what is the cutest thing you've ever done in public 1 2 3 go
shit uh okay well this one time me and two of my friends were walking to town and I defaulted to walking behind them because that was what I was Trained To Do in school so as to not block hallways but they were like nope no we’re in a park c’mere so they both held hands with me either side so basically we walked around this whole park in a three-man chain occasionally skipping and no further mention of this was made by any one of us
Context: We’re all new players and we pretty much failed at keeping a group of bandits from robbing a carriage. Our mage is stuck straddled between the backs of the two horses that pulled it and are coming up to a log in the middle of the road. The DM rolls a 2 for one horse and a Nat 20 for the other.
DM: Okay the horse on the left completely wipes out on the log, but the other clears it. Roll for dexterity to determine which horse you end up on.
Mage (OOC): 14 So I stay on the Right one.
Me/Rogue (OOC): Wait a minute, a Nat 20? That’s like if it just sprouted wings and becomes a pegasus or something.
DM: *pauses* Sure okay I’ll roll for it. If I get exactly a 12 on this d20, it’s a Pegasus.
All: Wait, WHAT?
DM: *rolls* …. Okay so the horse leaps majestically into the air where the sunlight glistens off it’s pure white wings.
Can’t remember exactly how it went, but the Mage managed to navigate the Pegasus to the ground without killing either of them.
Me/Rogue (OOC): Okay we need to keep him. Anyone have any skill in Animal Handling?
Party (OOC): Nope.
Me/Rogue (OOC): Damn. Is the Pegasus intelligent enough for Persuasion?
DM: I mean, I guess?
Me/Rogue (Terrible at thinking on the fly): Okay buddy, you got a choice. You can just fly around purposelessly all day OR you can have this carrot I have. And you’ll get another carrot each day you stay with us. AND if you’re good I’ll throw in a sugar cube each week.
Me/Rogue (OOC): Okay I roll an 18
DM: Well somehow that worked. The Pegasus, majestic mythologicial being is swayed by the promise of a simple carrot and sugar cube. What do you name h-
Paladin (OOC): CHESTER
Mage (OOC): Oh yes! We should get him sunglasses at the next town!
Me/Rogue (OOC): Sunglasses? Really?
Mage (OOC): What? Protection against bright lights!
The country in my fantasy novel is mostly inspired by Moorish Spain. I was wondering, would scimitars make sense to give to the basic low-level infantrymen in the army or would only the more wealthy/higher ranked people have those?
The cavalry have those. The scimitar is a blade specifically designed to be used from horseback. It’s the grandfather of most cavalry blades, including those used in Europe down through the centuries. The curved design and single edge meant it could slash enemies with less risk of losing the blade as you traveled past at high speeds. A stabbing weapon that buries itself in an enemy and you’re at risk of it getting stuck as the horse races past, then you lose your weapon. It was so successful a design that it traveled throughout the world.
The scimitar is a very visually distinctive weapon which is why you see
it everywhere, but it’s not an infantry sidearm. It also wasn’t the only sword in use.
The basic rule of thumb
for swords in the (mostly) western world is curved for cavalry and
straight for infantry.
The curved, single edged sword like a saber is also the weapon of choice for boarding actions in naval combat. The reason being that the single edged blade can’t be forced back into you when in tight quarters. (I know someone out there is crying, but katana. The Japanese thought that too about British/Naval sabers, they were wrong.)
It’s probably worth remembering as you begin your investigation that “Moor” was the European term for Muslim, and that covers a vast variety of different ethnicities and cultures from Persia to North Africa; many of whom practiced distinct variations of their religion. Because these cultures are so different, it’s important that you narrow your search down to specified groups. This will help you when it comes to determining weapons, troop movements, battle strategies, and tactics.
Some things to remember, the Muslim invasion of the Iberian Peninsula was one of the (many) factors that kicked off the Crusades. The Muslims of the period were more scientifically advanced than the Europeans. If you wanted to see a doctor in the Middle Ages, and wanted to live, you went to see a Muslim. It’s one of the many inventions we can thank the Middle East for, including our numerical system and the survival of Aristotle. You know, an interesting period in history.
However, in the beginning, at least, the conquered Spain was part of a larger empire that spanned the Middle East and North Africa. So, if you really want to know what weapons were carried then its important to look to the invaders and their culture. Whether the scimitar was even in use really depends on the period you want to reference. 711 A.D? 1011 A.D? 1212 A.D? Or when the last Muslim foothold on the Iberian Peninsula finally came to an end in 1492, around the same time Columbus sailed the ocean blue?
It’s a huge period in history that covers a lot of ground. Try to remember that military evolution happens very quickly, and is influenced heavily by the enemies engaged.
When it comes to Moorish battle tactics, I know very little about them. I can tell you they tended to favor lighter armaments and light horses/coursers rather than the heavy. Here’s an overview of the Umayyad conquest that includes troop movements.
The answer to your question, though, of what did the infantry use is spears.
More nerds discussing Medieval Arab warfare, strategy, and tactics on the Historum forums. (Love your nerds.)
Always remember: Wikipedia is a jumping off point for research, it is not the end. It’s a decent overview that will give you a grounding to start from but, as any good college professor will tell you, you want the citations at the bottom not the article header or the words in the middle.
The subject of warfare is complicated, to say the least, and covers a vast array of
cultures across both Europe, the Middle East, Eastern
Europe/Byzantine/Ottomans, and, occasionally, Central Asia.
Hopefully though, this gives you a jumping off point for more specified research into the time period and the armor worn/weapons wielded/tactics used.
in which you’re the sole person jungkook always gives in to.
genre: fluff, slight angst, mentions of dirty stuff and implied sex
word count: 2207
― badboy!jungkook x reader [childhood friends au]
a/n: this is short and awful but oh well
“I WILL GIVE YOU A BLOWJOB,” you whined, trailing after Jungkook like a lost puppy. Your friend of nineteen years stared down at you in horror, stopping in his tracks. “Please, I am begging you!”
“Y/N, don’t even joke about that. I’m literally going to hurl,” Jungkook said, disgust written all over his features. He lifted a hand and flicked your forehead. Hard.
“Ow! Fuck, Kook!” You swore loudly at him, covering your forehead. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I just want you to be my plus one at my cousin’s wedding!”
“And I already said no like twenty times! I told you I have something to do this weekend,” he snapped back, swatting your hand away and examining the reddening spot in the middle of your forehead. He pressed his thumb into it and shoved you back. “Stop being fucking annoying and go run off like a good girl.”
Shiro has nightmares, Keith helps. Gen. Special thanks to @butteredonions for the proofreading <3
The needles stab out from the inside, pushing up through his skin, shivering and cold in the stale night. The blanket brushes against his toes and he can just barely see it through the hidden safety between his knees. He can feel it though, and it scratches holes into his bare feet.
Unbidden, his legs kick it away. He stares at his toes, and no, they’re not bleeding. It feels like they are but he can see them right in front of him and he’s fine.
He’s fine. If he’s fine, why can’t he breathe?
Some dusty memory reminds him to breathe. The memory speaks with his voice but he can’t remember who he’s talking to. He tries to count.
One, two, easy. He doesn’t even have to think for one and two. The next number, though, is gone. It’s replace by some guttural sound that feels like water in his ears that he is completely convinced comes after two. It doesn’t come after two, because something else does. Right?
He starts over, and this time, there’s nothing there but those sounds, in a specific order that he doesn’t quite understand.
Each one is accompanied by another sound, repetitive, the sound of air being broken by a jet plane that refuses to move slower than sound. It’s a crack, a snap, and then the air cuts through his back.
He chokes on a cry.
Keith stands outside the door, listening to the heavy breaths that woke him up. Shiro didn’t need to know how thin the walls were, and how much of the nightmares Keith heard. Keith normally laid in bed when the nightmares started, making sure that Shiro was able to wake himself up but ready if it got out of hand. Most of the time, he’d hear tossing and turning until Shiro finally woke up and went for a walk.
Tonight, after all the usual rustling, there were no sounds of Shiro getting out of bed, getting dressed, his bare feet on the metal floor.
Just the breathing.
It was wrong and off, even and clear for a few seconds and then stuttering like he was choking on the air. Something had pulled Keith out of bed, but now, standing in front of Shiro’s door, fist poised to knock, he is still.
Shiro would hate it. He would hate knowing that Keith heard him scream sometimes, that Keith knew that he wasn’t completely okay. He’d feel weak, and he’d hide behind his speeches and his optimism and would be ever more careful about where and when he let himself fall asleep.
The cry reaches him from behind the door. It sounds like a child, and god, that child is so afraid.
This time, Keith doesn’t hesitate to open the door.
Shiro is shaking in the center of the bed. His head is between his knees and between them Keith can just barely see the glint of fear in his wide eyes, like a horse who’s just seen a snake. A horse would rear back, run away, but Shiro is stuck, his fingers white where they grasp his leg, nails digging into the fabric of his sleep clothes. His right arm lies limp at his side.
Shiro’s voice jumps. He’s still shivering. It’s not cold but it looks like his muscles are trying to collapse in on him. Keith can trace every line of sinew that controls his jaw and each one is trembling.
“Shiro?” Keith asks. Shiro just shakes his head and pulls his shoulders even closer together.
He’s trying to make himself a smaller target, Keith realizes. He bites on his lip and refuses to cry for Shiro. Shiro deserves so much more than pity.
Keith almost misses it, the broken sound that slips from Shiro’s lips. “Keith.” Shiro’s lungs fill up and exhales the rest of the words. “Go home go home go home, it’s not safe, go home,” and then he’s out of air and has to swallow another quick lungful.
Shiro deserves so much more than pity.
Keith sees the blanket, discarded at his feet, and at his first move to pick it up, Shiro jolts.
Keith freezes, watches Shiro, and holds up one hand in placation.
The rest of his movements are slow, careful, his eyes never leaving Shiro. When he stands up, he’s careful to keep everything even. Everything slow. Nothing sudden. Shiro keeps forgetting to breathe, gulping everything in at once, and then coughing it back out.
Shiro was the one who taught him how to do this, before, when the occasional nightmare belonged to Keith.
Keith’s voice is a prayer.
“One, two, three, four in…” Shiro shudders and his shoulders fall away from his knees, allowing him to breathe a little bit easier.
“Five, six, seven, eight out…”
Keith takes a step forwards with every turn of air.
As he gets closer, he hears the sounds that Shiro is choking on. He recognizes rudimentary Galran.
He makes his own counting louder. He sees himself learning to count as a kid. One, two, three, four, easy. He hopes Shiro can attach similar images, to remind him that he’s not there. He’s safe. They count in English, just like they did when they were kids.
Keith repeats the numbers, over and over and over until Shiro starts speaking along with him. Keith clutches the blanket in his hand and just counts.
He’s never seen Shiro like this. He knew about the nightmares. Of course he knew. He heard them.
But Shiro always got up from the nightmares.
He looks so small, hiding in himself.
Keith wonders if he can touch him, but Shiro’s still shaking, he’s still coughing on the numbers, so Keith sits down. He holds the blanket in his lap and keeps counting, paying special attention to the fabric between his fingers and careful not to scare Shiro off with a stare.
“One, two, three, four in…”
Shiro falls into Keith’s chest and Keith only falters for a minute before continuing his count and wrapping an arm around Shiro. Shiro’s limbs are loosening up, legs not so tight against his chest, most of his muscles not trembling with self imposed strain. Keith brings his legs up on the bed and tucks the blanket over both of them. Shiro shivers and grips Keith’s sleep shirt.
Shiro’s whispering changes from the murmured numbers to something else. Keith can barely make it out.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”
Keith fights the sting in his eyes. He blinks, and then blinks again, and bites down on the inside of his cheek.
Shiro deserves so much more.
Keith brings up a hand to card back through Shiro’s hair. Shiro’s relieved shudder at just the barest touch is enough to push the tears out of Keith’s eyes.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Shiro nods and lets himself nuzzle against Keith’s chest. Keith keeps up his quiet ministrations until the fist in his shirt goes slack and he hears the quiet snore that signals real sleep.
Keith lets out his own breath. Shiro must be exhausted.
He knows that Shiro will want to pretend it never happened in the morning.
Keith won’t let him.
That’s a problem for tomorrow.
Now, he closes his eyes and lets himself drift off, counting Shiro’s breath and timing his own to match.
Warnings: this is so fluffy. Fluffy Dean is the best, in my opinion.
you do an imagine where Dean falls for bobbys daughter? And Bobby gives Dean
the. “Hurt her and I kill you.” Talk?
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Let’s just face it. You were the daughter of a hunter. It
wasn’t a bad thing but there were times you often wished that you had a normal
dad and maybe a normal family. Don’t be misjudged, you love your dad and
wouldn’t trade him for the world.
You were one of those hunters that decides to keep things on
the low down. You’d rather not go out on the field and fight when you could be
staying in and researching from the comfort of your home. There was nothing
wrong with getting your hands dirty, you even went on a few hunts yourself.
You were good at what you did but you’d rather hide it,
thinking that it might be best to keep the surprises going for you. You thought
it would be better if the enemy didn’t know what you could do rather than
knowing all the things you can do. It gave you an edge.
I never thought of the Tarantulas/Kup ship before I saw your wonderful art and I can't believe how weirdly adorable this would be. I kind of imagine Springer would be screaming internally the entire time but dang the potential shenanigans those two could get up to are precious. Thank you for sharing this with the fandom. <3
Ahhh thank you so much for this ask !!! :’‘ D I have been ALMOST thinking it for a long time?? I didn’t think it would really ?? be fun to anyone else!! :’‘ ) (I just got an ask request to draw Kup and once I finally had to draw him I had to figure out this idea.)
I don’t know how MUCH they would eventually like each other but I think they would bond a lot over their love of Springer and mutual dislike/hatred of Prowl (for this scenario)?? and I like trying to figure out how Springer would react to this. Probably how you said. : D
you guys have no fucking idea how hard it is to be an alto in love with musical theatre like every song ever on broadway is sung by a female who is a soprano and they sing and belt notes we sound like dying horses trying to reach so we’re stuck with always singing the male songs and ugh