are shipped off to active war zones at the age of (at most) 16 is really horrifying.

Now, about Vostroya: they too are spending their lives atoning for the sins of their forefathers; they too are a siege regiment focused on CQB and positional warfare; and they too have cool gas masks. Yet, despite all of those similarities, they could not be more different. While DKoK needs commissars just to talk with other members of the Empire because they are so devoid of common humanity, others simply feel uneasy around them. Vostroyans are one big family, ready to kill and die for each other. They are the firstborn sons and daughters of their world, being welcomed into the regiment by their aunts and uncles, who are taking care of them and keeping an eye on them on the battlefields of the dangerous galaxy of the 40k's universe. Their distant brothers and sisters prepare mastercrafted equipment, knowing fully well that the lasguns they create will be used by their kin. They are fanatical to the point of madness and their effectiveness is on par of that of the Dead Korps of krieg yet their attrition rate is much, much lower, and I think that it's not only owed to differences in equipment but also to the fact that they are loyal not only to the empire but also to each other. After all, blood is thicker than water.

Now a word about irl inspirations for both regiments: contrary to popular belief DKoK are based off FRENCH soldiers of WW1, not Germans and no, they do not use shovels more than any other regiments. A mace is a much better weapon in trench warfare because shovels have a nasty tendency to getting stuck in things that go squish. Vostroyans are a blend of cossacks, russian streltsi, Polish nobility, and professional soldiers of XVIIth century, as well as a healthy dose of Nikola Tesla-inspired dieselpunk. It's criminal how underrepresented slavs are in popular sci-fi IP's btw.

[andifthestarsweretodie]

I just saw a blog try and pretend like Gazans aren't under threat of extinction at the moment and that Israelis are the only ones who are currently under genocidal conditions. Buddy. Buddy. Please. Israelis, from what I understand, are under threat of genocidal intent from Hamas and that's what 07/10 exemplified. Gaza is getting carpet-bombed and starved and routinely pushed to leave their land under threat of death. Refugee camps are getting attacked. Civilian casualties are through the roof. People waving white flags are still getting shot. People in Gaza don't have access to clean water, food, electricity and healthcare right now. We can go into the nebulous details about whose fault that is later: I'm just laying bare what's happening. Is it so hard for people to understand that two things can be true at the same time? Hamas is a threat and very dangerous. The people at the helm of Israel's military are using the kind of dehumanising language that illustrates genocidal intent to some degree, Netanyahu will not accept the idea of a Palestinian state period and the Israeli military is being supported by the US government. There are levels to danger. Danger is danger but only one side in this bloody, deadly conflict (on all sides) will win in a war of attrition and that's a *major* problem when the people at the helm of the side with the strong military power describe no one in the Gaza Strip as innocent. Both parties can be under threat from each other. Two things can be true at the same time.

[hussyknee]

It has been A Day for the Sri Lankan Revolution, friends. Nobody has yet been ousted, with the PM and President still stalling, even though the former's house is in flames and the latter is hiding on a boat. There's miles to go before any of us can sleep, because political battles are all wars of attrition, and this one could still go either way.

But I'm going to leave you with this video of protestors enjoying the pool in our President's official mansion.

Desperation, fury and slow starvation propelled most of them to journey for miles on foot, or crammed cheek to jowl in lorries amidst the scorching heat, fight through a sea of police and Army firing tear gas, water cannons and rubber bullets, bring down the barricades with their bare hands and scale the gates. The President had fled and the mansion long empty by the time they got there, but they made full use of the whole house, especially the kitchens which had been stocked with cooking gas, oil, meat and luxury foods that most of our people have gone without for so long. They'd had a grand communal fry-up and set up to watch the cricket match in the TV lounge.

(Yes that one dude is showering in the bathroom 😂😂😂)

Zero fighting or property damage. Sometimes non-violence is the most fun option. 🇱🇰💫❤️🤗 අරගලයට ජය! Victory to the struggle!

[blacktacmopsi]

Miscellaneous Ghosts HeadCanons: Realistic Things Vol. 1

So...

As much as I like to think all is rosey in the world of the Ghosts, it truthfully isn't. The world they live in is harsh, horrible, and unforgiving. I wanted to write this because I got to thinking about what it would be like to live in their bleak timeline. So, below the cut are some of the more realistic things I think are really going on / have gone on.

Warning: Depressing things ahead.

There's a high chance all of them have lost a loved one during the ODIN attacks. Those were devastating and could be the reason Logan & Hesh's mother has passed away.

Being in the military allows them to have some semblance of a normal life. They have access to food, water, shelter, health care, and much more compared to if they were civilians.

They are essentially living in what is arguably a collapsing state after the ODIN incident and the ongoing war of attrition between the US & Feds. With that comes significant challenges to daily living. Not to mention a constant border dispute with No Man's Land.

The original Ghosts who were in the Tel Aviv war/ Operation: Sand Viper most likely have had their fair share of dealing with trauma. In another post of mine on this blog somewhere I mentioned that Ajax & Keegan were mere children when this happened (when you do the math based on the years they were born). Hiding under the dead bodies of your enemies and fellow soldiers, covered in their blood, and god-knows-what would definitely have a mental impact in some way... Especially if you're a teenager (which they were). No one gets out of that and is all sunshine and lollipops.

They all lived through some pretty rough political/ national times with constant uncertainty. You don't wipe out the middle east, cause an energy/ economic crisis, then have a massive global superpower knocking on the door of your southern border, and expect there not to be a case of strong man politics in the aftermath... especially if you're a collapsing state.

There's a high chance any surviving loved ones have had their homes destroyed rendering them homeless or even making a pseudo refugee crisis internally. You see this currently in the US with respect to big natural disasters like hurricanes. Imagine the scale of that due to a massive global conflict.

I would like to think that these hardships have made them care for their fellow man... But, it's equally likely they've become numb to a lot through no fault of their own. They could be both which is possible.

[whencyclopedia]

The Iraq Museum & Three Wars: Three Steps from Hell

This article documents and elaborates on the many critical behind-the-scenes events, unknown to the public, before the history leaves us.

The author

The bulk of the “the land between the two rivers” lies in what we call today the Republic of Iraq. People have been living there, around and between the Euphrates-Tigris system for thousands of years. The earth of this land has been irrigated by these two rivers and throughout several millennia, a multitude of cultures, city-states, and empires flourished in Mesopotamia, resulting in a gradual development in each and every aspect of human life. However, the interaction between them was not always peaceful. Wars, military confrontations, and political coalitions, driven by the perspective of “the victors and the vanquished”, have made the land ever eager for blood instead of water. Throughout the history of the region, no one knows how many people have been killed in clashes between countless different rivals. The last actor in this continuous black comedy was the so-called Islamic State in Iraq and the Levant, which has been irrigating Mesopotamia with different types of blood, from all around the world.

Wars and blood, instead of peace, doves, and flowers, dominated and shaped Mesopotamian history. Iraq, the legitimate heir of this legacy (by the order of destiny), the core of the Cradle of Civilizations, still bleeds. The Iraq Museum in Baghdad was officially opened on June 14, 1926 CE. The current building in Al-Salihiyyah District was completed in 1963 CE. Located within the heart of the Republic of Iraq’s capital city, Baghdad, this great Museum of the human being and humanity’s history has sustained several “life-threatening and function-threatening” events. The Iraq Museum’s existence and persistence have been punctuated by three devastating wars within a relatively short period of time.

The Iraq-Iran War, 1980-1988 CE

A military conflict erupted in September 1980 CE between Iraq and its neighbor, Iran, resulting in the longest war in the 20th century. The war lasted for 8 years and ended on August 8, 1988 CE. These 8 years left their thumbprint on Mesopotamian history and resulted in a negative impact on the Iraq Museum. According to Iraqi laws, museums should close in wartime. At the beginning of the 1981 CE, the contents of the galleries of the Iraq Museum were packed and stored inside the museum itself. The large Assyrian stone slabs and several statues were left in situ, protected by foam and sandbags. This had rendered the museum virtually inactive; however, it was not closed officially. People simply ceased visiting the museum, as the galleries were somewhat empty. In 1983 CE, the construction of a new wing had increased the number of the museum’s halls and galleries from 13 to 23; the Babylonian-Chaldean, Hatra, Islamic, Manuscripts, and Coins halls received the bulk of this expansion. Some of the stored contents were re-displayed again and the new galleries were filled in with many artifacts. However, this short period was terminated rapidly with the escalation of the war. Once again, the relics were packed and stored and the museum’s halls were lifeless. Luckily, the Museum escaped damage incurred by the so-called “War of the Cities” between 1984-1988 CE (where both Iraq and Iran bombarded different cities haphazardly, resulting in the deaths of thousands of non-combat civilians and wide-spread civilian infrastructure attrition. When the war ended in August 1988, the museum’s day-to-day operations were mainly administrative; the public was not here.

Continue reading...

[frociaggine]

do you have any fic recs for the OG lyctor's ascension or dios apate!

Dios Apate

i will climb the palm tree; i will take hold of its fruit. by elpisflower; rated E

It’s just that—well! The last person who moved inside her is dead, her eyes stolen inside of Mercymorn’s reflection every single day, but besides that—John is too skittish, too reverent, his hands on her waist with an awed shyness that doesn’t suit him.

Kill God, Then We'll Talk by xaalenka; rated E

Dios Apate major from Augustine's POV

Sacrament by @naryrising; rated E

Augustine feels sure she chose this position partly for practicality, but partly so he couldn't avoid looking at her. He makes eye contact deliberately, like an attack, and is mildly gratified when Mercy looks away first. She disguises it as a careless toss of her head, her rose gold hair tumbling back, but Augustine recognizes a flinch when he sees it.

sweet as cherry wine by @darlingofdots; rated E

You had let the Saint of Patience bring the wine, which had been a mistake.

This War of Attrition by @seven-syntheseas; Augustine/John/Mercy longfic, rated E (30k, complete)

attrition (n.): 1. sorrow for one’s sins stemming from a motive other than that of the love of God; 2. friction.

Or, put simply: Dios Apate. Major.

That delightful subgenre of Dios Apate fic that is "Mercymorn and Augustine talk about threesomes and maybe fuck about it while fantasizing about John"

come rip up the flesh from my fears by @darlingofdots; rated E, planning Dios Apate major

The Emperor Undying's First and Second Saint discuss a hypothetical. Hypothetically.

desire followed the glance by @augustmourn; rated E, post Dios Apate minor

“I’ve always thought you’d be particularly good at putting someone over your knee.”

The Offering by @saint-of-joy; rated E, planning Dios Apate major

“Yes, I know,” he said, wearily. “It’s the pretending. It’s demeaning to playact at finding you tolerable.”

“Precisely!!” said Mercy with an emphatic gesture. “I cannot abide Teacher thinking that we’ve settled into domestic bickering after millennia at each other’s throats.”

Mercy and Augustine have a late-night conversation. It devolves from there.

two slow dancers, last ones out by opinionhaver; rated E, post Dios Apate minor

Mercymorn made a noise that was almost a laugh. “Not even two hours ago you were quite the exhibitionist.”

Augustine smiled thinly without opening his eyes. “Does that make you my voyeur?”

Lyctoral ascension

Approaching the Roche Limit by @cadmean; rated E, CNTW, post Lyctoral ascension, Augustine/John dubcon

Every time Augustine closes his eyes, he sees his brother. Every time he opens them and is unfortunate enough to look in a mirror, too. John would really rather he didn't.

Ascension by @rnanqo; rated M, major character death (suicide cw)

Mercymorn is on the brink of cracking the ultimate necromantic theorem. She has no time for parties--unless it would delight her cavalier to go. And Mercymorn would do anything for Cristabel.

Commandments by @catharsis-in-a-bottle; rated T, CNTW (implied suicide)

1. Thou shalt kneel

The point at which Cristabel's love becomes whet as a weapon is the point at which there is no return, especially if she should turn the weapon inward upon herself.

rip my ribcage open (devour what was hers) by @darlingofdots; rated E, grief sex, Mercy/Pyrrha

Sometimes you just ate your cavalier, the love of your life, and you just need to feel something, anything.

Thus Entwined by @catharsis-in-a-bottle; rated T, CNTW

Augustine stares out past the lichen-eaten railing and down into the water. At last, he becomes conscious of his wallowing, to which there is only one proper response: Fuck this. I am finding Alfred, and I am changing something, anything - God knows stagnancy kills.

Or: the Lyctorhood of the Quinque brothers.

you made it (you played it) by Marenke; rated M, CNTW

Mercymorn was the first to crack the theory of God’s immortality alongside Cassiopeia. Augustine, later - when it doesn’t matter anymore -, will say it was him and Cassiopeia, but Mercymorn kept the carefully dated paperwork with her. After all, it was, in all but name, Cristabel’s death certificate.

Wildcard rec!

Not strictly speaking about Lyctoral ascension but Mercy and Augustine's Cake Simulator! by @reconditarmonia is a brilliant work of interactive fiction about love and grief (and baking as a distraction!) and you should absolutely check it out

[skadren]

sephesis week day 3. battlefield / camaraderie: "my friend, the fates are cruel."

-

The next time he meets Sephiroth, Genesis has been stationed at a captured Wutaian fort for months, scuffling daily against enemy forces in a pointless battle of attrition. War should never be described as boring, and yet Genesis can come up with no other descriptor—that is, until they realize the small squadrons Wutai has sent are only scouts in preparation for a full-frontal siege to retake their territory.

Blanketed by clouds, the dim glow of the moon sits high overhead when they send out the emergency signal, then prepare for battle.

By midday, both sides are exhausted; when a sudden lull in the fighting comes, Genesis doesn't question it. After all, no matter what rumors ShinRa likes to foster, the other side needs rest to function too. He simply takes the moment to duck behind a reasonably safe corner to throw back some ethers while he still has the chance.

The hurried scrape of boots draws his attention, and Genesis glances up with a raised eyebrow, taking in the trooper standing before him, faceless behind the glowing red lights of his helmet. A messenger, judging by the color of his scarf. "What is it?"

After his squad leader had been unceremoniously killed a few hours into the fighting, Genesis had found himself taking charge of his teammates, and somehow all the army reports had soon followed suit. Technically there's no chain of command between the infantry and SOLDIER, given they're entirely different divisions, but everyone is uncomfortably aware of the power imbalance between the two, and…

In the end, it's more efficient to coordinate against the enemy this way when the enemy themselves are intimidatingly coordinated as well. Genesis had grown used to it. He'd had to, after all.

The messenger relaxes from his salute. "The fighting's over. It's… It's Sephiroth. Sir."

"Sephiroth?" Exhaustion evaporating into thin air, Genesis leaps to his feet, and the trooper's next report on casualties and damages washes over him like water over a turtle's back. "Where is he?"

"Just outside the fortress's walls—sir? Sir—?"

Boots clattering against stone, Genesis makes the leap from the inner to the outer wall, hurdling over the fortifications and landing nimbly on his feet on the battlefield outside—outside, which is like another world entirely.

Scorched and blackened, this earth is not the same earth Genesis had walked merely yesterday, and the ashes crunch underneath his feet. Despite the stiff breeze, the scent of burnt flesh remains thick in the air, and the remnants of Wutai's banners flutter weakly as they glow with half-extinguished embers. The clouds hang dark and heavy overhead with smoke.

Before it all stands Sephiroth, tall and straight-backed. With him facing away, it's easy to notice that his hair is longer now than when Genesis had last saw him.

"The efforts of all the men guarding the fort played a vital role in ShinRa's victory today." As he speaks, Sephiroth turns just enough that Genesis can see the edge of his profile, sharp and handsome. "I've made a note of it in my report. Congratulations on your promotion, SOLDIER Second Class Genesis."

Somehow, standing here in the barren memory of a battlefield, it doesn't quite feel like a victory. But yet again, all Genesis can do is say dumbly, "You're not supposed to be here."

Sephiroth inclines his head, a flicker of something tugging briefly at his lips before it vanishes. "I'm not."

Indeed, Sephiroth is meant to be hours away even by helicopter, attending some fancy military function in Junon. Genesis may pay attention to anything related to Sephiroth, but even that is something far beyond his interests. He does the math in his head, and with the time difference—

"You must've—you must have flown here less than an hour after our emergency signal was received," he says, incredulous. "Have you slept? Why did they even send you to help?"

Sephiroth shrugs. "Because I'm the only one who can."

He says it simply. Matter-of-factly. Coming from Sephiroth, it isn't a boast; it's nothing but the truth, and for once, Genesis finds himself speechless.

There's a question he wants to ask—why do you fight? But it's not a topic he dares to broach. It's a question that has haunted him every day since he'd entered the frontlines and learned the reality of war, but he still wouldn't know the answer if he were asked himself.

Distantly, the smoldering fire crackles. A particularly brisk gust of wind sends a ripped flag tumbling across the ground, the bold lines of the emblem charred and unidentifiable.

"Does it bother you?" Genesis asks instead, barely a whisper. "Doing things like this."

A pause. For a moment, Genesis worries that he shouldn't have asked this, either. But then Sephiroth's chin dips even lower, expression unreadable, and he says—

"No," he says, just as quiet. "I know it should, but it doesn't. Maybe that really does make me a cyborg, after all."

The corners of Sephiroth's mouth lift, as if he's made some kind of joke. Genesis doesn't find it very funny at all, but he doesn't have an answer for it, either.

Around them, the air shivers as the clouds finally exceed their burden. The sky begins to weep—a fine drizzle at first, then fat, heavy drops that leave gray streaks of ash on their skin.

Sephiroth's hand is warm through the leather of their gloves. Genesis hopes his own feels the same: the warmth of two humans, shared through the storm.

-

Later, when the news hits the press, there is only ever any mention of Sephiroth. Sephiroth and no one else, despite Sephiroth's own report leading to Genesis's promised promotion, and Genesis remembers—

Why do you fight?

("I'm the only one who can.")

He remembers.

-

previous day | next day

[theintexp]

The Battle of Borodino on 26 August 1812 by Peter von Hess

The Battle of Borodino took place near the village of Borodino on 7 September (O.S. 26 August) 1812 during Napoleon's invasion of Russia. The Grande Armée won the battle against the Imperial Russian Army, but failed to gain a decisive victory and suffered tremendous losses. Napoleon fought against General Mikhail Kutuzov, whom the Emperor Alexander I of Russia had appointed to replace Barclay de Tolly on 29 August (O.S. 17 August) 1812 after the Battle of Smolensk. After the Battle of Borodino, Napoleon remained on the battlefield with his army; the Imperial Russian forces retreated in an orderly fashion southwards. Because the Imperial Russian army had severely weakened the Grande Armée, they allowed the French occupation of Moscow, using the city as bait to trap Napoleon and his men. The failure of the Grande Armée to completely destroy the Imperial Russian army, in particular Napoleon's reluctance to deploy his Imperial Guard, has been widely criticised by historians as a huge blunder, as it allowed the Imperial Russian army to continue its retreat into territory increasingly hostile to the French. Approximately a quarter of a million soldiers were involved in the battle, and it was the bloodiest single day of the Napoleonic Wars.

Although the Battle of Borodino is classified as a victory for Napoleon since he and his men managed to capture Moscow, the fierce defense of the Imperial Russian Army devastated the Grande Armée to such an extent that it caused France and its army to become militarily impuissant. Also, the city was actually used as bait to lure and trap the French forces. When Napoleon and his men visited the city, he found that it was burnt and abandoned upon his arrival. While Napoleon was in Moscow, he sent a letter to the tsar who was residing in Saint Petersburg demanding that he surrender and accept defeat. Napoleon received no response. Whilst patiently waiting for an answer from the tsar, as soon as the cold winter and snowfall started to form, Napoleon, realizing what was happening, attempted to escape the country with his men. Seeing that they were fleeing, the Imperial Russian army launched a massive attack on the French. Attrition warfare was used by Kutuzov by burning Moscow's resources, guerrilla warfare by the Cossacks against any kind of transport and total war by the peasants against foraging. This kind of warfare weakened the French army at its most vulnerable point: logistics, as it was unable to pillage Russian land, which was insufficiently populated nor cultivated, meaning that starvation became the most dangerous enemy long before the cold joined in. The feeding of horses by supply trains was extremely difficult, as a ration for a horse weighs about ten times as much as one for a man. It was tried in vain to feed and water all the horses by foraging expeditions. Of the more than 600,000 soldiers who invaded the Russian Empire, fewer than 100,000 returned. Sources. The Battle of Borodino, from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

[thana-topsy]

8/10 for voryn/almalexia?

So, I ended up outsourcing this one by apparently mentioning it off-hand to the exact right person at the exact right time. @yesjejunus , a far more skilled denizen of the First Council Fandom than I, cracked his knuckles and got to work, so many thanks to him for providing us with such tasty food. (He gave me permission to share by way of answering this ask).

Thank you, anon!

---

Almalexia x Voryn "A kiss in secret." (648 words) by @yesjejunus

Sunshine kissed the hem of Dagoth Voryn’s robes as he stood tucked away in the alcove of the courtyard, just beyond the sight of Lord Nerevar and Alandro Sul. He watched as they danced, swords in hand, jeering at each other in good nature as they sparred. They flowed around each other as gracefully as oil and water, blades coming wickedly close to crossing tender golden flesh, but never quite joining. Voryn’s red lips wore a smile so small and compact that it could have been mistaken for a grimace. Nerevar couldn’t see him from this angle.

He can never see him.

The fine hairs on the back of Voryn’s neck bristled and he sensed a presence behind him. Impossible, as the carved stone would surely have given away anyone who dared to approach. He turned and met Indoril Ayem eye to eye; her toes dangled inches above the ground, and she was staring knowingly at him. Voryn turned back to the courtyard with a snort.

“You could go out there and spar with them, you know. Instead of standing here, doing your best impression of a statue,” she said, coming to float beside him. Voryn ignored her—he’d long learned that the only way to win her power games was not to play them at all. He kept his crimson eyes trained on Nerevar as he dodged yet another of Alandro Sul’s attacks, his sweat slicked skin shimmering in the sunlight. Ayem floated closer to him, so close that Voryn was forced to acknowledge her, and he glanced down. She was dressed as she usually was, her breasts concealed with little more than gauzy strips of green fabric that fluttered in the breeze as she continued to levitate beside him. He flicked his eyes back up to hers and made a show of turning away.

“I’ve no mind for games today,” he said dismissively as he waved his long fingers in her face. He only narrowly avoided catching her cheekbone with the tip of one his lacquered nails. He was halfway through the turn when Ayem seized that hand and slammed it against the wall before blocking him in and trapping the rest of his body between her own and the cool stones.

She was smaller than him, and though she was one of the most capable warriors in all of Resdaynian history, Voryn could have easily pushed her away. He did not. Instead, he let his mouth curve into a true smile as he stared back at her blazing golden eyes, satisfied that she’d taken the bait. Though her eyes remained fiery, she smiled back at him, and they were fully enmeshed in the game, in the strange dance they’d been locked in for decades now. Just beyond the periphery of what Lord Nerevar could see.

Ayem’s lips were close to Voryn’s, mere centimeters away. Waiting. Challenging. Theirs had been a war of attrition, continually pushing and pulling to see who would submit first. Neither could say which of them was the first to begin this strange tryst all those years ago, but neither side showed any sign of ceding victory.

Voryn leaned forward, his red lips achingly close to hers, so much so that he could feel

her breath on them, and he paused, listening intently. From the courtyard came the sounds of Nerevar breathing heavily, grunting with each heavily planted footstep as he continued dueling. His senses were so electrified that he could hear Nerevar’s sidesteps in the grass with each parry. Each thrust.

Ayem’s mouth crushed down on his as her hands fisted in his hair, dragging him closer, and Voryn returned the kiss with fervor, savoring the lips that had known Nerevar’s countless times, had surely explored every inch of his radiant body, each curve of muscle, every tattoo, every scar. He could practically taste him on her.

Today, he had won.

[scrumpledorph-writes]

Koben's First Date (She's 35)

Arrived at the agreed upon meeting point at 18:55 hours: five minutes to perform a reconnaissance before the date begins. Three suns casting a long set of shadows and a dangerous ambient temperature for anything not covered by them. Single story bar, wrought out of sun baked clay, outer walls a solid imperial meter thick. Would diffuse a whole platoon of blaster rifle fire.

Still a dingy rathole at the edge of town, but it’s what my date picked out. I’ve only been staying here two weeks so it’s not like I know anywhere nicer. I’ve done breach and clears on scummier places, so just coming here to relax should be easy!

Wearing my best suit of armor, picked out my most flattering helmet, and polished the outfit well enough to blind anyone who points a glowrod at me. I look good, I feel good: I can do this. Just walk through that front door and-

There’s half a dozen blaster pistols pointed at me. ‘What the hell’s a trooper doing here?!’ one of them’s asking. I figured the purple stripes and the mismatched helmet would be a flagrant enough violation of Imperial Dress Armor Maintenance Protocol to get the point across that I’m no longer officially Empire affiliated, but some people just don’t read their manuals I suppose.

My hands are by my side, I’m playing it cool. Don’t kill six people before sitting down, that’s coming on too strong.

‘Oh, uhh, don’t mind me! Just here on a date, was gonna sit down in that empty booth and-’

A blaster pistol pokes me in the side as I walk by. Killing one or two of these guys will probably get the point across, that’s a justifiable use of force in a naval court. I take a survey of the room: angles, positions, battery grades. Their guns are barely stronger than stunners, I could take at least three solid hits before the heat sinks start to fail – it’d ruin the polish though.

Okay just break this guy’s arm and use him as a shield to get the point across. Here. We.

‘Hey Buckethead, you got credits?’ The bartender! He seems amenable; this place is a hole in the wall so losing these scumbags would probably put him out of business. Turn to look at him, nod slowly, reach for my credit pouch even more so.

‘Good. You thirsty?’ Nod again. I scheduled this date to align precisely with my dietary schedule, so I plan to have one and a half glasses of water and a nutritionally complete meal. Ample spending for a single patron.

‘Then whoever shoots you pays your tab.’ The blasters recede back into cloaks and shoddy holsters. Sit down at the booth without further incident, good progress so far. Don’t remember any of my old squad-mates mentioning shootouts in their date stories. Face the door so I can keep an eye out for her.

She’s a few minutes late. Within acceptable standard deviation, not worth a reprimand. Even if it was I’d let it slide, because standing in the front doorway she’s just about the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

Coral pink skin draped over legs built like tree trunks – waging a war of attrition against a pair of work pants eligible for veteran’s benefits, and winning it by the look of the tears. Cushion around the midsection: serving double duty as protection and a calorie reserve for long bouts of physical labour. Arms poking out of a sleeveless, tastefully sun bleached off white work shirt that look like they could heft up a laser cannon. Years of desert dust had taken up the venerable work of sculpting her a strong, hardy jawline that could come out the other end of a brawl with no more than a bruise. All this topped off with a half dozen shoulder length Nautolan head tentacles.

I didn’t even know women could look like that – they definitely can’t while adhering to Imperial Diet and Dress Guidelines – but I’m glad she does. Her deep black eyes are on me. I’m glad to be wearing a helmet, just now noticing my jaw dropped while I was looking her up and down.

They’re off me again. She’s looking around the bar. Oh shit, right, I’m in full armor. Wave her down. She’s pointing at herself incredulously. Nod, but don’t nod so hard I look desperate. Alright that worked. I never got sent on information gathering missions, so I don’t have any training for how to seduce a woman, but all the guys used to say just be yourself and act natural.

‘H-hi’ Terrible. Cracked, warbling voice, trembling like a schoolchild. Clear your throat, pretend this is a debrief with a particularly informal officer, and try again.

‘Hey! Brayli, right?’ ‘Yeah, you’re Koben?’ That husky drawl is just about making my knees buckle, really glad I decided to meet her sitting down. Her voice is bouncing around in my helmet like a concussion grenade bounces shockwaves around a cockpit.

‘Do you mind if I take this thing off?’ Point at the helmet to make sure she doesn’t think you’re some kind of exhibitionist freak. She’s nodding, good. Don’t put it on the table that’s weird and intimidating. The seat next to you is good, that’s normal, put it there.

She’s smirking now, oh no why’s she doing that, she’s making fun of me, now that there’s nothing keeping her from reading my face it’s written on me like a bounty poster how nervous I am.

‘Not sure why you bother wearing that, cute thing like you.’ Oh, I understand now, she’s forward. Really forward. Can’t keep the nervous laughter inside, but she seems to be liking it. Adrenal responses involve an up front surge and level off with time, take the conversation somewhere less stimulating and circle back around for another pass later.

‘I kept it this way by wearing the thing – an old squad-mate of mine took his off and took a blaster shot, looked like someone had smashed a tomato with a hammer.’ Why. Why did you say that. That’s weird, nobody knows what a smashed tomato looks like and nobody wants to know that it looks a lot like a blown open face.

Wait no never mind she’s laughing I’m doing great – mental note maybe this woman is dangerous – laugh too so you don’t look like a commando droid with synthskin draped over it. We’re having idle conversation, it’s progressing naturally. Keep talking.

‘That outfit looks practical, what do you need it for?’ She’s looking down at it, now back to me. ‘Speeder mechanic. I would’ve wore some nicer clothes, but I don’t own any.’ Another little laugh. She laughs a lot, it’s really pretty. I’d ask her to spend the rest of the night just laughing at nothing but that’s weird so I won’t. I’m already laughing too, I didn’t even need to remember.

‘Yeah I know what you mean. My closet’s this and a subcycle’s worth of identical underarmor.’ Too far, you were doing great but you were riding a thin line and now she knows you live like a soldier who has nothing else to offer – no wait another laugh she’s fine you’re fine it’s fine everything’s fine.

‘Well, it’s a very nice suit of armor. Maybe you can let me take a closer look some time.’ I’m pretty sure that was flirty, don’t be standoffish and professional about this. ‘You can take a look now!’ I’ll show her my gauntlet: it’s the smallest piece which makes people think it’s the least important but actually an incredible degree of engineering goes into all the microservos: nobody ever thinks unpowered armor needs microservos because you can move it just with your hands, but actually they’re there to subtly compensate for recoil. Normal Stormtrooper armor doesn’t have it, and in test environments where Purge and Storm troopers swapped armor it was found to reduce deviation by up to five degrees and increase hit probability by as much as fifteen percent. Why am I bothering to remember this; she’s a civilian speeder mechanic she doesn’t care about any of this.

She’s running her fingers along my hand. I know I’m not feeling her body heat because the suit is weather proofed, but it feels like she’s leaving lingering embers trailing along my skin. But not searing it like how the inquisition sears flesh with their lightsabers to torture dissidents, it’s more like the gentle warmth of a blaster barrel after a just slightly too long burst. It’s nice.

Her mouth furrows into a frown for the first time of the night. Why, what’s wrong, what’d I do, can she tell everything that these gauntlets have ever done? Is she a secret jedi? Does she feel them around her windpipe crushing the life out of her and her son is beating on the leg of my armor for me to stop but he’s so weak and I’m so much stronger and then there’s a crack and she falls limp and I walk away, leaving a scar that won’t ever heal in her son’s heart until he joins a resistance cell and I end up shooting him stone dead in the street?

‘It looks like this microservo’s a little out of tune.’

Oh. Well that’s fine. ‘Maybe you could tune it up for me some time?’ I didn’t even think that one through, but she’s smiling about it, so I guess we have something in common. She’s letting my hand rest on top of hers after giving it a complete once over. I know I should probably pull it back, but this is nice. Just a few more seconds. One. Two. Three. No more, it’s time to move on to something else.

‘So, what’re you doing for work now that the Empire finally let you go?’ Don’t correct her by saying I deserted. There’s a lot of things not to have said tonight, and I’m already safely past most of them, but don’t say that one specifically the most. Followup thing not to say: don’t tell her I’m a bounty killer. Definitely don’t mention that I’m specifically a bounty killer and not a bounty hunter because there’s an active bounty out on me and the only work I could get was the illegal version. Don’t lie to her, because that’s almost as bad as all those other things, but stretch the truth until it ends up somewhere respectable.

‘Freelance security work. Protecting transports and merchant caravans.’ Not a lie! Sometimes I end up guarding a dummy caravan as bait until the target shows up. She looks impressed. I’m out of things I can reasonably say, how do I follow this up. Drinks!

Yeah, get drinks, showcase my poison honed constitution, that’ll be really impressive! My inquisitor used to microdose me on common toxins to build up a resistance to ambushes and subterfuge. Whatever watered down swill a place like this can offer will be easy!

Speaking of, it’s been a long day. This place serve anything strong?’ Another little chuckle. I’m starting to savor every one of them. ‘Hey Glixnee, get us a couple snakebites.’ Oh, the mess hall used to serve those. Not really what I’d call strong, but out here I guess something recognizable is as good as I can hope for. The bartender is making the drinks and he’s bringing us the drinks and the drinks are here and this is the single most revolting substance that has ever entered my digestive system.

Poisons are usually engineered to be subtle, but this is just making no secret of how awful it is. She’s sipping at it with no trouble like it’s a glass of water. I think if I try that I’ll throw up. All of it, right now. It feels like molten slag going down, but it’s gone. Now I can dilute it over the night. She’s laughing again.

‘Wow, hope you’ve got a synth liver.’ My body feels like it’s unspooling, but my limbs still move so I guess I’m fine. ‘Whaddyu meen?’ That didn’t come out right. Try again, still wrong. She’s laughing the hardest she has all night. I’d chug a gallon of this expired swill if it kept making her laugh harder.

‘You know you just downed a glass of snake venom, right? You’re supposed to sip on it over the night, let it attack you in small waves and fight it off for a light buzz. It takes three hours to drink one dose safely without an enhanced toxin filter.’ I’m sliding down the bench. The lights just got a lot brighter and her voice is so loud now, she’s talking so slowly too. My mouth tastes like I licked the ashes out of the barrel of my blaster rifle, but other than that I feel gooooood. ‘Ooooh. Yaaaay.’

I’m having a great time halfway to the floor, giggling and drooling and now I can’t move my face any more so I guess I’m gonna rest in a pool of it for a little bit. She’s saying something to the bartender but my ears are ringing like one of the guys pranked me with a flashbang so I don’t really know what it is they’re saying. Oh now she’s picking me up, she’s giving me a hug, hooray! Oh she’s holding my mouth open, are we having a kiss now?

The bartender’s coming over, when’d he join our date? Get him out of here, I wanna flail my arms at him to get him out of here but they don’t wanna move for me, little treacherous bastards. He’s pouring something down my throat and it tastes even worse than the venom somehow and he’s carrying me away. Goodbye everybody at the bar! I want to wave but my arms are still mutinying so a little happy wheeze will do.

I’m kicking my legs and having fun with the ride and now I’m in a bathroom stall. I don’t really need to use the bathroom and now my tummy’s turning itself inside out and I’m purging the toxins from my system, coughing and retching as it burns even worse on the way up than it did on the way down.

The world’s coming back into focus and I’m mostly over whatever the hell that was but still reeling from the exertion, only dimly aware he’s talking to me. I’m looking up at him, and he’s laughing, but obviously at me and not with me like Brayli does. ‘Gotta admit I don’t see folks try that one too often. Wanted to look tough for your date?’

I’m being reprimanded, a role I’m a lot more familiar with. He’s talking again now that I’ve managed an embarrassed nod. ‘Well you put on a great show. I’ll go tell ‘em to settle down before you come back out, but hell: I’m not even gonna charge you for this.’ His apron has a lot more pockets than I expected, and that ever so slightly glowing blue vial is singing a siren’s song of relief to me right now.

‘I got most of it out, but not enough for it not to kill me, and this is the antidote?’ ‘Good guess. This a hobby of yours or something?’ It’s the least objectionable thing I’ve had to drink tonight, even factoring in the lumps. Splash some cold water on my face, swish my mouth out from the tap, and I’m feeling close enough to fine to go back out. I shouldn’t keep her waiting.

There’s a couple sets of eyes on me right now, but the only ones I care about are hers. They’re locked onto me and I’m not even forcing the little smile I can feel forming. ‘Hey. Guess a snakebite’s a little different around here than an Imperial canteen.’ We’re laughing it off together. It’s been a very nice change of pace to be laughed with instead of at.

‘Holy shit she’s got flesh and blood after all! Here I was thinking you’d found the last commando droid abandoned on the assembly line and dressed it up in a layer of synthskin so you could pretend anyone liked you!’

I could kill him, easily. He’s obviously drunk, so his reflexes are shot, and he’s a gangly little son of a bitch anyway. One of those chitinous species’ that don’t give in gradually to force, I’d get a nice satisfying crunch all at once. Put the helmet on so he can’t even hope for a glass to the face to save him, snuff the life out of his stupid compound eyes, reveal that I’m nothing more than a cold blooded killer, scar her for life. Forget it.

She’s giving me another smile, but this one’s forced. I had to study the way faces contort once during counterspy training and this one’s fake. Without another word she’s up, and then he’s down. One good right hook to the side of the head and – holy hell it bounced off the counter! Normally when you knock someone out cold they just slump over like a sack of meat and go through oxygen deprivation and die, but he might not even get the chance. By the Emperor I think I just swallowed my tongue. No, still feel it. Definitely made me jump in my seat a little, which even a proton torpedo across the view screen doesn’t make me do any more. I was infatuated before, but now I’m in love.

I’m still staring as she sits down, but now I’m worried that she’s mistaking how attracted I am for concern, or worse: judgment. Clear my throat, blink, put my face back on right. ‘Relax, his bug juice coagulates quickly. He’ll be fine.’ I’ll take her word for it. Not quite sure if I’m disappointed, but the swirling torrent of toxin hangover and flustered lust are definitely calling for some fresh air.

‘Hey, if it’s alright, do you maybe want to get out of here?’ ‘Please.’ We’re up, the helmet’s back on, my credit purse is a little heavier – my last job could only pay me in thousands so the barkeep had to break change – and we’re outside. I never thought I’d want to fill my lungs with this dry, dusty air but my head’s already starting to empty out.

‘Well, I should call a speeder. I had a great time though, if you wanted to swap comm frequencies I’d love to keep in touch.’ Unreserved, unabashed, not desperate, not apologetic, no promises to do better. I didn’t even know talking to someone could be like this. She’s giggling. It’s fine, she giggles a lot. I’m not in trouble.

‘I can give you a lift.’ She’s pointing at a land speeder. At least, the rough silhouette of a land speeder. More like a cobbled together pile of parts that failed routine inspection. Any requisition officer would scrap it, maybe even have it melted down and recast to be on the safe side, but if she’s a mechanic then I’m sure it runs. Can’t exactly say it looks out of place around here.

We’re in the speeder together. It’s cramped. Her thighs are laying siege to the unyielding plate of my suit. There’s no room for me to put it if I were to take it off. This suit’s the one thing that’s never failed or betrayed me over the years, but I’m half tempted to dump it out the side just so it could be my skin she’s pressed up against. I’ll settle for putting my helmet on the floor.

My place is a long way out of town. Little whitewashed clay hut in the middle of nowhere, an inconspicuous blip not worth paying any attention to. Suits my needs perfectly, but it’s a long trip. I always take a speeder halfway then march for half an hour just so there’s nobody who could trace my location.

We’re stopped. ‘Engine trouble?’ She’s shaking her head and pointing over my shoulder. ‘Just wanted to take in the sunset for a few minutes.’ Oh wow, that’s worth stopping for. The three suns look beautiful over the dunes; their usual oppressive hues are fading into a cool pink. Glittering and sparkling and reflected a million million fold over the sand. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Her weight just shifted onto me. The speeder is on the ground, so no danger of capsizing. I’ve seen other troopers use this maneuver before: put my arm around her shoulder. We’re sitting silently, just watching the suns disappear over the horizon. It’s nice.

The minutes pass, and the suns retreat with them. I’m looking into those fathomless black eyes of hers, completely devoid of texture and depth. I’d love to be lost in them forever. The speeder starts up more easily than the first time, and we’re off across the dunes again.

I can’t invite her in, she can’t even get line of sight to my place. Damn it! I clear my throat at the crest of a dune. Good enough visibility, I can find my way back home. ‘You can let me out here. I like the exercise.’ Not the whole truth, but not a stretch either: I always appreciated long marches.

Getting out is a modest challenge with the speeder still running, but I can manage. She’s waving me off, I’m returning the gesture. ‘Not quite the night I was expecting, but one I wouldn’t mind following up on. Call me tomorrow?’ I’m nodding, we’re both waving, she’s driving off, I’m walking alone with my helmet under my shoulder and a chill creeping across my face. Those last two solve each other.

Lots of time to think on the march. Think about what I am, think about what I used to be. Child slave, orphan, Naval Academy star pupil. Storm trooper, Purge trooper, assassin. Deserter, bounty killer. Happy. I was happy tonight. Maybe a little of those other things, but mostly that. I hope I can be happy again soon.

[mariacallous]

Recent coverage of the war in Ukraine in the Western media has focused heavily on Kyiv’s land offensive, especially attempts to push toward the Black Sea coast. Much of the scrutiny, rightly or wrongly, has been on Kyiv’s lack of significant progress so far this year, with nothing comparable to last year’s breakthrough offensives in Kharkiv and Kherson.

While some of this criticism may be justified, the almost singular Western focus on territorial breakthroughs has distracted from the fact that Ukraine is fighting a medium- to long-term war on multiple fronts against a significantly larger and heavily entrenched foe. What’s more, the lack of a major Ukrainian land advance obscures the very real battlefield successes Ukraine has had in other theaters of the conflict—most notably in Russian-occupied Crimea and the Black Sea.

A crucial part of Kyiv’s long-term plan for the war is to push Russia out of the Crimean Peninsula and the rest of the Russian-occupied parts of Ukraine’s coastline. Since the start of the full-scale invasion, Russia’s Black Sea Fleet, headquartered at the Crimean port of Sevastopol, has been a critical component of Moscow’s war effort. Russian warships operating out of Sevastopol have enforced a blockade of Ukraine’s coastline and launched cruise missiles to rain hell onto Ukrainian cities and infrastructure.

But over the last several months, Ukraine has achieved a series of startling victories in and around Crimea, including missile strikes against the Kerch Strait bridge and multiple daring attacks on the Black Sea Fleet itself—with major impacts on the Russians’ ability to operate on the peninsula and in the western Black Sea.

In September, the Ukrainians carried out a series of missile strikes against Russian naval assets in Sevastopol, including a landing ship, a submarine, and the headquarters of the Black Sea Fleet itself—reportedly while several high-ranking commanders were inside. Some of these strikes were carried out using Storm Shadow cruise missiles recently supplied by Britain and France. The Ukrainians have also ratcheted up their strikes against Russian logistics, repair, and infrastructure hubs on the peninsula with the intent of degrading Russia’s ability to support its fleet. Earlier this month, Kyiv claimed responsibility for two further attacks on the Russian fleet, using a new type of sea drone to strike the Russian cruise missile carrier Buyan and carrying out a sabotage attack on the Pavel Derzhavin, a Russian patrol ship. These strikes came after the Ukrainians had methodically attrited Russian anti-missile defense structures in Crimea over the previous weeks.

These successes constitute a major breakthrough for Ukraine. Its strikes against Crimea have now made it all but impossible for the Russian Black Sea Fleet to continue to operate freely in the western Black Sea. The Russian Navy has responded by moving its warships farther east, to the naval base in Novorossiysk, a port city on the Russian mainland. The effect is to push the Russian fleet farther and farther into the eastern recesses of the Black Sea—a step toward Kyiv’s long-term objective of removing the Russians from the occupied peninsula by rendering it unfeasible for operations. This combination of attrition and displacement has had the effect of diminishing the Russian fleet’s capacity to patrol the waters near the Ukrainian ports, partially relieving pressure on the international shipping lanes in the Black Sea. This could allow Kyiv to achieve another goal of these operations: opening up Odesa’s three deep-water ports to international merchant shipping for grain and other goods.

The Russian blockade of the Ukrainian ports had been alleviated by a Turkish and U.N. deal brokered in the summer of 2022 that had allowed certain amounts of Ukrainian goods—especially grain—to be exported through civilian shipping corridors. Moscow had been offered limited sanctions relief in exchange. The Kremlin withdrew from the agreement in July 2023, reestablished a blockade of all commercial shipping flowing to Odesa, and began a series of drone and missile strikes against Ukrainian grain export facilities. The cumulative effect of the blockade was to make insurance prices for shipping in and out of Ukraine spike and allow Russian grain exports to start dominating the markets. In August, Kyiv’s response was to institute an alternative humanitarian sea corridor that ran closely along the Ukrainian coast and would be protected by the navies of NATO members Bulgaria and Romania. The gamble that Russian threats to interdict shipping were a bluff and that they would not fire on internationally flagged ships paid off. By now, 32 intrepid international vessels have left Ukraine’s ports for Africa and elsewhere with their holds full of grain.

Ukraine has also undertaken successful commando raids by small teams of elite naval infantry to achieve its objectives. In Crimea, Ukraine managed to destroy or disable Russian anti-air missile installations in preparation for bombardment of the peninsula. Among other objectives, these actions allowed Ukraine to retake strategically located oil and gas drilling rigs captured by the Russians at the start of the war, which they had used for maritime radar surveillance. The fact that Kyiv only has a limited arsenal of Western-provided precision long-range missiles means that the Ukrainians have had to be very resourceful with their deployment, including by eliminating as much of Russia’s air defense as possible before launching them.

At the same time, the Ukrainians have also been successful in developing a new generation of sophisticated, locally made sea drones capable of striking past the defenses of the Russian fleet. The Russian anti-missile and traditional ship defense systems have proved incapable of offering protection against this new generation of sea drones, including the Ukrainian “Sea Baby” series of partially submerged attack drones. Representing a tiny fraction of the cost of an advanced Russian battleship, landing ship, or submarine, these relatively inexpensive and quickly constructed drones have proved themselves to be a radical innovation.

By the end of the summer, the Ukrainians had proved not only capable of sinking or maiming serious Russian naval assets, but also of making the further use of Sevastopol unsustainable for the Black Sea Fleet. The British Ministry of Defense assessed that Russia had “relocated many of its prestige assets—including cruise missile capable ships and submarines—from Sevastopol to operating and basing areas further east, such as Novorossiysk.” Furthermore, on Oct. 5, the leader of the Russian-occupied Georgian region of Abkhazia, which is located even farther east than Novorossiysk, made public statements that his Moscow-backed region would soon host a “permanent point of deployment” for the Russian Navy. Such a base would be located almost at the very eastern end of the Black Sea, suggesting that the Russians have concluded that stationing naval assets anywhere near Ukraine and its now heavily mined shoreline is untenable.

These successes have had the effect of severely restricting Russia’s range of mobility in the Black Sea. British Armed Forces Minister James Heappey said, “The functional defeat of the Black Sea Fleet, and I would argue that is what it is, because it has been forced to disperse to ports from which it cannot have an effect on Ukraine, is an enormous credit.”

Given that the total liberation of Crimea is a key objective for Kyiv, these significant Ukrainian successes must be put into the same context as the other developments in this multifront conflict—something that much of the Western press and commentariat have failed to do. By effectively dislodging the Russian Black Sea Fleet from Sevastopol and unilaterally opening a grain shipment corridor, Kyiv has achieved stunning successes with only limited naval capabilities. While Ukraine is still a long way from hoisting its flag over Simferopol, the Crimean capital, this kind of progress would have been unthinkable last year.

The success of Ukrainian naval operations against the Russian fleet has been all the more remarkable as Ukraine functionally no longer has a navy. Since 2014, the Russians have sunk, captured, or incapacitated all major Ukrainian warships except the flagship frigate Hetman Sahaidachny, which the Ukrainians themselves scuttled in early 2022 to prevent it from falling into Russian hands. Ukrainians have begun to routinely crack jokes about the mighty Russian Black Sea Fleet being sunk by a nation with no navy, but Russian naval officers are unlikely to be smiling.

The Ukrainian military has proved itself capable of incorporating new equipment into its arsenal quickly and to devastating effect—whether that be homegrown sea drones or Anglo-French-supplied missiles. If Western governments want to see more successes on the battlefield, providing Ukraine with more and longer-range missiles to continue denying Russia the freedom to move in Crimea would be a good place to start. Either way, Western observers should stop focusing only on the land war and put these remarkable Ukrainian achievements into the context they deserve. Otherwise, arguing in favor of providing Kyiv with the tools it needs to liberate its territories will be harder than it needs to be.

[leeenuu]

Ukrainian platoon commander Mariia talks to soldiers in their position in the Donetsk region, Ukraine, Saturday, July 2, 2022. Ukrainian soldiers returning from the frontlines in eastern Ukraine’s Donbas region describe life during what has turned into a grueling war of attrition as apocalyptic. Mariia, 41, said that front-line conditions may vary depending on where a unit is positioned and how well supplied they are. (AP Photo/Efrem Lukatsky)

A view shows a public building destroyed during the Russian invasion of Ukraine in the city of Lysychansk in the Luhansk Region, Ukraine, Monday, July 4, 2022. (REUTERS/Alexander Ermochenko)

Clothes and shoes on display to be distributed to people, at the humanitarian aid headquarters, in Kramatorsk, Ukraine, Tuesday, July 5, 2022. (AP Photo/Nariman El-Mofty)

Local officials stand in front of a damaged residential building in the town of Serhiivka, located about 50 kilometers (31 miles) southwest of Odesa, Ukraine, Saturday, July 2, 2022. A Russian airstrike on residential areas killed at least 21 people early Friday near the Ukrainian port of Odesa, authorities reported, a day after the withdrawal of Moscow's forces from an island in the Black Sea had seemed to ease the threat to the city. (AP Photo/Maxim Penko)

People wait to receive humanitarian aid as Russia's attack on Ukraine continues, in Kramatorsk, Donetsk region, Ukraine, Monday, July 4, 2022. (REUTERS/Marko Djurica)

An apartment building damaged by Russian attack is seen in Kharkiv, Ukraine, Monday, July 4, 2022. As Russia's invasion of Ukraine grinds into its fifth month, some residents close to the front lines remain in shattered and nearly abandoned neighborhoods. One such place is Kharkiv's neighborhood of Saltivka, once home to about half a million people. Only perhaps dozens live there now, in apartment blocks with no running water and little electricity. (AP Photo/Evgeniy Maloletka)

A Ukrainian soldier smiles as he looks at his puppy, in the Donetsk region, Ukraine, Saturday, July 2, 2022. (AP Photo/Efrem Lukatsky)

First responders work on the scene where a school was destroyed by early morning shelling as Russia's attack on Ukraine continues in Kharkiv, Ukraine, Monday, July 4, 2022. (REUTERS/Leah Millis)

A fresh hole is seen ahead of a funeral, among dozens of recent graves of people who have died since the beginning of Russia's invasion, in the Walk of Heroes section of the cemetery, where people who served as military members, firefighters and police officers are buried, as Russia's attack continues, in Kharkiv, Ukraine, Saturday, July 2, 2022. (REUTERS/Leah Millis)

Viktor Kolesnik cries on the body of his wife Natalia Kolesnik, who was killed during a Russian bombardment at a residential neighborhood in Kharkiv, Ukraine, on Thursday, July 7, 2022. “Dad, that’s it,” his son Olexander said, watching as first responders waited to close the body bag. “She is dead. Get up.” “Don’t you understand?” his father asked. “What don’t I understand?” the son said. “This is my mother. Dad, please. Dad, please.” (AP Photo/Evgeniy Maloletka)

[enriquemzn262]

Personally, I think the only moral way to go about retaliation… is a ground war… entering and clearing out tunnels. Door to door, through the entirety of Gaza. However, the attrition that would be suffered would be immense.

I get why they’ve leveled city blocks, and hit densely populated areas. It avoids massive losses in manpower - losses that could threaten their security even against opportunistic nations.

But it doesn’t mean that it is morally correct to bomb out entire neighborhoods. 65% of Gazans are under the age of 24. Something just below… like… half are 18 or younger. Cutting off all food, water, and electricity… indiscriminately… is inhumane - especially for a population of two million. Israel is out there starting to commit genocide against Palestinians… when something like 60% of Palestinians want peace with Israel. Palestinians don’t exactly control Hamas.

At the end of the day, Hamas is a non-state actor - and does not speak for all of Palestine. Israel is a full state with a functioning government. The mantle of responsibility falls on Israel to act moral, and just in how they retaliate. To bomb innocent Palestinians for the actions of Hamas is immoral.

Death to Hamas. Death to Zionists. But may Palestinians and Jews, in general, find peace.

Hamas does not speak for Palestinians, but it does control Gaza, and that’s the crux of the issue.

Honestly, it’s going to be a really awful war, the battles of Grozny will look like a military rehearsal compared to a ground invasion of Gaza, and it’s probably going to be Mosul times 20, if not Stalingrad 2.0.

As for peace, the first step if for the Arab world to finally accept Israel’s existence, that’s the only way a true path for peace can begin.

[librarycards]

Maiming thus functions not as an incomplete death or an accidental assault on life, but as the end goal in the dual production of permanent disability via the infliction of harm and the attrition of the life support systems that might allow populations to heal from this harm. Maiming is required. Not merely a by-product of war, of war’s collateral damage, it is used to achieve the tactical aims of settler colonialism. This functions on two levels. The first is the maiming of humans within a context that is utterly and systematically resource-deprived, an infrastructural field that is unable to transform the cripple into the disabled. This point is crucial, for part of what gels the disabled body that is hailed by rights discourses is the availability of the process of cultural rehabilitation—that is, normalization practices that produce docile bodies. The second is the maiming of infrastructure in order to stunt or decay the able-bodied into debilitation through the control of calories, water, electricity, health care supplies, and fuel.

What does the sustained practice of maiming—in this case, sustained since the first intifada at least—accomplish for settler colonialism? What is the long-term value of will not let die, of withholding death? The understanding of maiming as a specific aim of biopolitics tests the framing of settler colonialism as a project of elimination of the indigenous through either genocide or assimilation. It asks us to reevaluate the frame of biopolitics in relation to the forms of maiming (and stunting, which I will discuss shortly) that have gone on for centuries in settler colonial occupations. The right to maim is therefore not an exceptional facet of any one form of sovereignty; it does not newly emanate from Israeli settler colonialism. Rather, the right to maim allows us to differently apprehend the wielding of Israeli state power while also challenging the current limits of biopolitical theorizing such that it may revise our thinking on other times and places. Accounting for Israeli settler colonialism and occupation is an encounter with the unspoken thresholds of biopolitical thought. Examining the role of maiming not only in Palestine but also in Canada, New Zealand, Australia, and the United States puts analytic pressure on the assumption that the goal of settler colonialism is necessarily elimination.

Jasbir Puar, The Right to Maim. [emphasis mine]