#PERPETUATING THE CYCLE OF VIOLENCE AND BLOODSHED !!!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

demolitonlover · 7 months

Text

‘I’m Crying for All the Victims That Are Going to Suffer’

By Nicholas Kristof

Opinion Columnist, reporting from Tel Aviv

Oct. 25, 2023

No one understands terrorism more viscerally than Maoz Inon: His 78-year-old father and 75-year-old mother were among those massacred by Hamas this month in southern Israel.

He mourns his parents, and he despairs for old friends who have been kidnapped by Hamas. Yet he also fears that the unbearable losses his family endured are now being used to justify an impending ground invasion in Gaza.

“I don’t stop crying,” he told me in the hostel he runs here in Tel Aviv. “I’m crying for my parents. I’m crying for my friends. I’m crying for those who are kidnapped. I’m crying for the victims on the Palestinian side. And I’m crying for all the victims that are going to suffer.”

“We don’t sleep at night, we don’t eat, we are under emotional trauma,” he said. “We are just broken. But from these traumatized days, we must learn the lessons from history.” And foremost among them, he said, is the need to break the pattern of escalating violence that feeds hatred, creates orphans and self-replicates indefinitely.

Inon is an outlier, but he’s not alone, and I’ve been speaking with several of those here in Israel who lost loved ones to the terror attacks yet argue that the next step should not be further destruction heaped on Gaza, even in the name of destroying Hamas.

These are Israelis in anguish at their own losses and also fearful that their suffering is being used to justify bombardments and a ground invasion of Gaza, killing innocents there and perpetuating bloodshed. I can’t emphasize enough that this attitude is the exception, but perhaps that’s why I find it so majestic.

I’ve been following the Middle East conflict for most of my life, and I can’t remember a time of such despair, trauma and mutual mistrust. It’s heartbreaking to see the collapse of all hope, and this month may be the nadir: the worst massacre of Jews since the Holocaust and a devastating air assault and siege of Gaza that has claimed even more lives there.

In this grim context, people like Inon remind me of the human capacity for empathy and wisdom — two qualities desperately needed across the region. I told him he was out of step with the public mood, for most people have drawn a different lesson from history: that it is important to wipe out enemies who want to kill you.

“We have been doing exactly that,” he said, referring to reliance on military solutions, yet noted that that approach failed to keep his parents alive. “What I’m saying is we have to stop doing what we were doing before. We need a new policy.”

“Someone needs to be brave enough to stop the cycle of blood, dislike and violence that has been going on for a century,” he said.

This may require Gandhian levels of inner fortitude.

“I’m full of rage,” said David Zonsheine, whose uncle was murdered in the Hamas attacks. “But rage is one thing, and policy and plan are another.”

Zonsheine’s fear is that blind fury will propel Israel into a ground invasion of Gaza without any plan for what comes next. Even if it were possible to remove Hamas, he said, something worse may follow — just as Israel’s invasion of Lebanon in 1982 helped spawn its great enemy to the north, Hezbollah.

A cousin of Zonsheine, a nurse, went missing in the attacks and presumably was kidnapped and taken into Gaza. Zonsheine worries that an invasion would lead to the deaths of hostages like her, and also of countless innocent Palestinians.

“Civilians there are being killed in massive numbers,” he said. “And they are not being killed by Hamas. They are being killed by us.”

That’s a triumph of compassion, at a time of personal and national trauma, that Zonsheine knows will leave him accused of naïveté or worse. But those favoring a more surgical response insist that they are the ones who are being tough-minded, for decades of occupation and military strikes have culminated not in peace but in the worst massacre of Jews in Israeli history.

Yonatan Zeigen, whose mother, Vivian Silver, is believed to be a hostage in Gaza, makes the same point. “Mother always said we have to shift the paradigm,” he said. “We won’t have safety in a state of war. It can’t be done.”

Silver, 74, is a peace activist who spent decades volunteering to help people from Gaza. Zeigen and his brother, Chen Zeigen, told me they talk constantly about what their mother must be thinking now. Chen is not entirely sure, for their mother’s beloved kibbutz was destroyed, her family home burned to the ground and her friends murdered. But Yonatan believes she would be appalled by the relentless bombing of Gaza and preparations for a prolonged ground invasion: “She would have been, I think, mortified by the destruction in Gaza, and collective punishment and vengeance.”

That’s where Yonatan comes down as well. He is shaken by the savagery of the Hamas attacks, and understands why so many are determined to invade and bomb Gaza to try to destroy the terrorists forever, even at the price of many civilian casualties.

Vivian Silver lived at Kibbutz Be’eri, which was attacked by Hamas.

“I just don’t think it will bring us any closer to a better position,” he said. “Vengeance is not something to build foundations on. It is not a strategy. How many dead Palestinians will be enough for us to feel safe? I don’t think there’s any number. And it’s just the wrong thing to do.”

If even people like him, personally shattered by a barbaric terror attack, can muster the clarity to understand that relentless bombardment and a ground invasion may not help, perhaps there’s hope for the rest of us. May we learn from their wisdom and humanity.

Nicholas Kristof joined The New York Times in 1984 and has been a columnist since 2001. He has won two Pulitzer Prizes, for his coverage of China and of the genocide in Darfur. You can follow him on Instagram, Facebook and Threads. His forthcoming memoir is “Chasing Hope: A Reporter’s Life.”

#gaza #Israel #palestine #Nicholas Kristof

20 notes · View notes

raayllum · 8 months

Note

Part of what makes Finnegrin and Kim’dael stand out from the other antagonists in TDP is that they aren’t connected to the cycle of revenge and retaliation that forms much of the conflict in the show. They aren’t victims of war, they didn’t suffer any loss or were victims of a great tragedy (aside from Finnegrin losing Shelley but even that was more of a setback to him than a major loss). They’re just selfish people who misused the power they gained to the point of becoming dependent on it.

It's true that the bulk of the Cycle is connected through war directly, but I'd argue that misuse of power and perpetuation of violence (not entirely in general but close to) are crucial parts of the Cycle on a literal level. (There's also Freedom on a metaphorical level, but we'll get to it when we get to it.)

Finnegrin misuses his power over Scumport, the ocean, and the crew, citing that "the chains are just for show". He hates being restricted ad kept out of territory he thinks is rightfully his and rightfully his to rule/control/conquer. This isn't too different from Viren 1) torturing Runaan as a prisoner in a way that mirrors Finnegrin's treatment of Callum, 2) Viren's desire to return to and conquer Xadia, and 3) using the corrupted human soldiers as "this was all just a distraction". Finnegrin's mistreatment of Elmer is linked by Soren himself to being similar to Viren's mistreatment of his son, a form of abuse that escalated as Viren's power hungriness did as well. We could argue that dark magic itself is inherently built upon a concept of misuse of power, which is why Finnegrin, Viren, and other humans (and elves, including Kim'Dael and Aaravos) who were so inclined turned toward it in the first place as solutions to their problems when they didn't necessarily need to. People who want power will also always misuse other people's suffering and grief to fund their platforms and ploys, after all.

Then you have Kim'Dael, who misused primal magic and used dark magic to prolong the lives of herself and the rest of her ilk, but Queen Aditi also arguably misused her power in binding Kim'Dael to the mercy debt. The safest route would've been to just kill her (and maybe we'll find out why she didn't later) but that's not what happened, and the collar-chain clearly doesn't stop Kim'Dael from slaughtering innocent people, it just gives her a conditional interest in not knowingly slaughtering the entire royal family line. Like Finnegrin, Kim'Dael lost elements of her freedom because of a Xadian monarchy, and they're bitter and resentful over it, trying to right the perceived or literal wrongs they've endured.

I think in a lot of ways the two cogs that spur the Cycle into being what it is are the Desires for Vengeance (and arguably to not feel powerless in the face of grief, which Amaya notes) and the Desire to Escape.

Escape consequences (Viren offering the soulfang spell), escape pain (Claudia curing Soren), escape grief (Claudia reviving Viren / Viren saving Soren / Callum saving Rayla), escape feeling helpless (all of the above really but particularly Terry killing Ibis: "You have to promise you'll signal if you need help [...] I couldn't let him hurt you"). Then there's the desire for vengeance, which focuses on making sure someone can't escape you; the Xadian side tends to outright perpetuate this more, but we see humans as well - Viren sending shadowy assassins after the other Pentarchy leaders for snubbing him, Harrow and Viren killing Thunder as revenge for Avizandum murdering Sarai, etc.

Kim'Dael kills to escape both her literal binding and the inevitability of death. She perpetuates the cycle through bloodshed and violence. Finnegrin seeks vengeance and escape as well, having a score to settle with Domina Profundis that he wants to end in murder.

I think this is part of the reason why Aaravos' quest to get out of the mirror features both of these drives so strongly and arguably makes them synonymous with each other (at least for him): he wants to escape to enact vengeance.

This is because the only thing that break the cycle, in a lot of ways, isn't love or power or magic - it's ultimately Freedom. Real, true freedom, to make your own choices in ways that don't hurt other people. Why Callum gets his wings, why Rayla's binding is undone, why Ezran has to be a (child) king that doesn't strike back. Some of the Freedom is symbolic, some is literal, but I do think that's the core in ultimately breaking the cycle. Both Finnegrin, Aaravos, and Kim'Dael want freedom - but they also want to have the freedom to hurt people ("You want to hate; you want to hurt someone else") and that's why they'll never be truly free, and both stuck in and perpetuating the Cycle for other people until they decide to break it.

#tdp #the dragon prince #kim'dael #finnegrin #s5 #the cycle #requests #analysis series #analysis #parallels #lordjarman #tdp finnegrin #tdp kim'dael

25 notes · View notes

bracketsoffear · 1 year

Text

Heathcliff (Wuthering Heights) "Growing up a fosterling near the Earnshaws, Heathcliff becomes an angry man, in love with Catherine. When he realizes that he can never marry Catherine Earnshaw, Heathcliff leaves to make his fortune. He later returns and devotes his life to making their families and heirs miserable, explicitly destroying their lives and happiness for the sake of petty revenge. He is described by other characters as a demon, and after death people see his ghost and his love Catherine’s walking the moors together.

Wikipedia says “Owing to the novel's enduring fame and popularity, he is often regarded as an archetype of the tortured antihero whose all-consuming rage, jealousy and anger destroy both him and those around him; in short, the Byronic hero”."

The Artificer (Rain World) "A fierce combatant, master of pyrotechnics and explosives. Keen to move up in the foodchain, your journey will surely be one lined with constant bloodshed and warfare."

The Artificer is a violent, carnivorous slugcat with the ability to propel themself through the air by creating explosions, along with the power to turn spears and rocks into explosives at the cost of food. They have a bitter grudge against the Scavengers, specifically, for reasons that are at first unclear, and their reputation is locked at the lowest possible value. Throughout their campaign, they sometimes dream before the save screen appears, showing you snapshots of their past. The first two dreams show them caring for a pair of pups. The third dream shows them passing by a Scavenger toll, where one of the pups attempts to steal a pearl. The fourth shows them running for their life and being forced to leave one pup behind, presumably to be killed, before the ground begins to shake as the rain comes. The fifth shows their second pup's death--drowning in a pool of water as they attempt to flee. All dreams after that show them killing Scavengers.

Five Pebbles is unusually kind to them, due to both the Citizen ID Drone they carry and the fact that they share a common enemy. A Scavenger pack has made its home in Pebbles' formerly-abandoned city, and he tasks the Artificer with destroying them, as they have been damaging the top of his can.

In this city (Metropolis), the Artificer can speak to an Echo, Twelve Beads among Burning Skies, who tells them the following:

"You are stuck in a cycle of wrath and destruction, simple being. Gripped by raw emotions whose chains bind you, destined to this land. Shortcomings of the past haunt one and all like whispering phantoms. Listen. Let this be a warning to you… An unrewarding battle awaits, culminating in a path of no return. A perpetuity of struggles begetting more of the same. Find a way out, if you still can."

Eventually, the Artificer (when following the game's usual route) finds their way to the Twelfth Council Pillar; The House of Braids, where they face off against the scavengers' chieftain. Upon defeating them and taking their mask, they are permanently locked at Karma One, which is believed to represent wrath and violence due to clues in-game. If they visit TBaBS after this, they say:

"You, who have encountered a consequence much like my own. Gripped by raw emotions whose chains bind you, destined to this land. Shortcomings of the past haunt one and all like whispering phantoms. An unrewarding battle awaits, culminating in a path of no return. A perpetuity of struggles begetting more of the same. We are a pair who have forfeited everything."

Alternately, the Artificer can seek ascension, however their wrath prevents them from ascending fully, and they are only briefly reunited with their pups before meeting an unknown fate.

tl;dr: local sapient slug's kids die and they commit warcrimes about it

oh yeah also they're the only* slugcat with the ability to maul so that's something

*enot can technically do it also but we don't talk about them in this household"

#desolation poll #the magnus archives #the desolation #wuthering heights #rain world #poll

45 notes · View notes

just-some-guy-joust · 1 year

Note

ah, right, forgot the subs were anon!

i had two essays, one about rain world artificer and one about looks to the moon. with looks to the moon, i delved a bit into the backstory of the iterators to explain their function and emphasized how she can't actually die and described how she spent several cycles drowning yet undying

for artificer, i described her in terms of how she's shackled to the cycle of violence and discussed how both endings keep her tied to that cycle. idk if there were any other arti subs tho so mine might be the only one firjfjej

Thank you I know which ones are yours now! Here they are for those who'd like to see :D

Artificer:

Artificer was once a mother to two children that she loved very dearly. One made the mistake of accidentally stealing a pearl from a tribe of fickle, pearl-loving creatures called scavengers, and the scavengers gave chase, killing one child and causing the other to be drowned while Artificer watched. Neither returned to the cycle, likely being too young to be beholden to it yet.

Now, she seeks vengance on her lost children's lives, enough to become combustive and corrosive in her own right, slaying scavengers ruthlessly and mercilessly. She traps herself in a cycle of violence and is shackled to the karmic sin of it, even in the gameplay. Echoes of those who were too attached to the world to ascend beg her to let her vengance go, but when given the keys and access to the king of the scavengers she has to make a choice.

Should she brave the Metropolis ravaged by scavengers, she will burn the mark of violence on her soul and trap her eternally into an endless cycle of bloodshed and killing and outright genocide.

Should she make the pilgrimage to all the echoes and try to atone for her path of vengance, that lingering thread of hate binds her to the world, leaving her to become an echo herself.

No matter which she chooses, she's trapped in a cycle of violence and hate and is unable to break free of it whatsoever. All she can do is spill more blood.

Looks To The Moon:

Moon is an iterator, a sentient supercomputer in a world of perpetual death and rebirth, one of many built to find a permanent, risk-free death for her creators at the cost of massive amounts of water to cool their internals and dispose of slag buildup. This causes the eponymous rains. Her neighbor, Five Pebbles, was built with the same water source as her due to him being newer and restrictions being loosened on building, since her structure wasn't outfitted to house an entire city's worth of people.

She and Pebbles, alongside all iterators, were left with no purpose in their lives.

Another iterator, Sliver of Straw, is the only one confirmed to have died and released a triple affirmative (the solution has been found, the solution is portable, the solution is universally applicable), which sent many iterators into a frenzy to learn what she had found out, including Five Pebbles.

He'd gotten an idea and started triplicating his water intake, depriving Moon of water. After multiple failed attempts at communication, and even a forced communication that disrupted Pebbles' work enough to doom him too, she and her superstructure collapsed not long after.

I think she's doomed by the narrative because there is nothing we, as any player character, can do at any point in time to stop her collapse. We can certainly help by offering her some resources, a power cell, and Hunter's payload, but she'll never return to full power. She'll be stuck in an exposed chamber, drowning in the rain cycle after cycle. And in the end, when even Pebbles collapses, the only peace that can be fully offered to her is ascension that had been denied her by her very creators. She is a character not obsessed with dying or death the way others are, but her outlook can be a bit bleak and grim on her future. When we talk to her, her memory is patchy and fuzzy, and even when we restore some of her power, her abilities are severely limited in what she can do to help herself.

#asks #doomed by the narrative showdown #rain world sounds fucked as hell (positive) (affectionate) (they are all living in hell aren't they)

7 notes · View notes

currentlyonstandbi · 2 years

Text

yes picking apart the underlying homoeroticism of this film is fun to do but on a more serious note, can we please talk about how goncharov is one of the best portrayals in film of the perpetual cycle of violence? the way that goncharov and katya wanted more from their lives than just bloodshed and tragedy but their inability to change from who they fundamentally were as people ultimately led to their demise ..

#yes they loved each other yes they hated each other and they destroyed everything around them #goncharov #goncharov 1973 #martin scorsese #al pacino #robert de niro #cybill shepherd

21 notes · View notes

vani-kko · 2 years

Text

all these monsters (seem to strike at the wrong time)

relationship: platonic grian and scar

synopsis: the watchers are gods, and grian was assigned to protect one of their flourishing cities. he has never experienced friendship, and then he meets scar.

content warnings: major character death

word count: 2.4k author's note: hi! ive never used or posted on tumblr before, so this may be very rough around the edges in terms of formatting. i wrote this back in june for a writing competition, so please excuse it if it seems rushed! _________

What is beauty, within the eyes of the beholder?

For such a subjective and trivial matter, what is the outlook of the possessor? Enclosed in the grip of the artist, are the restrictions encompassing tools for comfort, or merely for control?

Xelqua had long decided to leave such inquiry unanswered. Even in the wake of his eternal days, he views himself as simply a normal citizen, whomst was merely gifted with power and ripped from his previous mundane mortal life. With his head held high, as the gods of a thousand eyes bestowed him his title. The crown he wore with fulfilment, for who was he to defy his saviours from ephemeral human life?

He is a walking Watcher whom bears a singular pledge - an obligation to this world, an oath where it is not in his capacity to change. To defend the city of marble walls, the scent of bread in the sandstone streets in the only way he knew how. To wander within the barren wasteland of skulls, of lives lost and people once before, for his hands only knew the position of his fingers wrapped around a sword, only knowing the feeling of the veins of his enemies' necks pulsing under his grip, slicing air to meet its mark.

They tried to run, of course they did, it was only human nature to reach at lengths to survive. Scrambling to hide in burned villages, the towns of the brash and cocky generals who laughed and declared they could kill gods. The same towns where the mothers of unruly children would scare them into submission with stories of Xelqua, the god of protection and victory.

He could hear them still. The fathers returned from the fields, into the sunlit kitchens, laughing heartily at the child’s anxiety of the high roofs in the city. “Look here, child”, he would say, “Gods don’t have anything on us.”

“If gods can bleed, they can die.”

Death, such a small word for such a small thing.

Xelqua’s hands are stained in scarlet, they always were. Creeks of metallic-scented liquid fastened around his wrists. Mangled and contorted, almost inhuman silhouettes ornamented the field outside of the nation’s courtyards, plated rivers of their substance, incarnadine and clotted draining from their slit throats and lacterate limbs. Some cried, some stood in shock and some quietly retreated away from the city they intended to destroy.

He shed his shoulder’s side, the mangled feathers contorted and twisted violently yet with no blood drawn. Letting the demigod’s lilac wings empty of self-control weigh from his neck. His crown of which once defended civilians now cast aside in favour for the sword whose spruce hilt engravings eroded into his hands over the centuries. However, as he hunted his perpetrators he realised he is not the hero, and is the villain, because villains always lose.

He had been defending these palace grounds for far too long, and now all he knows is this bloody game. The cycle of bloodshed where the god realised that mortals are fools who are unaware of their short-lived time, boisterous and proud of violence. Were these roses always such a striking crimson? Or was it just a burning memory from the destruction of war? Xelqua reckons he doesn’t want to know.

They’re watching him. Bound to castle grounds in shackles and chains, punctured with the gaze of a thousand eyes, a thousand too many. Wrists embedded with laces of flames, burning, chipping away at his skin. Arms branded with the symbol of perpetuity. He let out a half chuckle as he choked on his breath. The head on his shoulders feeling burdensome as he snivelled in pain whilst they simply looked down in snide displeasure and cast his morality aside.

And then there was Scar.

There was nothing particularly significant about him, his most noticeable feature being large rips of skin decorating his face, scars. He reminded Xelqua of the warriors whose corpses outlined the land he was assigned to protect. Lifeless eyes engraved into his mind, ridiculing him in the aftermath. But he wasn’t a warrior, he was just Scar.

His eyes weren’t devoid of life, not a dull shade of magenta with no light of life behind them comparable to Xelqua’s own. They were a striking, vibrant emerald green. There was humanity behind those glimmers of jubilation, joyful, perhaps even happy in a way. They didn’t look like the eyes of a Watcher, a god who has lost count on how many corpses are set out to rot, massacred by his own hand. Perhaps that was what piqued Xelqua’s interest to begin with.

He remembers those eyes as if they were engraved in him. He knew he was a monster, the ropes of rose dripping down his arm were a constant reminder of that. Gods don’t require anything, their humanity was long gone, however Xelqua knew he needed to wash it all away. Ashamed, ashamed because he continues to rub and wash his skin to remove all the blood from what humans deem as sin. The weight of guilt trickling off his fingertips as the water of the creek eradicated the ichor with ease, yet he still continues to wash.

And then there was Scar.

Scar, who took after every travelling merchant meandering through the gates, every baker selling goods in a small shop near the street. Mortal, human and fundamentally good. His hands weren’t stained by blood, and his hazel hair wasn’t an unkept cinnamon mess woven in knots and curls. His voice was carefree, no dead weight shackling them down as he cheerfully greeted the kneeling figure by the creek, who only flicked their gaze up in surprise. Scar didn’t look away.

It wasn’t strange to see a human at the creek, they’re mortal. Mortals who require and desire conceivably everything. He needed to drink water, to cleanse himself of any dirt and grime that could writhe and mutate into sickness. Wine watercolours penetrated the pellucid ripples, the bitter water numbing Xelqua’s unsoiled hand, the presence of which such splitting the water. He shouldn’t have been surprised, he shouldn’t have flinched upon hearing the sound of a voice, vivacious and lively.

“Why are you still here?” Xelqua had asked one day at the lakeside. “Mortals aren’t supposed to meddle with the work of gods.” Staring blankly at the merchant, who sat cross legged on the bank, spotted pebbles ushered beside him. There was something in his hands which he intertwined with his fingers before weaving it back through, intently focused.

“And yet, you still come back for me.” Scar pointed out with a laugh, not looking up. Xelqua exhaled in both amusement and petty annoyance. For a moment, only the ambient trickling of the water impacting with the stones filled the forest. He uncomfortably shifted as Scar sat in silence, conjuring up words.

“I don’t know, actually.” He met his eyes for a brief moment, facing up towards the Watcher before briskly turning his attention back to intertwining the pile in his arms. “You could say that I was curious, intrigued as you would put it with your colourful vocabulary.”

His heart sank. “Curiosity is a dangerous thing,” Xelqua replied curtly, despite the sudden grappling in his stomach and the voice of reasonable consciousness hollering leave, run, you’ll hurt him. “It isn’t something you should affiliate with the concerns of deities.” Scar only hummed in thought, providing no response, he continued. “You might get hurt.”

“Awe, so you do care about me!” Scar declared teasingly, reaching up to place something on the crown of Xelqua’s head.

“It is my duty to be concerned for the well-being of my citizens.” Raising his gloved hand to brush against the crown of Scar’s handiwork. “I cannot be negligent.” Dipping his head in acknowledgement and gratitude, the crown of flowers shifted slightly from the movement. The white Chrysanthemums slipped and covered his eye. Pushing them back, Scar giggled a bit and grinned warmly, patted the dirt, indicating for the magenta-eyed male to take a seat, who hesitated, then obliged.

“I do embroidery, you see.” Scar explained, picking another flower from a basket beside him. He surveyed the specimen, “I have experience in dealing with delicate materials.” retracting his legs to press against his chest, intently focused on intricately weaving blossom after blossom. Pearls of dew painted upon coy petals, the scent of petrichor muting his senses whilst observing as his green-eyed acquaintance looped florets around one another. They sat there for a while, reserved to their own personal emotions. Trickling water against stones filling the forest whilst the two sat in solitude, with themselves and each other.

“Alright,” Scar exhaled, adjusting the final petals. “Oh! Wait, I'm not done yet.” he added hastily before Xelqua could comment, unravelling a singular amethyst bulb, delicately tucking the blossom into the crown. “This is an Iris, it's my favourite, because it means hope.”

Hope.

To hope for the future, for prosperity and fortune. To hope for the recovery of a loved one, to hope for victory, perhaps even to hope for miniscule tasks to emerge successful. Hope driven by fear, by anticipation of the worst scenario. The ichor sealed in his veins that night was exclusively of words, of the words that were uttered near that creek. Innocence was behind those words, the morality Xelqua so desperately craved to fill the gaping void within the shell of what could’ve been.

Something in him stirred as metal struck metal. Momentary longing, yearning which disappeared as suddenly as it bloomed. As cold as the harsh snow winds during the winter, melancholy, before the light behind those eyes returning once again, or perhaps the lack thereof.

He could’ve easily gone to another lake, his conscience advised him to, yet he always found himself here, near the bank of the blood-stained water. Inevitably finding himself situated next to the green-eyed individual whomst was perpetually preoccupied with earnestly illustrating the elaborate details of wheat. Details which meant nothing to him, and yet he continued to listen.

Sometimes they’d stay there for hours, letting the passage of time slip through their fingers. To run their hands between disordered locks of hair, the sensation of immense warmth bubbling up whilst Scar playfully pulled his wrist down, toppling onto the lush moor. Limbs sprawled haphazardly with backs to the meadow, the green eyed friend panting for breath with a laugh where Xelqua couldn’t help but let out a breathless chuckle. For the first time in his perpetual life, he felt happy.

It was an itch that needed to be scratched. A frustration that boiled over.

There was barely a change, only an act of self-preservation. How his wrist burned and flickered in anger, how there was an uncomfortable throbbing in his head arriving in waves. Striking his entire being in a severity that Xelqua shouldn’t had suppressed and wielded the blade to divert to the onslaught of death that he reigned over.

It was a routine, a haze that needed to clear. Yet the ichor sealed beneath his gloves taunted him in pain that he had never confronted, promptly staggering as an excruciating pang of agony struck his carpus. Jerking up and rapidly ripping off the white silk to examine the initiator, and he felt his heart plunge. It was glowing.

Oh god it was glowing.

A pungent scent that was dreadfully familiar overwhelmed the atmosphere, tendrils of smoke carrying particles of soot maturing into roses. The incisions engraved into his skin painted in warm orange, the smell of burning flesh and skin stifling his notions. Pulling the fabric back onto his hands, he let out a shaky breath. For a brief moment, he could’ve sworn that there was someone behind him, observing, watching. And yet, when he turned around he yielded no results.

There was a faint disquiet in the air that sickened him, the oxygen was thin where his levels of immortality were, it nauseated him, caving in his throat. Clawing at the stone tiles, Xelqua struggled to breath, the soiled, solid air dissipating in chunks before they filled his lungs. Foreign, grappling thirst were overburdening his thoughts, thrashing, tearing through his ribcage. Agitation was sprouting from the roots planted in his skull, his fingers clasping around something, firm to an extent he could feel his gloved hands piercing deep into the item he was clutching. An itch overtook his arm. The strings attached to him were pulling him akin to a marionette, helpless in a contorted pose of his legs buckling under and his arms reaching out. Who was on the other side of the string? Was it God?

But he thought that he was god.

The ropes were around his neck now, how they tightened and closed into his neck. However there was no air for him, and for once he could feel himself suffocating, and for once he couldn’t escape. But there was. He remembers the gateway– vaguely, how could he have forgotten? Scarlet lake-carved tunnels where the constant lingering of smoke and the hazard of suffocation threatening lives. Head in smoke, breathing in the dust and grime and choking in the suffering of the trenches. What did he do to escape?

The thought was futile, and Xelqua could feel his grip release, dropping what was in his possession, and without heed he swung. All composure discarded, he swung, and swung, until the smoke was thin, the waterways dried from drought and the roars died out.

And there, in front of his eyes, was Scar. What was left of Scar.

The world seemed to freeze, if only for a second. The steel clattering as it impacted on the blood stained fields. Xelqua’s ears were still ringing, the strings dematerialising in splitted threads as he could feel the wind between his fingers once again as he sprinted and hoped and begged that the figure bleeding out in the field of Chrysanthemums was alive.

“Scar. Scar, keep your eyes open.” His voice quivered as he used his white glove to stop further bleeding. Scar only grabbed his hand away. He couldn’t look at him.

“I– I wish,” He exhaled shortly, “That I would have taught you how to make flower crowns again.”

“You can!” Xelqua cried, head spinning with taunts of your fault, your fault. “You can make all the crowns in the world, just please… keep your eyes open.” He could feel an unknown, bitter liquid trickle down his face, finally meeting the oh so familiar emerald eyes of his friend in his hands.

He laughed breathlessly, “Hey… don’t cry.” placing his hand on top of Xelqua’s own. “We all run out of time eventually. I don’t blame you.” Tugging the draining body closer to him, the god buried his face into the nook of his neck as the tears flowed.

“Thank you for showing me how it’s like to be human, perhaps I almost was.”

Scar’s eyes fluttered shut.

Death, such a small word for such a big thing.

#hermitcraft #goodtimeswithscar #watcher grian #grian #desert duo #desertduo but its a fantasy au with gods #you can tell i dont know how to tag #watchers #gtws #gtwscar

5 notes · View notes

aslamat · 4 days

Text

The Dark Legacy of Charles Manson: Unpacking the Mind of a Cult Leader

Charles Manson, a name that sends shivers down the spines of many, is a figure etched in the annals of American criminal facts. As the mastermind behind the Manson Family murders, Manson's reign of terror inside the late Sixties left a direction of bloodshed, destruction, and a rustic in surprise. In this weblog placed up, we are going to delve into the life and times of Charles Manson, exploring the factors that common his twisted worldview and the events that induced one of the maximum notorious cults in current facts.

Early Life and Influences Born on November 12, 1934, in Cincinnati, Ohio, Charles Manson modified into the manufactured from a home. His mother, Kathleen Maddox, become a teenage prostitute who frequently left her son within the care of partner and kids or foster homes. Manson's early life come to be marked with the aid of overlook, abuse, and a revolving door of caregivers. These formative opinions ought to later shape his distorted perspectives on family, love, and loyalty.

Manson's fascination with music and the counterculture motion of the 1960s led him to California, wherein he started out to construct a following of disaffected youths. He drew notion from the Beatles, the Bible, and numerous philosophical texts, weaving a twisted narrative that equated love with obedience and sacrifice.

The Manson Family Manson's charisma and persuasive skills attracted a various business enterprise of young human beings, loads of whom had been disappointed with mainstream society. He promised them a sense of belonging, popularity, and a return to a simpler way of life. The Manson Family, as they got here to be regarded, turn out to be an amazing-knit community positive with the useful resource of a shared belief in Manson's teachings.

The employer's each day ordinary consisted of meditation, track, and menial obligations, all designed to boost Manson's authority and manipulate. He preached a gospel of loose love, however in fact, he come to be the only arbiter of relationships and sexual encounters within the corporation.

The Tate- LaBianca Murders On August 9, 1969, Manson's followers committed a heinous crime that might all of the time be etched within the public focus. The brutal murders of actress Sharon Tate, her future little bone, and four others at her Los Angeles domestic had been discovered day after moment with the resource of the bloodbath of Leno and Rosemary LaBianca, a brace who lived hard.

The killings were unpleasant and reputedly random, with the simplest obvious connection being the sufferers' association with the rich and famous. Manson's motivation, however, come to be an extended manner more sinister. He believed that by means of committing the ones atrocities, he should spark a race battle, which he dubbed "Helter Skelter," a time period borrowed from the Beatles' tune.

Trial and Conviction Manson's arrest in October 1969 marked the beginning of a protracted and tumultuous criminal journey. His trial, which began out in 1970, modified right into a media sensation, with Manson's wild-eyed stare and defiant demeanor charming the nation.

In the end, Manson turned into condemned of first- degree murder and conspiracy to devote murder, at the hand of several of his suckers. He crop as doomed to loss of life, but the judgment modified into latterly changed to actuality in captivity while California abolished the death penalty in 1972.

Legacy and Impact Charles Manson's darkish legacy extends a long way beyond the confines of his cult. His movements and ideals have stimulated endless other businesses and people, perpetuating a cycle of violence and worry.

Manson's tale serves as a exemplary tale roughly the pitfalls of eyeless obedience, the corrupting effect of electricity, and the ruinous results of unbounded pride. As we reflect on his actuality and crimes, we are reminded of the significance of pivotal thinking, empathy, and the need to venture dangerous testaments in advance than they take root.

Conclusion Charles Manson's lifestyles become a twisted tapestry of chaos, destruction, and loss of lifestyles. His actions left an indelible mark on American records, a grim reminder of the horrors that may spread while we surrender to the whims of a charismatic chief. As we remember the victims of the Manson Family murders, we want to additionally renowned the enduring impact of Manson's dark legacy and maintain to train ourselves about the warning signs of cult conduct.

0 notes

istanbularttr · 17 days

Photo

The Cycle of Violence Bulgarian and Greek Bands in Macedonia

Coercive Conversions

In the turbulent landscape of Macedonia, villages often found themselves caught in the crossfire between Bulgarian and Greek bands vying for control. Villagers, seeking peace, would yield to the demands of whichever band was currently in power. As a result, they would switch their allegiance from Bulgarian to Greek or vice versa, depending on the prevailing force in their area.

Intimidation Tactics

When one band withdrew, the opposing faction would swoop in to “reconvert” the village to their cause. This cycle of coercion and intimidation continued, with each band resorting to violence to enforce their dominance. Greek bands would threaten Bulgarian villages with violence and arson if they refused to convert to Greek Orthodoxy, while Bulgarian bands retaliated in kind, aiming to protect Bulgarian villages from Greek influence.

Religious Leaders’ Involvement

Compounding the violence, religious leaders from both sides actively encouraged and sanctioned these brutal tactics. Greek bishops and priests urged their followers to use murder and arson as means of compelling Bulgarian Macedonians to declare themselves Greeks. Similarly, Bulgarian bands were excused as necessary protectors of Bulgarian villages from Greek aggression Private Tours Balkan.

High Patriotic Mission or Vermin Extermination?

Both Bulgarian and Greek bands justified their actions as part of a noble patriotic mission. They saw themselves as defenders of their respective identities and believed that the opposing side deserved extermination. Despite the flagrant violence and atrocities committed, reason fell on deaf ears as both sides remained entrenched in their beliefs, perpetuating a cycle of burning houses and murdering partisans at a rate surpassing even the atrocities witnessed during the times of Turkish rule.

The conflict between Bulgarian and Greek bands in Macedonia exemplifies the destructive consequences of ethnic and religious strife. Despite their claims of patriotism, both sides resorted to violence and coercion, leading to widespread suffering and bloodshed among innocent villagers. As long as this cycle of violence continues unchecked, the prospect of peace and stability in Macedonia remains elusive.

#The Cycle of Violence Bulgarian and Greek Bands in Macedonia

0 notes

dreamfoodbg · 17 days

Photo

The Tragic History of Servia

Origins of Conflict

Servia’s tumultuous history reads like a gripping historical novel, filled with intrigue, betrayal, and tragedy. The saga begins with the rise of the Serbs, who, migrating from the Ural Mountains to the Balkan Peninsula in ancient times, formed the Servian empire. However, their sovereignty was short-lived as the Ottoman Empire’s relentless expansion crushed their resistance, pushing them to the brink of annihilation.

Resistance and Rebellion

Despite their defeat, the Serbs continued to resist Ottoman rule. Led by courageous figures like Karageorge (Black George) and his comrade Obren, they staged uprisings against their Turkish oppressors. Obren, in particular, emerged as a formidable leader, ultimately breaking the power of Turkey and establishing the Obrenovitch dynasty Bulgaria Tour.

The Birth of Dynastic Rivalry

However, tensions simmered between Karageorge and Obren, culminating in a bitter rivalry that plagued Servia for generations. This rivalry, marked by treachery and violence, led to the overthrow of the Obrenovitch dynasty and the ascension of the Karageorgovitch dynasty to power.

Centuries of Intrigue

For over a century, Servia became a breeding ground for conspiracy and betrayal between the warring dynasties. Murders became a means to the throne, perpetuating a cycle of bloodshed and vengeance. Even Milan Obrenovitch, though hailed for liberating Servia from Turkish vassalage, ascended to power through regicide.

Legacy of Milan Obrenovitch

Milan Obrenovitch, while initially celebrated for his role in securing Servia’s independence, descended into infamy due to his tyrannical rule and mistreatment of his queen, Natalie. His reign, tainted by scandal and corruption, alienated him from the Servian people, leading to his eventual abdication in favor of his son Alexander.

A Tragic Legacy

The history of Servia is a tragic tale of power struggles and dynastic feuds, where ambition and betrayal often overshadowed noble aspirations. As the nation grapples with its tumultuous past, the echoes of ancient vendettas continue to reverberate through its corridors of power

#The Tragic History of Servia

0 notes

lifestylesea · 17 days

Photo

The Tragic History of Servia

Origins of Conflict

Resistance and Rebellion

The Birth of Dynastic Rivalry

Centuries of Intrigue

Legacy of Milan Obrenovitch

A Tragic Legacy

#The Tragic History of Servia

0 notes

technostyle · 17 days

Photo

The Tragic History of Servia

Origins of Conflict

Resistance and Rebellion

The Birth of Dynastic Rivalry

Centuries of Intrigue

Legacy of Milan Obrenovitch

A Tragic Legacy

#The Tragic History of Servia

0 notes

lifestylebiljina · 17 days

Photo

The Tragic History of Servia

Origins of Conflict

Resistance and Rebellion

The Birth of Dynastic Rivalry

Centuries of Intrigue

Legacy of Milan Obrenovitch

A Tragic Legacy

#The Tragic History of Servia

0 notes

bracketsoffear · 8 months

Text

The Artificer (Rain World) "A fierce combatant, master of pyrotechnics and explosives. Keen to move up in the foodchain, your journey will surely be one lined with constant bloodshed and warfare."

In this city (Metropolis), the Artificer can speak to an Echo, Twelve Beads among Burning Skies, who tells them the following:

Alternately, the Artificer can seek ascension, however their wrath prevents them from ascending fully, and they are only briefly reunited with their pups before meeting an unknown fate.

tl;dr: local sapient slug's kids die and they commit warcrimes about it

oh yeah also they're the only* slugcat with the ability to maul so that's something

*enot can technically do it also but we don't talk about them in this household"

Firelord Ozai (Avatar: The Last Airbender) "Fire powers? Check. Used to inflict only pain and suffering? Check. Complete and total destruction of an entire culture and the attempted destruction and assimilation of the rest of the world? While using said fire powers? Check.

The use of fire to permanently disfigure his son for a minor slight and then strip him of everything he's ever known by exiling him in a futile quest feels SO desolation to me, It's like Jude Perry but without the stock market. Taking everything from the children of the Southern Water Tribe, both the victims taken and killed by the firebenders and the rest of the adults who left to fight them. The destruction and erasure of their own history for the sake of filling their children's heads with propaganda. Literally using the power of the eclipse to blast burn immense swaths of land from the air, impersonal and complete destruction. If you extend Ozai to represent the Fire Nation as a whole, which I think is pretty reasonably done as their dictator, it's pretty cut and dry."

#desolation poll #the desolation #the magnus archives #poll #redemption bracket #rain world #avatar #atla #the last airbender

16 notes · View notes