i find it funny that conservatives try to paint me calling for the death and destruction of multi-billionaire CEOs as some radical "woke liberal" standpoint. as if that even has anything to do with politics, especially in this era of surface level circus politics. the same way they try to politicize the hurricanes or the wildfires destroying parts of america, as if climate change is somehow a red vs. blue issue. it's no secret i'm from a deeply conservative family in the sticks of florida and i still grew up hearing "i fought the law and the law won". the healthcare system has fucked each and every member of my family in a different way at one point or another, as is the case with pretty much every family in this scorched earth nation. remember when country music, the genre currently associated the heaviest with the most conservative faction of america, used to be staunchly anti-government and about sticking it to the man? remember when the coal miners, grandfathers to the "trump-er hillbillies" of appalachia that everyone loves to write off as ignorant, fought tooth and nail for unionization because the companies that were built off their labor didn't give a shit if they lived or died? since when has "upholding traditional values" gone hand in hand with... defending lawmakers and oil tycoons. my family and i complain about the same issues at the dinner table. the men in charge better hope they can keep their digital smokescreens running as long as they can because the moment the rednecks and the hippies lay down their swords long enough to realize they have the same enemy, all hell is gonna break loose.
I found a good number of Palestinian asks in my inbox, and instead of posting them one by one I thought of making a "masterpost" with all of the accounts to give the same visibility to all of them. Some of the people that have reached out to me are vetted blogs, others aren't.
I do not mean to accuse those struggling innocent people, but many scammers steal pictures, videos and names from actual Palestinian accounts. I tried to verify the autenticity of those in my inbox, but I'm afraid of brushing off some actual Palestinians, so I decided to write down all of them regardless of my suspicions. Donate at your discretion and be careful. Here is a post that helps with recognising fakes.
The ones in green are vetted by gazavetters.
The ones in blue are vetted by individual accounts (bilal-salah0).
The ones in yellow are not vetted.
Mosab Elderawi - mssbdr. i think this is the main account. I have received the same ask multiple times from blogs with a slightly different name, like "adfamily" or "mfamily/mofamily/mosabfamily", but with the same pictures. They all reblogged Mosab's post.
Momen Al Madhoun - momenalmdhoun. The ask was sent by nourelmadhoun.
Mohamad S. - adambinali. According to the masterpost, adambinali is a friend of Mohamand and they're reaching out on his behalf.
Shada Kassab - shadafaml.
Rewaa Amir - rewaaamir. Ask sent by rewaa-amir-family2.
Dima - demarasid.
Mohamed Rafiq Abdo - mohamedfamily80.
Asmaa Majed - asmaamajed2. They tagged el-shab-hussein, but they're not on the document of vetted blogs.
Esmaeel - som3a30i.
Khalil - khleelfamily.
I hope I missed nothing, I wanted to be as clear as possible. I will keep adding links the more asks I receive.
« ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔰 » Explicit depiction of violence (Childe kicks ass in a duel), Fatui agents training shirtless and freezing their asses off lol, Russian petnames (Solnishko = Little Sun/Deda = Grandpa)
« 𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱 » 1071
« 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰 » I made some research before using Russian words. I did my best to understand their meaning and use instead of copypasting from google translate, I apologise if I still made mistakes. If you know the language, feel free to correct me! Also, let me know if you want me to create a taglist!
The bulky man in the arena crumbled as the wooden rod bashed his kneecap. His muscles rippled under the skin of his chest, his veins throbbing and his sweat pouring into more and more layers with each heave of his chest.
He balanced his weight with his own stick, but the second it seemed like he had gathered himself, another hit landed on his battered body. It resonated against his ribcage with a wet crack, probably breaking at least two bones before the blunt end of the weapon met his sternum.
The man tumbled backwards. Another attack flew his way, one that he managed to parry thanks to luck more than skill, but the next swing drew an unavoidable line from above— just like that his collarbone was doomed.
He clutched his shoulder with a pained grimace, and that moment of distraction earned him the final blow.
The rod collided with his jaw and Bulky Man was sent against the rocky, snow-sprinkled ground.
Pulcinella twirled his moustache without a care in the world, as if the two of you hadn’t assisted to such pathetic, gruesome show. He tugged his fur closer to his neck and his glasses briefly fogged up from his breath.
“Why are we here, you ask? I thought you might be interested, Solnishko.” He mused, mirth in his small, wrinkled stare. “Anyone caught your attention?”
You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms and leaning against the railing of the mezzanine that overlooked the training grounds. Snowflakes danced placidly in the air, obfuscating the midday sun and falling over the crowd below.
The arena was emptier than usual and the few people who had come to train were scattered all over the area, making it appear even more hollow and depressing. Some busied themselves with archery practice, others stretched and lifted weights, a few perfected their moves against training dummies while a group of rookies — who had been caught slacking, most likely — kept running desperate laps.
All of them were shirtless, clad in a simple pair of slacks and shoes as per regulation. It was an ancient Snezhnayan technique meant to train the body to withstand harsh conditions on top of physical effort, but the toll was harsher for some agents. Teens had it worse, usually. Like that one. His lips had turned a light shade of purple already.
You scanned the people with clear lack of interest, barely lingering for more than a moment on each figure.
Around 27, has a postural problem, he struggles to keep his back straight when shooting. Somewhere between 20 and 22, she’s still recovering from a deep injury, her shoulder sports a suture. One 17, one 19, they met in secret, possibly the night before; they avoid eye contact and keep their necks well covered.
And then there were them.
Bulky Guy and Prodigy Boy in the duelling circle. A few agents there had scurried to help the injured man, carefully lifting him on a stretcher while his opponent — as unscathed as the day he was born — wiped the sweat off his face with a towel.
Bruises had already formed over the defeated man's skin, especially in the area around his ribs and on his knee. He was haemorrhaging internally from the looks of it, but he would survive. He now needed a support for his injured leg though, and he would suffer from chronic pain for the first few months of physio.
“That man will need more than a couple weeks of recovery.” You hummed. “But the other agents seem in perfect health.”
“Seem is the right word, Solnishko.” Pulcinella fixed the glasses on his nose. “You see, an acquaintance of mine could use your expertise.”
“Delusion poisoning?”
“Precisely.”
You raised a brow. “And I assume they have special needs, since they haven’t contacted my assistant to make an appointment like every other patient?”
Pulcinella chuckled once more, his white moustache moving along. “Now, now. Consider it your old, tired deda asking for a favour.” He smiled. “But you are right. His condition is… Anomalous.”
The old man sauntered closer to the railing and — trying and failing to be discreet with it — stood on his tiptoes to get a better look over the area. He pointed to the boy who had crushed the other agent no more than a few minutes ago, as he effortlessly did pull-ups by himself.
You noticed that his colleagues eyed him warily, their glares nasty and bitter as they hauled the injured Bulky Man away. Maybe that was the reason why the grounds were emptier than usual.
You analysed Prodigy Boy with furrowed brows. Aside from the scars on his skin, some faded, some fresh, he seemed in great health; the fact he had started training more after an easy, though still tiring fight only made him look healthier.
But if years of treating people had taught you something, it was that nothing was what it seemed.
“He owns a vision and a delusion, and as you might have noticed he doesn’t lack prowess.” Pulcinella sighed, almost disappointed. “Yet, he somehow manages to overexert his body and neglect his health. One would almost imagine he fights against gods daily, with how much he uses that delusion of his.”
Your face crumpled in annoyance at the notion. Those were the worst type of people, the ones that made your job harder than it needed to be. Was it so difficult to stay in bed and rest for a while instead of running around like careless masochists? You hoped this guy would not fit the description.
“I can see him, but taking care of himself is up to him, eventually.” You responded drily. “He better not waste my time.”
“Oh, well, about that…” The old man cleared his throat awkwardly. He would definitely waste your time. “I will leave that to you two! Let me introduce you—”
“Send him to my studio, tomorrow night. I’ll see him once I’m done with my shift.”
You turned on your heels without sparing a second glance at either Pulcinella or his “acquaintance”, it was just noon and your head had already started aching at the thought of dealing with this boy tomorrow.
“Do you not wish to get to know him beforehand?”
“I’ve learned more than enough.”
You ventured further down the mezzanine, silently pondering your options as you headed to the door that lead inside the palace.
im starting to manifest for when csm part 2 is adapted to the anime that they keep up the op trend of recreating movie frames but its classic high school movies
