It would therefore be obvious that Flemming Nielsen should be able to appeal the verdict, which he believes has restricted his freedom of expression, to a higher court. However, he will not be able to do this as the fine falls below the minimum limit by which such judgments can be appealed.
Our Danish correspondent Kepiblanc just sent this update on the latest Islamic invention contrived by culture-enrichers in Denmark. Especially around culturally enriched neighbourhoods.
The wise driver will slow down and carefully observe whether there are any Muslims on the bridge before passing under. Otherwise, the chances are that he or she will be pelted with various objects such as pellets, rocks, bottles and whatnot. So far no lethal damage has been done, mostly due to the fact that modern cars are constructed to be somewhat Islamophobic — such as with unbreakable windscreens and safety belts.
Nevertheless, our diligent Muslims have carried on practising and improving their skills. Mass is another — and important — factor. Someone must have told them that mass times speed squared yields better performance. Last week they dropped one onto a tiny Ford, but — alas — without killing the entire family of four, causing only severe lacerations to the female in the shotgun seat.
The Baron, cued up by the exigencies of the clock, enters stage right on Day One. Before I go any farther, we owe a big thank-you to the Western Rifle Shooters Association for giving us a shoutout and pointing people to our bleg.
We surely appreciate it! Our quarterly fundraisers have a number of aspects. For us personally, it become akin to a retreat and regrouping for the two of us. Like those corporate retreats, but without the blather. Even though my physical and spiritual limits prevent me from being as full a partner in Gates of Vienna as I once was, GoV is always in the forefront of my mind: the first thing I think of in the morning, the last thing at night.
Sometimes our son and I talk about that amazing feat: how his Dad keeps a sense of humor and his sanity despite the ugliness he sees every day. Plus the other team members — scattered from Montana to Thailand — all of whom stay closely connected and willing to do whatever is necessary. Not only that, but to come up with their own original contributions. I have learned so much about what clear communication and authentic collaboration mean from watching how they all interact with little friction or fuss.
There is no designated leader as such, just a variety of individuals willing to try new ideas, to work together on recruiting new people. Over the years some political crises in the more neo-soviet parts of Europe have caused people to leave, either out of caution for their families or because they were persecuted or in danger of being so.
The pain of those losses never really goes away, nor does the angst I feel for them as individuals living under such regimes. Others, such as Elisabeth Sabaditsch-Wolff, set upon by cultural jackals, tough it out at tremendous personal cost.
But for the two of us, planning around my limits in order to do a full week of fundraising is a bit like a campaign. Our conversations revolve around thematic possibilities, the logistics of food and rest, postponing or cancelling appointments, and, importantly, looking ahead to holidays and such when our readers may be busy elsewhere — e. I forgot to check this one, though. Besides, state primaries have long since jumped the shark, as has much of the political kabuki theatre leading up to the start of presidential campaigns.
The only spanner in the spokes this time around is Donald Trump. Without his rallies, Jeb Bush would long since have nodded off till spring. Not only is the meta-conversation with the Baron necessary for our quarterly fund raisers, but we must needs talk with each other in a structured way about Gates of Vienna as it is at the moment, and what we think is immediately likely. See this image for the withering stare of an accompanying police officer.
It sums up my reaction, too. That vision is different for everyone now that the cultural certainties have been marginalized. History has had plagues before; this is another one. He includes a series of questions about the problems associated with Muslim integration in the West, and invites input from Gates of Vienna readers. I read the news from Sweden and other European nations, and I want to help, but I do not know how.
No country that opens its doors to the refugees should be punished for its generosity by the same people whom it embraces. The refugees from war-torn, impoverished nations of Middle East, North Africa and Arab nations pouring into Europe is a major challenge to the original inhabitants of Europe. I am going to avoid all political correctness. A point of clarification: While Islam is practised the world over, the major problems seem to come from the Arab and Middle Eastern cultures, whose influence has been felt in Africa and other parts of the world.
While my questions are about the Muslim population, I am primarily focusing on the Muslims from these Arab, Middle Eastern and African nations. I am an Indian and I would like to believe I am as liberal and rational as the other person.
Simple: I want every nation to maintain its unique cultural heritage proudly. I have never visited Sweden, but those Scandinavian and some European nations are among the best nations to live in.
While it may be futile to replicate their economic standard of living, perhaps every country could imbibe some of their values of social welfare, the rule of law, health care, education and a measure of broad-mindedness. If such open societies were to absorb sizeable populations from a society that is closed, regressive and sometimes incompatible with modernity, these accommodating cultures will experience a threat to their existence.
Sweden has to only look at India to understand the influence Islam has had on its history. Up until AD, the Indian subcontinent was largely Hindu with sizeable populations of Jains, Buddhists and followers of animism. The Muslims convinced themselves that under a united India, Muslims would be under threat from the Hindu majority, and that they might lose their religious and cultural identity.
Albums of the latest and loved, and the ones to look out for discover By okspud1 15 Feb am. All Things Hyped: Last. Play track. Love this track. More Love this track Set track as current obsession Get track Loading.
Sunday 23 February Monday 24 February Tuesday 25 February Wednesday 26 February Thursday 27 February Friday 28 February Saturday 29 February Sunday 1 March Monday 2 March Tuesday 3 March Wednesday 4 March Thursday 5 March Friday 6 March Saturday 7 March Sunday 8 March Monday 9 March Tuesday 10 March Wednesday 11 March Thursday 12 March Friday 13 March Saturday 14 March Sunday 15 March Monday 16 March Tuesday 17 March Wednesday 18 March Thursday 19 March Friday 20 March Saturday 21 March Sunday 22 March Monday 23 March Tuesday 24 March Wednesday 25 March Thursday 26 March Friday 27 March Saturday 28 March Monday 30 March Tuesday 31 March Wednesday 1 April Thursday 2 April Friday 3 April Saturday 4 April Sunday 5 April Monday 6 April Tuesday 7 April Wednesday 8 April There was movement along the flying buttresses.
At first, it seemed that a swarm of bats had been disturbed, but then, by the flapping of black, leathery wings, the skeletal horses took to the air and cantered over the roof of the Cathedral, across the Seine, and toward the magizoologist. Three large Thestrals landed softly on the street near him. A particularly lanky, smaller Thestral butted its head against his chest, knocking Newt back several paces.
The screams of the Knights as they were knocked from their brooms were very satisfying. Percival looked up in amazement when he saw Newt, mounted on an enormous Thestral, flanked by two more, blasting Knights out of the sky.
Tickling Charms did the trick, too, and some Knights laughed wildly as they fell. Grindelwald looked up as well. He aimed his wand at Newt, and then lowered it, observing the magizoologist and his allies make quick work of the airborne Knights, many of whom could not see the Thestrals. Newt was enjoying himself for the first time that night. His eyes glittered as his mount wove about the chimneys.
Pickett chirped in his hair, and the air blew his fringe out of his face. Newt patted Adam fondly. He brought up shield charms to defend the Thestrals when spells brushed near. His blue coat streamed in the wind, and an overlooked blue Salamander peeked furtively out from beneath his collar.
Grindelwald tore his eyes away. He needed to reverse this turn of the tide. A strongpoint of resistance came from Percival, whose higher ground allowed him to instruct Aurors with better perspective and to fire off spells to distract Grindelwald. The dark wizard brought his eyes to rest on Graves for a calculating moment.
Then he collapsed a chimney onto the Auror, and Percival was forced to jump from his perch in the second-floor window. He rolled with his fall, cushioning his landing, and then went sprawling when Grindelwald hit him with a Cruciatus. Graves screamed. Newt, who had been dissipating the yellow fog carefully from the air, flinched at the sound. The smell of the poison gas, the agonized screaming, the flashes of spellfire as he rode through the air all brought him back to his time in the war, and his dragons.
The joy of a shared flight evaporated instantly. His skin prickled under a layer of sweat, and his hands buzzed with nervous energy. His Stinging Hex clipped Grindelwald across the chest and shoulders, and the screaming cut off. Newt hopped off of Adam and jogged to where Graves lay shuddering on the ground. The dark wizard rounded on Newt, eyes narrow and mouth set. Over the noise of ongoing duels, Newt heard a Thestral neighing. The Thestrals were circling above the battle.
Adam backed off at his command, but refused to retreat further than roof-level. This jarred Newt back into the present—Grindelwald was kneeling inches from his face. Newt cast nonverbally, but his range of motion was limited and Grindelwald deflected easily, even as he knelt at point-blank range.
His hands, which had been beating weakly at the chokehold, went slack atop the other wizard's. And he felt a strange jolt of pleasure accompany the dizziness, intense and visceral and strong enough to make his toes curl. Through half-lidded eyes, Newt could see cold, mismatched eyes and curling lips. He was on the ground next to the winded, sweaty Graves, and Grindelwald was shouting in French at the Aurors, and Percival was saying something.
What was he saying? His head felt stuffed full of cotton, and yet somehow empty, an echo chamber of reverberating aches.
Flashes of light were dancing in the corners of his vision: spellfire. We have to hang on, Scamander. He handed Newt his wand, which Newt took without responding. His voice would fail him. Newt looked more closely at Percival. Though the Auror seemed confident, there was a tremor in his hands.
Newt reached a hand into his pocket and withdrew a live mouse it ran away , a few Knuts, a rhinestone-studded scarf, and finally a pouch, which he opened with faltering fingers to take out a handful of powdered leaves.
Newt narrowed his eyes and squeezed the herbs in his fist, then licked them from his hand. Graves watched him with a strange expression. Percival gave him an appraising look, and took the proffered hand. More violet-robed figures had arrived at Rue Parcheminerie, and Grindelwald was laughing as the Aurors fell back. Percival rushed over, then, shoved Queenie down and sent a Stunner at Grindelwald, which the wizard deflected.
With a flourish of his wand, Percival felled two streetlamps on Grindelwald, who was forced back. Newt focused a stream of poison gas from his wand, but Grindelwald drew the fallen tongues of orange flame to engulf the gas, which combusted.
In the chaos of the ensuing explosion, Newt ran to where Percival was shielding Queenie and Jacob and, beyond them, a streetful of Confounded and confused Parisian Muggles.
The orange flames cast shadows across his face. Graves had sharp cheekbones, Newt noticed, and his dark eyes were bright and wary. Like Theseus, he seemed to come alive in battle. While they were arguing, Newt had withdrawn Horace from his pocket and grabbed a careful fistful of Bowtruckle from his head—Pickett had burrowed into his hair. Pickett squeaked in protest. Graves stared at the Bowtruckle and at Newt. He gave a wheezing cough, recovered, and grinned crookedly.
The pained expression in his eyes was shot through with a gleam of humor. Percival felt his mouth go dry. He nodded, and brought his ebony wand into a dueling stance. Newt gripped his ash wand loosely in his right hand, leaning back into his own modified stance. Grindelwald volleyed curses at them, and Newt deflected while Graves attacked. Occasionally they switched, and Newt hoped Graves would overlook some of the darker spells he was using.
They could not go on indefinitely. Newt had not trained against human adversaries since his army days, and Graves did not trust his magical reserves to hold out. Newt paused in thought, and Percival began an offensive. Adam the Thestral was circling above them, and Newt wondered if there had been enough death that night to warrant such signaling behavior, or if Adam was only anticipating slaughter. His grim thoughts were interrupted by a welcome voice. Theseus had finally arrived, three squadrons of Aurors flanking him.
Theseus squinted at Newt and Graves, and then he caught sight of their condition, and of Grindelwald, and his expression changed. Figures of Basilisks and Acromantulas sprouted in the flames.
Newt paused to gaze at them, almost bewitched by the life-like movement. A fiery dragon flickered to life, opening its enormous jaws wide… Percival jerked Newt aside as the street became engulfed in scorching flames. Searching out fuel, the searing fire-beasts went flying, leaping and creeping along the cobblestones to devour paper, fabric, flesh and stone.
His face was expressionless in concentration; Aurors fled the scalding heat preceding the fiery animals. Knights had clear access to shoot curses at the backs of the fleeing magical law enforcers.
Kit and Willie were working in tandem, muttering in Latin as their wands spouted a thin, semi-opaque film to cover the outside of their shop. This seemed to repel the sparks and tongues of flame which came near it. Theseus conjured up water, which did nothing to slow the flame-beasts.
He ordered his Aurors to evacuate the Muggles instead. He was limping. Theseus and the reinforcements were cut off by a wall of flame which was spiraling in on itself. Graves, Grindelwald and Newt would be trapped in the heart of the blaze. Newt squared his shoulders and squinted.
The blue flames danced brightly, cutting off the two wizards from the raging battle. Perhaps Grindelwald had meant the ring to enshroud his escape, or his duel with Graves? Newt had ruined any such plans. There was no more cover, and the Fiendfyre radiated heat onto the two wizards and the cobblestone street. Grindelwald sent another spell his way, and Newt called up a shield at the last moment.
It promptly exploded under the force of a disarming spell. Newt wondered at the relative mildness of the curse sent his way. Grindelwald was not known for holding back. Newt still suffered from arrhythmia, a result of their last meeting in the subway tunnels. They were circling each other on the uneven ground, sidestepping along the fire-line in a strange dance.
Graves, the Ministry, they stand for everything you resist, Newton. You will realize this, before the end. I have Seen it, and you will serve me. My Knights would recognize your bloodline and your talent. Your creatures would be welcomed, would thrive in a new wizarding order. And so would you. Newt blinked in bemusement, a blush that had nothing to do with the heat coloring his cheeks. Why was Grindelwald mocking Newt if he wished to recruit him? Was this a humiliation tactic employed to confuse him?
Grindelwald raised his wand to return the Stinging Jinx Newt had thrown at him earlier. It glowed pale blue on the tip of his wand. Just then, Newt felt something warm scuttle across the back of his neck. This gave him an idea. Newt pivoted and took the hit directly across his back as he replicated the Hot-Freezing Charm he had modified earlier that night, working quickly, swishing his wand diagonally.
He held his breath to rein in the pain. Then he dropped to the ground with the force of the Hex and rolled, the Fiendfyre scorching heat across his back, his arm, his hair and face… He had looped the inner circumference of the ring of flames—which had momentarily diminished in heat due to the modified Freezing Charm—and he threw his own disarming spell from behind Grindelwald. The blue Salamander on the collar of his coat made a happy crackling noise and threw itself into the Fiendfyre, where it grew to enormous proportions and began to frolic.
Newt stood in the circle of pale blue Fiendfyre, sweaty, charred, bruised and breathing hard in the heat. He felt strange. The observation platform atop the Eiffel Tower had not been his intended destination, but it offered welcome relief of detachment from the heat and flash of battle. Above the lights of the city, the cool air and space felt surreal. There was ash in his hair and soot on his face and coat, but up here the air was clear of smoke. The full moon lit up the empty observation platform.
Newt stumbled against the rail and stared at the white wand. He whistled, long and low, into the Parisian night: a note of summoning. Then he took a breath—it hurt—and put his wand away, and took the cold, white, foreign one into his wand hand.
His throat felt like sandpaper. At first he only felt the rush of magic, stronger than he expected, spread through his fingers and the wand from somewhere in his core. He saw the blue glare of flames diminish in the corner of his eye.
Were there natural amplification properties in the wood, or core, or was there some enchantment placed on this wand? How could Fiendfyre be quelled so simply? He had undone some powerful spellwork, he felt it unraveling still, its effects traveling further, going deeper. He could almost feel the taint of some dark magic dissipating… Imperius curses?
He hoped it was nothing good, did not think the owner of the wand capable of much good. Part of him mourned the Salamander that had likely saved his life. He felt exhausted, like the wand required more magic even as it amplified what Newt gave it. It was eerily disproportionate, and he did not understand its source.
He ran his fingers over it, marveling at how it radiated coldness and magic. The sound of Apparition startled Newt for the second time that night. Newt wondered wildly how the wizard had found him. He took a step and hit the barrier behind him. Trapped, Newt forced himself to relax into a loose dueling stance, the sort he used to subdue wild creatures who could hurt him and themselves in a rampage.
His hair was charred and smoking, his cloak flapped in the wind, and a nasty red burn blistered on his exposed forearm. For once, Grindelwald looked surprised. He stepped forward, eyeing Newt with suspicion. No tricks? I begin to think you are a masochist. Newt yanked his arms back, huffing an amused breath. His horror was turning to humor, and he blamed the many knocks on the head. His back was beginning to sting from the previous hex—evidently the adrenaline would soon wear off.
He felt the rail glide along his back, the air slide along his coat and face, and then: freefall. He needed to Apparate before he hit the ground, but he could not tell which way was up. There was blood rushing in his ears. Newt Apparated blindly and wandlessly, and opened his eyes. He had not splinched, and he was back on the observation platform. Grindelwald was holding both wands as though weighing them. There was nothing Newt could use in his environment: all was open sky, a nasty fall, and the metal rails and grating below.
His pockets contained two quills, a pen and a Puffskein. His heart was beating in his ears. Grindelwald gazed at Newt and at the battered wand with raised brows, disdain written on his features. Now, I admire your tenacity, but I do not take theft lightly. Newt doubled over and hit the ground, biting through his lip and tasting blood.
Every part of him save his voice was screaming in agony. It was, impossibly, worse than the Fiendfyre. After what seemed an eternity, Grindelwald lifted the curse and knelt down, watching patiently as Newt wheezed and twitched. He caught his breath, feeling more tenuous than tenacious, coughing and spitting blood from his broken lip. He paused, and Newt tried summoning his wand to his hand. He licked his bloodied lips. Can you not scream for yourself, Newton?
This time, Newt consciously tried to keep from screaming. It was more difficult, though it helped that he had utterly lost his voice.
There were sparks in his vision and a fine tremor in his muscles when Grindelwald lifted the second wave of the curse. His lips were salty with tears and blood as he gasped for breath, rasping on every inhale, bruised throat sore and painfully dry. He had bitten through his bottom lip twice, and he could taste blood on his tongue again. He rose to his feet, turned, walked away across the platform. Newt tried to rise, but his muscles felt watery.
He succeeded on his third attempt, stumbling dizzily to his feet, leaning on the rail. What is this core? Marine detritus? His extended arm trembled with strain, wrist and fingers shaking. A wave of humiliation swept across Newt, then. He felt the heat across his face and back and shoulders, and he grounded himself in intense discomfort.
He would not undress for this madman. His fingers went on in their involuntary fiddling on the buttons of his shirt.
Angry and mortified, Newt fought the compulsion. He frowned fiercely and his hands paused, trembling at his collar. The curse and perhaps part of Newt wanted to lean into the brush of warm palms against his arms, though it was also against his will.
And then Grindelwald was staring at his bared torso, at his back and right side, where the skin had been badly burnt and painstakingly healed, where there was a fresh mark from the Stinging Hex. Stripped of his wand and his clothes, Newt felt horribly vulnerable. Grindelwald circled the magizoologist slowly.
Newt felt his gaze and closed his own eyes, willing it to be over. He swallowed and immediately shuddered at the brush of warm fingers down and along his spine, replaced by a cool wand tip which retraced their path in reverse, drawn up along his vertebrae. Newt felt the magic coming off of the wand; it set his teeth on edge and gave him gooseflesh. Red glistened on the white wood. Newt held his breath. But then Grindelwald sprang back a step, rocked back on his heels and brightened.
Newt could not move, but he averted his gaze. He felt warm breath ghost his ear and jaw. He smelled burnt hair and smoke, and expensive cologne. He tried not to shiver. The wandwork was no longer a leisurely threat but deliberate and precise. Newt could feel the dark magic pouring off of the curse and through his skin. It seemed to turn his blood to ice. His usually warm and mobile magic was crystallizing, turning hard and cold.
Tears streamed down his face as the pain mounted. He put his wand away and glanced about. All seemed still aside from a chill night breeze. It was the perfect length to fist his hands into.
Grindelwald licked his own, and pulled back slowly when Newt began to stir. Grindelwald Summoned a narrow brown ribbon from where it had fallen on the platform. He brought it to his face and inhaled, then pocketed it and leaned back on the rail to watch Newt, who was coming to with a broken groan.
The wound on his back burned, sending waves of pain across his entire body. Newt felt chilled, like he had been pumped full of Acromantula venom and then soaked in cold water. Had he managed to fall into the Seine? Everything ached, and the metal grating bit into what felt like open sores on his back something fierce. He was absurdly grateful for his wool trousers and leather boots as he lay bleeding on the icy metal.
Grindelwald stood silent a long moment, examining his nails, which were smeared with blood. Newt began to tremble from the cold, or perhaps the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. He rolled onto his side with an effort. Something warm was trickling down the small of his back, now, and dripping through the grating.
The Order of Merlin that he won? There was a wail in the distance, and then the wind carried the unmistakable howl of a werewolf. Grindelwald looked back at Newt with some regret. He frowned, and undid the silver clasp at his throat.
Newt hated his body for relaxing into the warmth of the other wizard. Newt lay on his side in the warmth of the cloak and stared. Without the black cloak, Grindelwald seemed smaller, clad in dark trousers and shirtsleeves under a brocade waistcoat threaded with ornate silver curlicues and a black velvet jacket. One sleeve was burnt away, the skin beneath it blistered an angry red. A silver earring glistened in one of his ears.
Newt wondered idly if there was a dress code for dark lords. I have been dying to learn how young Credence is doing. The slickness at his side was hot and slippery, but the cloak was warm and soaked up the blood. He felt very cozy. And that was when, finally, he heard the telltale flutter.
Newt used his last reserves of magic to summon his clothes and wand. Then, of his own volition, he inched to the edge and fell for a second and final time from the tower. Draped across the back of the skeletal flying horse, Newt trembled from the strain of holding on as Pamela flapped her powerful wings. The foreign black cloak streamed behind him, blending both magizoologist and Thestral seamlessly into the night sky. Wait, why are you flying toward… the Hospital?
No, Pamela, absolutely not. Pamela seemed to know, and Thestrals had keen senses so Newt was sure she could smell, just how unwell her rider was. Pamela was nosing at his side, his face, and Newt giggled, and sobbed, and then he knew no more. Thank you for your comments, and kudos and such. Please do continue to leave feedback and I'll respond eventually. It makes my days brighter! I love your comments and your feedback and your guesses very much.
So, in my headcanon, Theseus' relationship with Newt is a bit strained, and I tried to convey this. They are brothers and they love each other and all that, but they are quite different and have somewhat different value systems Also, Tina appears!
I think Tina is a fantastic character and I am not sure how to do her justice, but I'm going to try! Having survived the Great War, the tradition of splitting their stores of firewhiskey lived on in the skirmishes that followed. Get help. Cesare Cremonini — Discografia completa. Marco Carta Discografia completa. Tokio Hotel — Discografia completa. Bagno Sirena — Trentaremi Testo della canzone.
Ombre di luci. Un sorriso e poi perdonami. Faciteme felice — Canzoni Napoletane.
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