#( para: a river that winds on forever )

[ericahacher]

A RIVER THAT WINDS ON FOREVER

     It felt too soon to be going back home. Hours on the back of her bike with the sun beating down on her, and the closer she got to the base – the more familiar the terrain became – the more the feeling grew; like she’d never left in the first place. Approaching the outer perimeter – the path of the patrol routes, the sightline of the nearest lookout point – she slowed down, weaving between gnarled Joshua trees and pale rock formations erupting from the sand, watchful eyes scanning her surroundings through the tinted visor of her helmet.      A trail of dust appeared on the horizon before long, kicked up by an ATV advancing from the left, then another, from the right. Erica slowed to a stop, switching the engine off and kicking the stand down while she waited for them to reach her. Before they came to a full stop in front of her, she pulled her helmet off, breaking into a grin when the first of the drivers recognized her.      “Erica?”    “Josh.” She stepped off her bike, receiving him when he came up to hug her, the pair locked for a moment in an embrace before the woman from the other vehicle took over, flinging her arms around Erica’s neck. “Sadie, good to see you.”      “Your hair! You look so different!”    “Figured a bit of change was in order.” She rubbed at the back of her head, still smiling at them.      “Look at you,” Josh was almost laughing. “Couple months in the city and you’ve got piercings all over. You get any tattoos?”      She shrugged. “Not yet.”      “And the others?” Sadie looked hopeful, grabbing the brim of her cap and wiggling it a little to adjust it. Her dark hair was tied into a bun at the nape of her neck, but a strand loosened with the movement, blowing across her face in the dry breeze.      “Forgotten about us already?” Josh smirked, quirking an eyebrow.    “No; I’m here for work.”      “How long are you staying?”    “I’m not.”      Both their smiles faded, disappointment and something else sapping some of the warmth from their expressions. Erica pretended not to notice.      “Right. Of course.” Sadie returned to her ATV for a comm, freeing it from a small bag placed on the side of the seat. “Gate, this is lookout four. Erica’s here.” She spoke into it, releasing the button on the side while she waited for a response.      “Copy.” There was a pause. “All clear, Sadie. I’ll let Cira know.”      Fuck. Erica closed her eyes, slowly breathing in, then put her helmet back on and straddled her bike. Josh had seen her expression, but thankfully knew better than to ask, returning to his ATV with a nod and a polite but rather unconvincing smile. Helmet back on, Erica mirrored the nod, flipping up the stand with the heel of her boot and starting the engine, leaving the two of them to return to their posts as she traveled on, trying not to clench her jaw too hard, or let her knuckles pale around their grip on the handlebars.

     The base was nestled in a flat between a loose circle of towering bluffs, a high wall wide enough to walk along the top of filling the gaps between the crags. Steel walkways clung to the insides of the steep cliffs, connecting the stretches of wall to form a perimeter around the entire compound, high enough that when walking it, one could see clear to the other side. Coming up on the gate, she saw two figures atop it – one on either side of the barrier, each carrying a rifle – silhouetted against the sun. She didn’t bother trying to see who it was, nor did she get the chance, because before she’d even reached the gate doors, the left one opened, pushed along by Grant and… Erica drew in a breath, rolling in through the opening on momentum alone before pulling to the side and parking her bike out of the way of — but still near — the inside of the gate. She took her sweet time switching off the engine, taking her helmet off, rummaging through her small backpack before hooking the strap over her shoulder, getting off the bike, and only when she couldn’t stall anymore without looking ridiculous, she turned around to face the shadow she’d been keeping an eye on the entire time, stretching across the sand underneath her feet.      Another hug, firmer, longer, but no comment on her hair, or the silver rings in her ears and septum.      “It’s good to see you.”    “You too, Mom.” Erica pulled back, carefully breaking the embrace to look down at her mother’s solemn face. “How is everyone?”      “Surviving.” Her mother began walking, and she followed, throwing a small wave and a halfhearted smile over her shoulder at Grant as she went. “One of the solar panels has lost connection with the inverter; we’ll need new parts for it as soon as Frances and Lionel figure out what the problem is — and we’re low on antibiotics, but otherwise the base is operational.”      Erica opened her mouth, stopped herself from asking if there was anything she could do, and nodded instead. Nobody was dead. Sick. Hurt. At least not badly enough to be worthy of mention in her mother’s eyes. “Listen, I need to talk to Moira. Could you… not tell Allegra and Marcel or Nadir that I’m here? If you see them. I don’t really…” she turned her head, looking around as if Gia and Yousef’s parents would suddenly appear, now that she had mentioned them, “have time to catch up.”      “Will you stay and eat?”    “Maybe. I don’t know.”      “I’ll be in AG.” Her mother peeled off without acknowledging her request. “Find me before you leave.” Stopped in her tracks, Erica drew a quiet sigh, then headed in the opposite direction, towards the building that housed the lab.

     Placed in the shade of one of the crags and thoroughly air-conditioned, the lab and infirmary was the coolest building in the compound, with its own set of generators and additional backup power on top of that again, should anything go wrong. Failsafe upon failsafe. The hallway she stepped into when she came through the door was dark and quiet, void of people; not unusual, so she pressed on, undeterred. Through another door towards the far left end of the hallway, the lab opened in front of her — just as dimly lit, save the blue sheen cast over the wall to her right by the UV-lamps that warmed the rows of various plants there, encased in glass. She still didn’t see anyone, so she continued past an open doorway into the next room, where she finally spotted the back of the woman she was looking for, silhouetted by the monitor at her desk.    “Moira. Why’s it so dark in here?”

     With a start, the brown-haired woman turned around, mouth open about to reply before she saw who had spoken and froze for a second, a blank look of surprise lingering on her face.      “Erica.” She stood up, rubbing her eye as she approached, lab coat swishing around her legs. Her glasses were perched on top of her head, half-tangled into the mess of greying curls she’d piled there and fastened with a tie; a strand clung to them when she tried to pluck them free, and she began impatiently trying to disentangle it, gaze focused on the hinge it’d gotten caught in. “The panels… getting fixed. Generator’s running the important stuff. Lionel said it probably wouldn’t be long, so–” she got her glasses free and hooked them into the pocket on her chest, “–I’m not wasting fuel on lights. What are you doing here?” A sigh heaved her shoulders. The woman’s hands were planted firmly on her hips.    “I need poison. As small a dose as possible, and as fatal as possible in as little time as possible.”      “Okay… I don’t really have that kinda stuff on hand. Method of administration?”    “Oral.” Erica made a face. “I assume.”      “I can make a tincture, but it’s gonna take a couple of days if you want it to be potent.”    “Days? You really don’t have anything else? Some drug that could be lethal in high doses?”      “No guarantee it’d result in death, no. It’s also not what you would define as quick.” Moira paced around, opening a small fridge filled with vials. “The only thing I have is a bit of snake venom, but that needs to be injected. We also need it to make antivenom.”    “Shit.” Erica, about to reach for her phone, remembered that it was packed away on her bike, switched off. No cell traffic in or near the base. No phones. Just radios. A few months in the city, and getting anything arranged without one was already a pain in the ass, where she’d never once minded it before. “Do both. What do you need?”      Moira shrugged. “Nothing I don’t already have. Hey— where are you going?”    “To replace your venom.” She was already through the first doorway.      “Rattlesnake!” Moira called out after her, the clinking of lab equipment sounding between her words, “The Mojave, not the diamondback!”

     In AG, her mother was walking between rows of cabbage with a spray bottle of organic pesticide, a wide-brimmed hat hiding her face from the sun.    “Mom,” she called out, pacing closer along the edge of the square plot, boots never touching the darker soil that had been placed there.      “Yes?” her mother didn’t stop her work; didn’t look up.    “Looks like I’ll be staying for a couple days. Have you seen Locke?”      “If you want to help, go to the panels, Erica.”    “I need to do something for Moira first. Have you seen him?”      “I haven’t — but you know where to look.”      She nodded, a single dip of her chin. “I’ll see you tonight, then.” Two days of living in the past, for a client she’d never worked with before. Money is no object, she thought stubbornly as she headed off in search of the only man she’d trust to wrangle a deadly snake, wondering idly if Josh and Sadie would be too in whatever huff she’d put them in to keep her company later, maybe share some moonshine. She’d need it — especially if she was staying the night with her mother.

[hiddenwashington]

the city is still and quiet. the only sounds coming from the wind blowing through the trees as the city sleeps; perfectly at peace. for months now, there has been nothing. no brutal murders, no magical poisons, life has been… almost dull. but as the magic in washington tends to work, the moment you get comfortable, disaster strikes.

as the sun begins to rise, the citizens of washington are awoken by a crash of lightning, a blinding light that quickly engulfs the city. as the light fades, people begin searching their homes, trying to find their roommates, spouses, and friends who have seemingly vanished into thin air. before worry can fully set in, the snarls and growls of something inhuman fill the air. those remaining in the city realize they have far bigger worries than missing loved ones.

as they look out their windows and run into the streets, they see beasts and monsters completely foreign to dc. if one looks closely, they may recognize some of the creatures from the world they were born in, creatures they thought they’d never see again. enchanted corpses crawl up from the river, hellish monsters tear through the streets, soldiers armored in white march across the white house lawn, and creatures cloaked in black float over the rooftops, spreading despair wherever they go. those remaining in dc will need to fight to survive if they wish to see their loved ones again at the end of this storm. it’s time to prepare to fight creatures that most had never experienced before, or ones they were trusting to be locked away in their home worlds. will you team up with fellow citizens to fight? hunker down and pray for it to end? or enter the streets to save those who have never seen these monsters before? whatever your choice is, just make sure you make it through the storm.

for those who vanished, they wake to find themselves on a deserted island. there’s no civilization in sight, no land in the distance, and no way off the island. those who attempt to escape the island by swimming or using their abilities are thrown back to shore by a forcefield manifesting as powerful wind. at first, it seems they’ll be fine, stranded and trapped but, they’ve dealt with worse. seemingly, all they need to do is wait until whatever magical surge the city has conjured up this time runs out. but then it begins to rain, clear droplets that, at first, are easily mistaken as water, but it burns as they touch your skin. as the trapped citizens take shelter from the growing storm, they wonder what exactly they’ve gotten themselves sucked into this time.

after some time, it stops, but the relief is once again short lived as a new disaster begins. every hour, the island is plagued by some new horror. as if on a timer, it cycles through storms, fires, and magical surges, keeping those trapped just as much on their toes as the ones fighting for their lives back home. can they beat the clock, surviving on the island with nothing but each other and the trees to protect them?

once again, the magic of dc has turned dark and frightening; surging at an uncontrollable speed. the more time passes, the longer the storm rages on, the clearer it becomes that the city is changing. allowing unknown entities, and perhaps even more to pass through to this world. the tides are changing, perhaps for the worse.

                                                           ~~~~~

-- the city of dc is once more plagued by a surge of magic, separating the residents from their loved ones all over again. half the city has been transported to a deserted island off the coast, trying to beat the clock as each hour on the hour a new plague hits them. it can be anything from acid rain to poison fog coming through the trees. they must survive long enough to make it off the island, unable to escape and swim to shore. while the other half is stuck in dc, trapped in the city with no word of their family being safe or not as creatures and beings both familiar and not begin to swarm the streets. they must make it through the storm as these creatures are set on making this city run red with blood. can they outlast the monsters from home and afar? can their loved ones return all in one piece? these questions remain unanswered as the magic surges on, the tides are forever changing. only time will tell what it will look like as the storm finally calms.

OOC INFORMATION

hello, hi, welcome friends!! welcome to hidden’s 12th !! event !! we are beyond excited to be able to bring you yet another labor of love, and chaos from us!! it has been such a blessing to come up with twelve amazing events for all of you and we cannot wait to see how you guys take this one and run! we absolutely love the energy behind it and we hope you guys will as well!! there’s going to be so much to do on both ends of this, and it’s going to be hard hitting from beginning to end!! please read on for all of the rules and information surrounding the event and please as always have fun friends!! we hope you enjoy this as much as we did putting it together!! ♥

DATES :

july 10th - july 20th july 24th

this event will last for one week in character, ten days for us !!

CHARACTER GROUPING :

your characters have been split up randomly between both dc and the island

you can find where you will be on the list here 

if you find that too many of your characters are in one group, please let us know and we will break you up !!

LOCATION INFORMATION :

washington dc --

all the information you’re going to need to know while trapped in the city of washington dc

here your characters will face monsters both familiar and not. there is a long list of them that we have taken from a multitude of different fandoms to give a mix of difficulty but also variety. 

you can find the full list of creatures here 

your characters will have full run of the city as always, they are free to make safe houses, try and save people, run head first into a horde of zombies for the thrill of it. anything you can really think of. 

these monsters will not rest, making the streets everyone has learned to call home unsafe and filled with chaos. try to outlast, to out run, and survive long enough to find your loved ones in the fray.

these monsters will not just attack people from the fandoms they are from, they are free game to attack and be attacked by any and all citizens whether you have seen them or not. so be prepared to fight things you’ve never heard of!

the island --

all the information you’re going to need to know while trapped on the island in the sea

your characters have all woken up on a deserted beach, no sign of the city in sight, the only think they hear is the crashing waves against the ocean. it seems safe enough, except for the barrier keeping them all here, trapped with no way off. 

through out their time here, the island is a ticking clock, slowly getting ready for it’s next surge, it’s next wave of disasters to strike. 

each hour a new trial will happen, you can find the full list of them here

we admins will not be making a post for each time the disasters shift, so, please make use of the random number generator found on the doc. use this to decide which disaster will be taking place during each of your threads. you are free to decide any which one just so long as you use a variety throughout your time on the island.

if we see you only writing with one disaster we will come message you to ask you to shift gears to a different option. we want everyone to enjoy but also get the full experience!!

your characters are going to have to outlast these disasters and survive as they attempt to cause harm to you and those around. stay safe, protect your fellow citizens and best of luck!!

CHARACTER DEATHS / INJURIES :

this island and these creatures are not here for a fun vacation or to be friends. this surge is dangerous and we want to make sure you all are prepared for such. of course, it is always completely optional for your characters to get hurt or die, but we want to give the information in case your characters get into a bind either from the ticking clock of the island or from some monster taking a swipe at them!

as far as injuries go, you are more than welcome to have any of your characters become injured. if it is something minor like a sprained ankle or some cuts, you do not have to message us admins about it. but if it’s more major, like broken bones or major cuts, please make sure you message us admins so we can keep track of it! 

now, for anyone looking for death plots, we are going to be limiting the number of character deaths per mun, that way we can keep track of the updates on the main and make sure that people are branching out with different plots beyond death!

the limit will be if you have 5 and under characters, you are limited to 2 characters. if you have 5 or over, you are able to kill 3-4 characters!

if you do plan to kill anyone, please remember to message the main, that way we are able to update the memories statuses of your characters post event!

QUICK HOUSEKEEPING :

one stop shop for all your plotting, posting and tagging questions !!

feel free to begin plotting now! you can post plotting calls, starter calls or anything of the like !! just remember to keep any in character posts saved for the 10th!

please hold any and all non event threads until the event has concluded on the 20th! you are free to pick them up again after, or start fresh with your characters adjusting to yet another magical surge.

you are welcome to have your characters text each other if they are in different groups, but remember the connection is spotty and unreliable. we also want to make sure everyone is focusing mainly on their groups so please, do not over do it. if we see too many text threads, we will have to remove this feature.

please tag all posts (in character , out of character , para , etc ) with hwevent12 

please make sure you tag all interactions with which group your character is in : examples like ‘ event : the island ‘ , ‘ the city group ‘ , even just ‘ the island ‘. this way people know which group you are in when interacting!

keep your eyes on the main for any information pertaining to the event as the days trek on!!

as always, this event is mandatory for all members !!

please remember that not everyone has to have their memories altered, and you are free to keep your character either aware/unaware !! but be sure to remember that if they do have their memories altered, this will affect them in the long run after the event as well !!

and as always, have fun, get creative, think outside the box and enjoy the chaos of our twelfth event!!! we cannot wait to see what you all do with this during the event and beyond !! please don’t hesitate to ask any questions, we know this is a lot of information to take in, so let us know if you need any help! and again, as always, please like this when you have read it all! ♥

[miguelmarias]

TOP 2020

25/12/2020

 A)    Great movies made since 2015 seen for the first time in 2020: 

Buoyancy(Freedom;Rodd Rathjen, 2019)

Les choses qu’on dit, les choses qu’on fait(Emmanuel Mouret, 2020)

L’Île au trésor(Guillaume Brac, 2018)

Le Sel des larmes(Philippe Garrel, 2019/20)

Ghawre Bairey Aaj(Home and the World;Aparna Sen, 2019)

Undine(Christian Petzold, 2020)

Happī awā(Happy Hour;Hamaguchi Ryūsuke, 2015)

Netemo Sametemo(Asako I & II;Hamaguchi Ryūsuke, 2018)

Adolescentes(Sébastien Lifshitz, 2013-9/20)

Family Romance, LLC.(Werner Herzog, 2019)

Demain et tous les autres jours(Noémie Lvovsky, 2017)

Gamak Ghar(Achal Mishra, 2019)

Lunana:A Yak in the Classroom(Pawo Choyning Dorji, 2019)

Semina il vento(Sow the Wind;Danilo Caputo, 2020)

Objector(Molly Stuart, 2019)

La France contre les robots(Jean-Marie Straub, 2020)

Paris Calligrammes(Ulrike Ottinger, 2019/20)

Un film dramatique(Éric Baudelaire, 2019)

 B)    Great movies made before 2015 seen for the first time in 2020: 

Là-Haut, un Roi au-dessus des nuages(Pierre Schoendoerffer, 2003)

Pangarap ng Puso(Demons/Whispers of the Demon/Hope of the Heart;Mario O’Hara, 2000)

Les Films rêvés(Eric Pauwels, 2009)

La vida en rojo(Andrés Linares, 2007/8)

Come Next Spring(R.G. Springsteen, 1955/6)

Song of Surrender(Mitchell Leisen, 1948/9)

Adventure in Manhattan(Edward Ludwig, 1936)

Strannaia zhenshchina(A Strange Woman;Iuli Raízman, 1978)

Chastnaia zhízn(Private Life;Iuli Raízman, 1982)

Málva(Vladimir Braun, 1956/7)

Zhila-byla devochka(Once There Was a Girl;Viktor Eisimont, 1944)

The Unknown Man(Richard Thorpe, 1951)

Aisai Monogatari(Story of a Beloved Wife;Shindō Kaneto, 1951)

Practically Yours(Mitchell Leisen, 1944)

A Summer Storm(Robert Wise, 1999/2000)

Lettre d’un cinéaste à sa fille(Eric Pauwels, 2000)

Sombra verde(Untouched;Roberto Gavaldón, 1954)

Fantasma d’amore(Dino Risi, 1981)

Adieu, Mascotte(Das Modell vom Montparnasse;Wilhelm Thiele, 1929)

Mori no kajiya(The Blacksmith of the Forest;Shimizu Hiroshi, 1928/9;fragment)

Zwischen Gestern und Morgen(Between Yesterday and Tomorrow;Harald Braun, 1947)

Last Holiday(Henry Cass, 1950)

Dialogue d’ombres(Danièle Huillet & Jean-Marie Straub, 1954-2013)

Out-Takes from the Life of a Happy Man(Jonas Mekas, 2012)

Nice Time(Claude Goretta & Alain Tanner, 1957)

Aloma of the South Seas(Alfred Santell, 1941)

A Feather in Her Hat(Alfred Santell, 1935)

La Danseuse Orchidée(Léonce Perret, 1928)

Underground(Vincent Sherman, 1941)

Time Out(in Twilight Zone-The Movie)(John Landis, 1983)

Lackawanna Blues(George C. Wolfe, 2005)

Janie(Michael Curtiz, 1944)

Dernier Amour(Léonce Perret, 2016)

Jeunes Filles en détresse(Georg Wilhelm Pabst, 1939)

Kisapmata(Blink of an Eye;Mike De Leon, 1981)

La Dernière Lettre(Frederick Wiseman, 2002)

The Lady of the Dig-Out(W.S. Van Dyke II, 1918)

Their Own Desire(E.Mason Hopper, 1929)

 C)    Very good movies made since 2015 seen for the first time in 2020: 

Zumiriki(Oskar Alegria, 2019)

Atlantique(Mati Diop, 2019)

J’accuse(An Officier and A Spy;Roman Polanski, 2019)

Richard Jewell(Clint Eastwood, 2019)

Alice et le Maire(Nicolas Pariser, 2019)

Contes de Juillet(July Tales;Guillaume Brac, 2017)

Dark Waters(Todd Haynes, 2019)

Ofrenda a la tormenta(Fernando González Molina, 2020)

Nomad:In the Footsteps of Bruce Chatwin(Werner Herzog, 2019)

Into the Inferno(Werner Herzog, 2016)

The Zookeeper’s Wife(Niki Caro, 2017)

Journal de septembre(Eric Pauwels, 2019)

La Deuxième Nuit(Eric Pauwels, 2016)

Kaze no denwa(Voices in the Wind;Suwa Nobuhiro, 2019/20)

Da 5 Bloods(Spike Lee, 2020)

Izaokas(Isaac;Jurgis Matulevičius, 2019)

A Metamorfose dos Pássaros(Catarina Vasconcelos, 2020)

Tabi no Owari Sekai no Hajimari(To the Ends of the Earth;Kurosawa Kiyoshi, 2019)

La Nuit d’avant(Pablo García Canga, 2019)

My Mexican Bretzel(Nuria Giménez, 2018-9)

Domangchin yeoja(The Woman Who Ran;Hong Sang-soo, 2019/20)

Öndög(Wang Quanan, 2019)

Hatsukoi(First Love;Miike Takashi, 1959)

Million raz pogivaet odin Cheloviek(One man dies a million times;Jessica Oreck, 2018/9)

The Two Popes(Fernando Meirelles, 2019)

Félicité(Alain Gomis, 2016/7)

Salt and Fire(Werner Herzog, 2016)

Ni de lian(Your Face;Tsai Ming-liang, 2018)

Qi qiu(Balloon;Pema Tseden, 2019)

River Silence(Rogério Soares, 2019)

Charlie’s Angels(Elizabeth Banks, 2019)

La boda de Rosa(Iciar Bollain, 2020)

Guerra(War;José Oliveira & Marta Ramos, 2020)

My Thoughts Are Silent/Moyi dumky tykhi(Antonio Lukich, 2019)

Namo(The Alien;Nader Saeivar;co-script-Jafar Panahi, 2020)

Los silencios(The Silences;Beatriz Seigner, 2018)

Terminal Sud(Rabah Ameur-Zaïmeche, 2019)

Tu mérites un amour(You Deserve a Lover;Hafsia Herzi, 2019)

Les Misérables(Ladj Ly, 2019)

Padre no hay más que uno(Santiago Segura, 2019)

Honeyland(Tamara Kotovska & Ljubomir Stefanov, 2019)

Izbrisana(Erased;Miha Mazzini & Dusan Joksimovic, 2018)

This Is Not A Burial, It’s A Resurrection(Lemohang Jeremiah Mosese, 2019)

Primero Enero(Darío Mascambroni, 2016)

Lahi, Hayop(Pan, Genus/Genus Pan;Lav Diaz, 2020)

 D)    Very good movies made before 2015 seen for the first time in 2020: 

Topaze(Marcel Pagnol, 1936)

The SIGN OF THE RAM(John Sturges, 1947/8)

Abandoned(Joseph M. Newman, 1949)

Bewitched(Arch Oboler, 1944/5)

La Femme du Bout du Monde((Jean Epstein, 1937)

The Outcast(William Witney, 1954)

Saadia(Albert Lewin, 1953)

Un monde sans femmes(Guillaume Brac, 2011)

Dishonored Lady(Robert Stevenson, 1947)

Always Goodbye(Signey Lanfield, 1938)

A Blueprint for Murder(Andrew L. Stone, 1953)

Bedevilled(Mitchell Leisen, 1955)

That Forsyte Woman(Compton Bennett, 1949)

The Miracle(Irving Rapper, 1959)

The Madonna’s Secret(Wilhelm Thiele, 1946)

The Town That Dreaded Sundown(Charles B. Pierce, 1976)

Grayeagle(Charles B. Pierce, 1977)

Barricade(Peter Godfrey, 1949/50)

Tomorrow is Forever(Irving Pichel, 1945/6)

David Harum(James Cruze, 1934)

The Vanquished(Edward Ludwig, 1953)

Keisatsukan(Uchida Tomu, 1933)

...Enfants des courants d’air(Édouard Luntz, 1959, short)

The Winds of Autumn(Charles B. Pierce, 1976)

Suddenly It’s Spring(Mitchell Leisen, 1946)

Uchūjin Tōkyō ni arawaru(Warning from Space;Shima Kōji, 1956)

Swiss Family Robinson(Edward Ludwig, 1940)

Ludwig der Zweite, König von Bayern(Wilhelm Dieterle, 1930)

Faithless(Harry Beaumont, 1932)

Botan-dorō(Peony Lanterns;Yamamoto Satsuo, 1968)

Ginza 24 chou(Tales of Ginza;Kawashima Yūzō, 1955)

Goodbye Again(Michael Curtiz, 1933)

Lines of White on a Sullen Sea(D.W. Griffith, 1909)

You Gotta Stay Happy(H.C. Potter, 1948)

Cave of Forgotten Dreams(Werner Herzog, 2010)

Riff-Raff(Ted Tetzlaff, 1947)

The Moon is Down(Irving Pichel, 1943)

The Bride Wore Boots(Irving Pichel, 1946)

Adventures in Silverado(Phil Karlson, 1948)

The Stolen Ranch(William Wyler, 1926)

Congo Maisie(H.C. Potter, 1940)

Marcides(Mercedes;Yousry Nasrallah, 1993)

Hell’s Five Hours(Jack L. Copeland, 1958)

Daniel(in Stimulantia;Ingmar Bergman, 1967)

Diên Biên Phú(Pierre Schoendoerffer, 1992)

Canyon River(Cattle King;Harmon Jones, 1956)

Dos Basuras(Kurt Land, 1958)

Smart Girls Don’t Talk(Richard L. Bare, 1948)

The Big Shakedown(John Francis Dillon, 1933/4)

Corvette K-225(Richard Rosson;p.,collab.Howard Hawks, 1943)

The Gay Deception(William Wyler, 1935)

The Invisible Woman(A.Edward Sutherland, 1940)

Rage in Heaven(W.S. Van Dyke II;collab.Robert B. Sinclair,Richard Thorpe, 1941)

Wild Side(Sébastien Lifshitz, 2004)

I bambini e noi(Luigi Comencini, 1970//7)

The House Across The Street(Richard L. Bare, 1948/9)

The Doughgirls(James V. Kern, 1944)

The Love Trap(William Wyler, 1929)

Torch Song(Charles Walters, 1953)

The Meanest Man in the World(Sidney Lanfield, 1942/3)

Cole Younger, Gunfighter(R.G. Springsteen, 1958)

Ballerine(Gustav Machatý, 1936)

Via Mala(Josef von Báky, 1945//8)

Sky Giant(Lew Landers, 1938)

Les Invisibles(Sébastien Lifshitz, 2012)

Promène toi donc tout nu(Emmanuel Mouret, 1998)

A Story for the Modlins(Una historia para los Modlin;Sergio Oksman, 2012)

Something in the Wind(Irving Pichel, 1947)

Spoveď(Confession;Pavol Skýkova, 1968)

Guilty Hands(W.S. Van Dyke II;collab.Lionel Barrymore, 1931)

Atto di accusa(Giacomo Gentilomo, 1950)

Suspense(Frank Tuttle, 1956)

This Is The Night(Frank Tuttle, 1932)

Escape in the Fog(Oscar ‘Budd’ Boetticher,Jr., 1945)

The Price of Fear(Abner Biberman, 1956)

Happy People:A Year in the Taiga(Werner Herzog, 2010)

Urok(The Lesson;Kristina Grozeva & Petar Valchanov, 2014)

Le Naufragé(Guillaume Brac, 2009)

Lili Marlen(Peter Mihálik;script.Dušan Hanák, 1970;short)

Deseo(Antonio Zavala Kugler, 2013)

  E)     Great movies that improved by new watchings: 

Shanghai Express(Josef von Sternberg, 1932)

The Best Years of Our Lives(William Wyler, 1946)

Till We Meet Again(Frank Borzage, 1944)

Man’s Favorite Sport?(Howard Hawks, 1963/4)

Along The Great Divide(Raoul Walsh, 1951)

Hondo(John V. Farrow, 1953)

Where The Sidewalk Ends(Otto Preminger, 1950)

Mrs. Miniver(William Wyler, 1942)

Driftwood(Allan Dwan, 1947)

‘Good-bye, My Lady’(William A. Wellman, 1956)

Touch of Evil(Preview version, 1975;not later ‘improvements’)(Orson Welles, 1958)

Le Crabe-Tambour(Pierre Schoendoerffer, 1977)

Unfinished Business(Gregory LaCava, 1941)

Madigan(Don Siegel, 1968)

Big Business(James Wesley Horne;s.Leo McCarey, 1929)

Putting Pants on Philip(Clyde A. Bruckman;s.Leo McCarey, 1927)

The Runner Stumbles(Stanley Kramer, 1979)

Yushima no Shiraume(Romance at Yushima;Kinugasa Teinosukē, 1955)

David Harum(Allan Dwan, 1915)

The Virginian(Cecil B. DeMille, 1914)

Island in the Sky(William A. Wellman, 1953)

All About Eve(Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1950)

L’Eclisse(Michelangelo Antonioni, 1962)

The Roaring Twenties(Raoul Walsh, 1939)

The Plainsman(Cecil B. DeMille, 1936)

JLG/JLG-Autoportrait de décembre(Jean-Luc Godard, 1994)

‘Je vous salue, Marie’(Hail Mary;Jean-Luc Godard, 1984)

La Roue(Abel Gance, 1923)

They All Laughed(Peter Bogdanovich, 1981)

Innocent Blood(John Landis, 1992)

An American Werewolf in London(John Landis, 1981)

The Thing Called Love(Peter Bogdanovich, 1993)

Into the Night(John Landis, 1985)

The File On Thelma Jordon(Thelma Jordon;Robert Siodmak, 1949)

The Little American(Cecil B. DeMille, 1917)

In Our Time(Vincent Sherman, 1944)

The Hunters(Dick Powell, 1958)

Phase IV(Saul Bass, 1974)

L’Honneur d’un Capitaine(Pierre Schoendoerffer, 1982)

Backfire(Vincent Sherman, 1948//50)

Five(Arch Oboler, 1951)

Somewhere in the Night(Joseph L. Mankiewiz, 1946)

A Man Alone(Ray Milland, 1955)

Die Geiger von Florez(Paul Czinner, 1926)

Living on Velvet(Frank Borzage, 1934/5)

La Recta provincia(Raúl Ruiz, 2007//15)

La Noche de enfrente(Raúl Ruiz, 2012)

Carrie(Sister Carrie;William Wyler, 1951/2)

The Spiral Staircase(Robert Siodmak, 1945/6)

The Paradine Case(Alfred Hitchcock, 1947)

L’Amore(Una voce umana+Il Miracolo)(Roberto Rossellini, 1947/8)

The Heiress(William Wyler, 1949)

 F)     Very good movies watched again 

Bluebeard’s 10 Honeymoons(W.Lee Wilder, 1960)

The Five Pennies(Melville Shavelson, 1958)

Take a Letter, Darling(Mitchell Leisen, 1942)

Escape(Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1948)

Appassionatamente(Giacomo Gentilomo, 1954)

Así como habían sido(Trío)(Andrés Linares, 1986/7)

San Antone(Joseph Kane, 1953)

The High and the Mighty(William A. Wellman, 1954)

Taki no Shiraito(The Water Magician;Mizoguchi Kenji, 1933)

The Web(Michael Gordon, 1947)

The Buccaneer(Anthony Quinn;s.Cecil B. DeMille, 1958)

The Buccaneer(Cecil B. DeMille, 1938)

Desire Me(uncredited:George Cukor/Jack Conway/Mervyn LeRoy/Victor Saville, 1946)

Flaxy Martin(Richard L. Bare, 1948/9)

Swing High, Swing Low(Mitchell Leien, 1937)

Death Takes A Holiday(Mitchell Leisen, 1934)

Irene(Herbert Wilcox, 1940)

Beloved Enemy(H.C. Potter, 1936)

The Cowboy and the Lady(H.C. Potter, 1938)

Der Golem, wie er in die Welt kam(Paul Wegener, 1920)

Mia madre(Nanni Moretti, 2015)

Hell On Frisco Bay(Frank Tuttle, 1955)

Stormy Weather(Andrew L. Stone, 1943)

The Milky Way(Leo McCarey;w.Harold Lloyd, 1936)

Pietà per chi cade(Mario Costa, 1954)

Repeat Performance(Alfred L. Werker, 1947)

Das indische Grabmal:1.Die Sendung des Yoghi,2.Der Tiger von Eschnapur(Joe May, 1921)

Julie(Andrew L. Stone, 1956)

The Member of the Wedding(Fred Zinnemann, 1953)

Winterset(Alfred Santell, 1936)

The Right to Romance(Alfred Santell, 1933)

As Young as You Feel(Harmon Jones, 1951)

You’ll Never Get Rich(Sidney Lanfield, 1941)

The Woman Accused(Paul Sloane, 1933)

Foma Gordeiev(Mark Donskoí, 1959)

The Parent Trap(David Swift, 1961)

High Wall(Curtis Bernhardt, 1947)

Mr. Lucky(H.C. Potter, 1943)

Un Marido de Ida y Vuelta(Luis Lucia, 1957)

The Safecracker(Ray Milland, 1957/8)

She’s Funny That Way(Peter Bogdanovich, 2014)

Oh...Rosalinda!!(Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger, 1955)

Caribbean(Edward Ludwig, 1952)

Harper(The Moving Target;Jack Smight, 1966)

For You I Die(John Reinhardt, 1947)

Crashing Hollywood(Lew Landers, 1937/8)

Le Souvenir d’un avenir(Chris. Marker & Yannick Bellon, 2001)

Susan Slept Here(Frank Tashlin, 1954)

Bishkanyar Deshot(In the Land of Poison Women;Manju Borah, 2019)

Pollyanna(David Swift, 1960)

A Tale of Two Cities(Jack Conway;collab.Val Lewton & Jacques Tourneur, 1935)

Café Society(Woody Allen, 2016)

Shadow on the Wall(Patrick Jackson, 1949/50)

Tonnerre(Guillaume Brac, 2013)

Le Jouet criminel(Adolfo G. Arrieta, 1969)

‘Once more, with feeling!’(Stanley Donen, 1959)

The Shopworn Angel(H.C. Potter, 1938)

The Absent Minded Professor(Robert Stevenson, 1961)

Gavaznha(The Deer;Masud Kimiai, 1974)

[marcopolorules]

Partículas de ti fueron llegando;⠀ mi mar inquieto se convierte en río;⠀ hay trinos en el aire, canta el viento.⠀ ⠀ Canta la vida toda. Por fin siento⠀ que estés, pero, dime, dime: ¿cuándo⠀ puedo saberte para siempre mío?⠀ _____________________________⠀ Particles of you were arriving;⠀ my restless sea becomes a river;⠀ There are trills in the air, the wind sings.⠀ ⠀ Sing the whole life. I finally feel⠀ that you are, but, tell me, tell me: when⠀ can i know you forever mine?⠀ ⠀ Ana Inés Bonnin⠀ & Robin F. Williams @robinfrancescawilliams (artist)⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ #portraitart #portraitpainting #acrylicpaint #acrylicpainting #acrylicpaints #acrylicpaintings #airbrush #airbrushing #oilpaint #oilpainting #oilpaintings #oilpaints #oilportrait #oiloncanvas #contemporaryart #contemporaryartist #contemporarypainting #contemporarypainter #modernart #modernpainting #artgallery #contemporaryartgallery #figurative #figurativeart #figurativepainting #figurativeportrait #beautifulbizarre #vagabondwho #marcopolorules #robinfwilliams https://www.instagram.com/p/B88anIDI5xI/?igshid=qte69an3xda0

[steeling--history]

ooc info

name/alias: Jess

age, pronouns, & timezone: Older than dirt, her/she/duck, GMT+10

activity: I don't have a life so forever around unless sleeping or working.

rp experience: None... as Nate. Although have a lovely bunch of coconuts that I have been playing.

best form of contact: DMs on discord (diputstonmi#4187) or tumblr (petty--dabbler is usually always logged in)... email is good too (pettydabbler0@gmail.com)

ic info:

character name: Dr Nathaniel ‘Nate' Heywood

codename: Steel

character age: 38 (March 3, 1981)

faceclaim: Nick Zano

species: Metahuman

status: Hero

occupation: Legend/Historian... but mostly Legend

home earth: Earth-1

biography

past:

Nate was born with hemophilia and therefore had kind of a bubble wrapped childhood where his parents wouldn't let him go outside much or play sports. Instead, Nate became a fan of books and movies - in particular, the Indiana Jones series (except the new one, we don't speak of the new one). Inspired by Indiana's adventures, Nate became a historian.

He led a pretty average life until he stumbled upon several anachronisms in history before they cemented - including that WWII had gone on for longer than it should and that the Waverider crashed back in a river in 2016. Taking the evidence to Oliver Queen, Nate and Oliver found the submerged Waverider and Mick Rory, who had been put in stasis. Eventually, through Nate’s historical research and knowledge, the rest of the Waverider crew were found and the timeline was restored. Afterwards, Nate joined the Legends, seeing it as his own real life Indiana Jones adventure.

Except it was SO MUCH COOLER than in the movies.

With the Legends, Nate traveled back in time and met his Grandfather, Commander Steel - a member of the JSA (Justice Society of America). And there was a bunch of other cool stuff but that was the major highlight. Unfortunately, there were also some down moments. Nate was injured and due to his hemophilia, it was very possible he could die. Thankfully, Ray Palmer modified a cure using a biomolecular enhancer created by Eobard Thawne, which had a rather odd side affect. Nate could now turn his whole body to steel at will. Neat.

The Legends then faced off against the Legion of Doom (a name Nate coined, thank you very much) and fought to get control over the Spear of Destiny (no, we’re not calling it Holy Lance, Sara). After some Doomworld happenings, the Legends won and restored the timeline again. Starting to see a pattern yet? Good. Cause there is a lot of timeline restoring.

Nate and the other Legends were kind of forced into retirement by Rip Hunter creating the Time Bureau. That lasted all of about ten minutes before the Legends banded back together and stole back the Waverider and kicked Ceaser’s ass. And then went on to save the world from future disaster by stopping anacronisms that would break the timeline and release the time demon Mallus. Kind of. They did release the demon briefly but the Legends have fixed that and... you guessed it, restored the timeline.

present:

Nate is still working with the Legends to this day. He took a brief sabbatical from the team when the Legends made their trips to 2040, opting to stay at the Bureau and keep Ava and crew off their tail.

While working at the Bureau, Nate made the discovery that his father, Hank Heywood was now the Government’s liaison for the Time Bureau and believes it could spell disaster for the Legends. He plans to tell the Legends the news when they get back... well, eventually, let them recover first.

positive traits: easily excitable history nerd puppy with extensive knowledge of the past; courageous and willing to try new things for a good cause; friendly, easy to get along with, and not afraid to make emotional bonds with his peers.

negative traits: willingness to throw himself in the line of danger to save a friend (not necessarily negative - just detrimental to his own health); his powers are reliant on his emotional state so if Nate isn’t in a good headspace it’s possible he becomes more of a liability to the team in battle; traveling to the future makes him uncomfortable as it's too uncertain and his historical knowledge is of little use - which is probably another reason why he elected to stay behind when the team ventured to 2040.

para sample:

The Legends had been back a few weeks from their trip to 2040 and while Nate had a briefing with the team when they first returned, he knew he couldn’t bring himself to tell them that they possibly had more trouble on the horizon. Not when the losses and heartache of the future events were so raw. Nate, himself, was even feeling the guilt - wondering if he had made a mistake by not going with them.

But Nate couldn’t hold back his knowledge any longer and needed to tell the team - or at least Sara - what was going on at the Bureau before they found out through other means. Knocking on the Captain’s door, Nate called out to her. “Hey Sara, you got a minute? It’s about the Bureau.” The door slid open and Nate gave a brief apologetic smile before he sobered to deliver more bad news. “They have a new boss now Rip’s vanished on the wind and it’s not Ava. It’s my dad.”

[yabisagashouse]

the isle with no sound

Once upon a time There was an isle with no sound Only the hum of rivers The pine-trees’ breeze And the winds the seas threw around.

Its inhabitants banned all instruments that wouldn’t float A piano was forevermore forbidden Arguing it would become an aquatic piano, Its tickling sounds drowned in water.

Only instruments whose notes would Float and vanish were allowed A vibrating guitar, its chords trembling in the breeze A clarinet or a flute, its flying music Lost in the air.

Once upon a time There was a cove and a stream Only the fisherman would dwell on its shore While foreigners and islanders prayed in its caves.

But now from large cities and valleys away Where silence floods and reigns A promise is broken and calmness does fade.

The redemption of a piano tune That gave coherence to them Has silently been broken And given to cease.

So they come from the ‘desert’   Like masses of dust With insisting drums That declare the war to silence.

Then some nostalgics might sing By La Cala Mastella Where the hand of innocence is imprinted forever:

In winter we shall light a cleaning fire Sheets of paper hang on trees like flags of shame On the poor landscape. I sing to you Little jewel lost in the Mediterranean Like a mother’s love to a child, Tender even in the darkest night.

And I think: ‘I am fond of bushes Like infants Ever pure, even when they cry.’

I’ve seen a stone breath gently into water And an orange tree Grow from an ancient seed.

What else have I got to see? To believe in the isle with no sound.

Copyright (c) Francesc Juamà Maragall 2013.

SPANISH VERSION

La Isla Sin Rumores

Había una vez una isla sin rumores solo con el silencioso descenso de los ríos la brisa del mar y los pinos... Sus habitantes no conocían instrumentos que pesaran mas que el agua un piano, por ejemplo, con su peso de elefante se habría hundido en el mar sus tristes notas ahogadas... Solo se podía escuchar la música que se pudiera enredar en la brisa una ligera y vibrante guitarra de madera el sonido de sus cuerdas temblando en el aire, una flauta que supiera volar con su melodía como una gaviota presumida. Había una vez, un río y una cala, donde solo los pescadores llegaban con sus olas mientras en la fuente de la montaña campesinos rezaban a la diosa Tanit. Pero pronto vinieron de ciudades lejanas donde el silencio inunda los rincones como la oscuridad de la noche inunda la luz del día. La redención de una melodía de piano con notas duras como la piedra que otorgaba una antigua belleza al lugar ha sido olvidada y ha dejado de sonar... Así llegaron de los desiertos como nubes de arena tocando tambores incesantes declarando la guerra al silencio... Todavía cantaran, algunos nostálgicos refugiados en la Cala Mestella, donde la mano de la inocencia esta gravada en la piedra... En invierno encenderemos un fuego purificador retales de papel cuelgan de los árboles como banderas de la vergüenza en el indefenso paisaje. Yo te canto a ti, pequeña perla perdida en el mediterráneo como una madre canta a su hijo, tiernamente, incluso en la noche más oscura y pienso: “Siento debilidad por los arbustos como niños, siempre puros hasta que su corazón se seca....

He visto una piedra respirar dentro del agua i un naranjo crecer de una antigua semilla

¿Que mas tendría que ver ? Para creer en la isla sin rumores....

Copyright (c) Francesc Juamà Maragall 2013.

[lelitblog]

VILLA DIODATI: Poemas – Byron y Shelley

La poesía es una bella arma, una cuchilla que necesita ser entendida pero de igual manera necesita sentirse; la única manera de leer poesía es arriesgándose a terminar heridos con el filo de los versos. Byron y Percy sabían bien lo anterior, y no se quedaron únicamente allí, pues si algo puede compararse y superar al acto de leer poesía, es escribirla; ambos se aventuraron a ello, por fortuna o desgracia, su época –siglo XIX– y su hogar –Inglaterra– los terminaron llevando por el estilo de la poesía romántica. Si escribir poesía no era acto suficientemente íntimo y desgarrador, el carácter romántico que dominó la de ambos poetas los hizo perderse y encontrarse en las letras, en los sentimientos que las iban hilando.

Para leer los siguientes poemas se necesita un buen lugar, uno tranquilo, preferentemente las ruinas de un castillo abandonado en la soledad, pero si no es posible basta simplemente con un cuarto dominado por el silencio. Los poemas, en su lengua original, deberían leerse en voz alta, alta de verdad para que se extiendan todo lo posible y la magnitud de sus palabras vuelvan a la vida como se merecen; aunque también podría ser en voz muy baja, baja hasta la profundidad de la garganta y el efecto será el mismo, pero interno. Eso con el fin de sentirla, de encontrarse un poco más cerca a la labor de los poetas, sin embargo, como quizá sea necesario, la traducción vendrá enseguida, por si el entendimiento ha quedado corto.

DARKNESS – Lord Bryron, 1816

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moon­less air;

Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,

And men forgot their passions in the dread

Of this their desolation; and all hearts

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:

And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,

The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,

The habitations of all things which dwell,

Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,

And men were gather'd round their blazing homes

To look once more into each other's face.

 OSCURIDAD

Tuve un sueño que no era del todo un sueño.

El brillante sol se apagaba, y los astros

vagaban apagándose por el espacio eterno,

sin rayos, sin rutas, y la helada tierra

oscilaba ciega y oscureciéndose en un cielo sin luna.

La mañana llegó, y se fue, y llegó, y no trajo consigo el día,

y los hombres olvidaron sus pasiones ante el terror

de esta desolación, y todos los corazones

se congelaron en una plegaria egoísta por luz,

y vivieron junto a hogueras, y los tronos,

los palacios de los reyes coronados, las chozas,

las viviendas de todas las cosas que habitaban,

fueron quemadas en los fogones, las ciudades se consumieron,

y los hombres se reunieron en torno a sus ardientes casas

para verse de nuevo las caras unos a otros.

Darkness fue escrito durante el año sin verano, narra lo que Byron contemplaba, lo que incluso él llevó a cabo en la mansión de Villa Diodati junto al grupo que ha sido mencionado incontable veces. Habla sobre la pérdida, pero también sobre la ganancia: la oscuridad que por su mera existencia genera luz; el miedo que el hombre siente a la ceguera y al desconocimiento, y su capacidad de sacrificio con tal de terminar con ello.

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY – Percy Shelley, 1819

The fountains mingle with the river,

And the rivers with the ocean;

The winds of heaven mix forever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;

All things by a law divine

In another's being mingle--

Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister flower could be forgiven

If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--

What are all these kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?

 FILOSOFIA DEL AMOR

La fuente se une al arroyo,

el arroyo se une al mar

y las brisas y las auras

unidas vienen y van.

Si por ley del Universo

no hay un ser en soledad;

si todo se une con algo

¿por qué unida a mí, no estás?

Los montes besan al cielo,

besos las olas se dan,

la flor desdeña las flores,

que no besan a su igual;

rayos de sol y de luna

besan la tierra y el mar:

y ¿qué vale tanto beso

si no me besas jamás?

Shelley, nunca alejado de los paisajes que tanto amaba, de la naturaleza y el placer del amor que lo hacían continuar con su vida, refleja constantemente en su poesía lo que le atormenta y mueve de todo aquello. Para él, haciendo honor a su título de romántico, el universo es un todo mismo, un ser entero que, sin embargo, está compuesto por parejas que se aman, es el amor el motor del mundo, de manera que el pasado poema es como un dulce y silencioso grito del sin sentido de la vida carente de dicho sentimiento.

Regidos por el momento, Byron y Shelley, no podrían jamás haberse separado de su poesía, de sus letras, pues eran ellas las que los incitaban, los empujaban a llenarse de vida para exteriorizarla nuevamente con forma distinta. Ambos poetas, más que poetas, fueron traductores de una visión personal y al mismo tiempo colectiva de la existencia.

-Diamanda Mendoza

[vbortolettoart-blog]

(english below)

Mbae’tatá, a monstruosidade rastejante.

Era noite, calma e tranquila quando, subitamente, as luzes foram roubadas das estrelas, ocultadas por densas e pesadas nuvens. Ventos soprados por entidades há muito tempo esquecidas vinham do sul, arrancando raízes do solo, limpando as folhas de seus galhos, espantando animais habitantes daquela mata.

As negras nuvens despejaram suas torrentes sobre a terra, jorrando mares de chuva, lavando com violência tudo que tocava. Trovões bramiam como gritos coléricos, relâmpagos rasgavam os céus, tornando a escuridão  branca por breve instantes. A fúria de toda a natureza parecia cair sobre aquele lugar.

A água da chuva pareciam ser impuras. O solo a rejeitava, expurgando-a para cima. Lagoas tornaram-se rios, e esses rios cresceram e cresceram, engolindo aqueles incapazes de fugir. Os que conseguiam, corriam para montes, altas protuberâncias na terra, ficando ilhados, aprisionados pela lodosa água e bombardeados por rugidos e faíscas dos deuses à sua volta, enquanto a tempestade continuava a cair.

Despertada pelos barulhos, uma criatura que adormecia há eras deslizava para fora de seu templo, escondida sob a mais profunda profundeza, nadando por entre os oceanos que se formavam sobre a superfície. Silenciosa como uma sombra. Abrindo sua imensa boca, sugava animais vivos ou afogados. Consumia tudo, mas sua fome era interminável. Acordara faminta e precisava ser saciada.

Quando não havia mais nada sob a água, viu o alto monte, tomado por animais que outrora matariam uns aos outros, mas que agora haviam se unido, devido ao estado apocalíptico do mundo ao redor, e a criatura colossal que vinha em sua direção. A serpente então avançou, direta como uma flecha, devorando e engolindo os pobres seres. Consumia não apenas suas vidas, mas também suas luzes. E enquanto comia, a besta tornava-se iluminada, incandescente. Tentava aprisionar as almas dentro de si, mas elas forçavam um saída, procurando por salvação. Buracos começaram a aparecer sobre o nojento corpo escamoso da cobra, como olhos cintilantes rompendo em sua pele. Seu interior queimava, o maligno ser ardia mas não podia parar. Precisava saciar seu apetite.

A monstruosidade rastejante foi então engolida pelo fogo que saia de seu próprio interior. Um fogo quente que borbulhava, chiava, ardia. Um fogo condenado a queimar para sempre.

Mbae’tatá, the crawling monstrosity

It was night, calm and quiet, when suddenly the lights were stolen from the stars, hidden by dense, heavy clouds. Winds blown by long-forgotten entities came from the south, tearing roots from the soil, wiping leaves from their branches, scattering animals inhabiting that forest.

The dark clouds poured their torrents over the earth, pouring rain, washing with violence all it touched. Thunder roared like choleric screams, lightning rattled the skies, turning the darkness white for a moment. The fury of all nature seemed to fall on that place.

The rainwater seemed to be impure. The ground rejected it, purging it up. Lakes became rivers, and these rivers grew and grew, swallowing those unable to flee. Those who could, ran to the hills, high protuberances in the earth, becoming trapped in the muddy water while bombarded by the roars and sparks of the gods around them as the storm continued to break.

Awakened by the noises, a creature that had fallen asleep for ages had slipped out of its temple, hidden beneath the deepest depth, swimming through the oceans that formed on the surface. Silent as a shadow. Opening its huge mouth, he sucked on live or drowned animals. It consumed everything, but its hunger was endless. The creature had awakened hungry and needed to be satisfied.

When there was nothing else under the water, the evil being saw the high mountain, taken by animals that would once have killed each other, but which now had united because of the apocalyptic state of the surrounding world, and the colossal creature that was coming towards it. The serpent then advanced, straight as an arrow, devouring and swallowing the poor beings. Consumed not only their lives, but also their lights. And as it ates, the beast became lighted, incandescent. It tried to imprison the souls within, but they forced a way out, seeking salvation. Holes began to appear on the snake's disgusting scaly body, like shimmering eyes breaking through its skin. Its inside burned, the being burned but could not stop. It needed to quench its appetite.

The crawling monstrosity was then swallowed up by the fire coming out of its own self. A hot fire that bubbled, hissed, stinged. A fire doomed to burn forever.

[pierrotdugan0417]

To start the beginning of a new week I will only tell you about this life metaphor It is said that the river trembles with fear before entering the sea; she looks back, peaks and mountains, the long and winding road she passed between the jungle and the towns, and sees in front of her an ocean so big that you wrap me around the only one that can mean disappearing forever. But there is no other way. The river cannot go back. Nobody can go back. Going back is essentially impossible. Otherwise the river cannot return. The river has to accept its nature and enter the ocean. Just diving into the ocean will melt the fear. Because only then will the river know that it is not about disappearing into the ocean, but about becoming the ocean. So do not fear that it is not waiting for a new week because the universe believes in you in your ability and courage to face everything with courage happy Monday happy start to the week Para iniciar el inicio de una nueva semana solo les hablare de esto metáfora de la vida Se dice que el río tiembla de miedo antes de entrar al mar; mira hacia atrás, picos y montañas, el largo y sinuoso camino que pasó entre la selva y los pueblos, y ve frente a ella un océano tan grande que me envuelves al único que puede significar desaparecer para siempre. Pero no hay otra manera. El río no puede volver atrás. Nadie puede volver atrás. Volver atrás es esencialmente imposible. De lo contrario, el río no puede volver. El río tiene que aceptar su naturaleza y entrar en el océano. Simplemente sumergirse en el océano derretirá el miedo. Porque sólo entonces el río sabrá que no se trata de desaparecer en el océano, sino de convertirse en océano. Así que no temas que no sea esperar una nueva semana porque el universo cree en ti en tu capacidad y valentía para afrontar todo con valentía feliz lunes feliz inicio de semana https://www.instagram.com/p/CkqkoNduQtt/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[discet]

World Building June - Aeth

From these prompts

Day 5. What sorts of civilizations and architecture fill your world?

oooh fun so for this lets bring back THE MAP 

So lets go from West to East, and since this will take forever to do by nation were going to do by larger cultural. 

Yamun Culture 

Para Empire / Khakata Kingdom / Durai Dynasty 

Yamun is names for a large river that cuts through the subcontinent (The tail end of which you can see in Para’s borders). It has a massive mountain range south of it and is thus largely isolated. The Lich King Cataclysm led to a deep seeded fear of magic in society. There is little trust in Mages and are controlled obsessively by religious leaders in communities.  

While arguably first populated in the foothills of the mountains by the talon-legged Saek, most of the lowlands were populated by seabound Harc in the north by sea and by nomadic Senn in the south. While overlooked, evidence exists that the Dwem tribes in the deep jungles seemed to predate all these groups. This makes Yamun one of the most genetically mixed cultures in the world. 

It is one of the most religiously diverse cultures as well, several religious beliefs were founded in Yamun and have spread through trade routes. While there is some tension between the differing religions, its so mixed that no government can afford the strife of stoking those tensions through oppressive action. Which is good because-

Governance

Yamun governance is very unstable historically. Its caste system is a left over relic of the age of sorcery, which served fine under the unyielding rule of an infallible (or at least dominant) sorcerer king, it has become increasingly seen as oppressive by scholar described “rabble rousers”. As such attempts of uniting the sub-continent has been difficult as rival kingdoms are often dealing with internal strife as often as external conflict. Thus borders are often shifting and new kingdoms spawn from charismatic opportunistic individuals.

Architecture

The Capitals: The capitals refer to the great cities that are a holdover of the old Age of Sorceries. Enchantments that are maintained but not understood. Self cleaning roads, glittering changing mosaics that shift with the day championing long gone royal lines. The Capitals, as they became more populace and out grew the old enchantments boundaries left stark differences between the rich center of the cities and the poorer slums. 

Shaded Roads: The shaded roads are an attempt by the current kings and the Age of Empires to capture a bit of the glory that the old Sorcerer kings. The roads are maintained by proto-sentient trees who spread, giving traders shade across the hot humid roads of Yamun. They weave together bridges from their roots and replant any trees that are cut down or destroyed by acts of nature. 

Myr Freeholds Culture

Myr is an offshoot of Yamun culture that occurred early into the Age of Empires. The Myr freeholds are a series of islands that are largely too rocky for natural cultivation that are not united in any way shape or form, they are filled with mages who escaped the oppressive culture of Yamun. Its economy is largely built on piracy with mages maintaining great defensive fortresses on the islands. They plague trade in the Aeth sea and are increadibly difficult to crack. Most of the local kingdoms are too busy with land conflicts to build up a navy capable of rooting out the fortresses and other Aeth nations are too far away to make such an expedition anything other than financial suicide. 

It is the closest remaining vestige of the old sorcerer king cultures, as it was founded by the last heir of a Sorcerer king culture in Yamun, establishing the first fortress. Being the new master of this ancient fortress is a great honor and influential in the largely prestiege based politics of Myr. 

Architecture

Arguably some of the most impressive post-cataclysm magical structures are found in Myr. The Myr fortresses are the nightmare of the siege engineers. The harbor is built inside, ships magically shrunk between the coast and the internal harbor. the few landing sites of these islands are overlooked by hundreds of murder holes. As the fortresses are all internal, there are no walls to really scale. The one or two entrances lead to long winding halls that delay attackers. All  giving the masters and their apprentices the ability to cast from safety. The interior harbor are great grand halls filled with inns, brothels, and the homes of their ship wrights. They are decorated with the stolen luxuries from all across Aeth. Much of the city is hewed from the rock with the home of the master more ornate and set apart. Generally called the academy. 

Sacre Culture

High Kingdom of Sacre / Sacre Hinterlands / Sacre Orda

The Sacre is the homeland of the Senn and are full of nomadic herding culture. While there are many differences between its widely ununited cultures, it has a few things that unites them. The pantheon of the Alter of Flames and language being the broadest. (Though how the religion is practiced varies wildly).

Sacre culture was a big innovator in the Age of Sorcery, discovering and utilizing mundane inventions that gave them a leg up on the settled cultures over reliance on magic. As long as they steered clear of the sorcerer kings or their heirs, Sacre bands could raid and pillage just about anywhere they could reach. This also made them saviors during the Lich Cataclysm as their forces were largely mundane and supported by magic rather than depending on it. Especially in Basalt and in some cases in Yamun and modern Tyre Sacre bloodlines sat at the head of government for centuries. 

Governance 

Wealth in Sacre culture comes from one’s herd. Power in Sacre culture comes from the loyalty of one’s Shepard. As with the nomadic nature of the people Sacre governance is fluid. Inheritance of title and wealth is split evenly among living children on a parents death and thus is territory in the case of a leader. This leads to many kingdoms not surviving one’s lifetime. If heirs are not capable, they are often abandoned for stronger leaders. While often derided as bloodthirsty warlords, Sacre politics is often cited as the inspiration of early democracies. Gaining a title in Sacre culture was functionally an election, in which a powerful warlord would call a Kurultai and tribes would either come in support of the warlord or not come to show their lack of support. 

Architecture

As a nomadic nation the architecture is far more practical than grand. While there are some permanent buildings in the religious bonfires, maintained by their religious leaders, most structures are able to be backed up and packed onto a horses backs.

Basalt Culture

The United Houses of Basalt / House Hiran

Basalt culture is inseparable from the Imperium of Basalt. The Imperium was a giant on the sage of Aeth for most of the Age of Empires. Founded by a Sacre warlord overthrowing the local Lich. This Lich was the most successful of his brothers who convinced many of the local lords as allies, maintaining power through more sane subordinates at the cost of their peasants. Once this broke down the southern lords who saw the tide of death they invited a powerful warlord to overthrow the Lich. After their success the warlord adopted the parts of local culture to adapt to a settled society while bringing in Sacre practical beliefs that made the Army of Basalt the most powerful military in Aeth. 

Its major religion, the Order of the flame started as an offshoot of Sacre Pantheon, which has changed radically in the millennia of the Imperiums existence. The pantheon has been dropped in favor of a nebulous spirit of humanities ideals. The core belief of the religion calls for believers to do good deeds to combat the chaos that threatens a larger war for humanities soul, staging the defeat of the liches as a great moment in this struggle. The righteous monarch is seen as a guiding hand for humanity to provide structure and stability to allow humanity to do these good deeds without worrying as much about survival. As a result the monarch is partly seen as holy. 

This has recently broken down. The line of Magus, the group who founded the Imperium was overthrown for abuse of authority. While the Shah’s who allied with the rebels were seen as hereos, none of the rebel Shah’s could manage to seize total power and settled into an uneasy alliance between their realms. This alliance fragility proven when House Hiran, one of the rebels broke off to be their own kingdom. Long enemies of the Empire like Tyre and Sur wait for the cracks to grow, to seize territory they long coveted. 

Governance

Basalt is deeply seated in the feudal structure that has existed since before the cataclysm. Shah’s rule their territories, loyal until recently to a central Padshah. Now long rivalries between bloodlines threaten to dissolve the legacy of Magus and. It has a deeply embedded bureaucracy that is holding things together, but without a central government to provide oversight, it is rapidly becoming corrupted and will rote away the heart of the empire beneath the feet of its once heroic Shahs. 

Architecture

The Obsidian Keep: The heart of the Imperium. The Obsidian keep was once the throne of the Lich, built into the side of a volcano, it is enchanted to use the lava within its home in its defense, able to flood its empty moats in its defense. The Keep itself is a massive fortress with three rings of walls backed by the steep side of the volcano. Its walls before the rebellion was engraved with the various triumphs of Basalts Padshah’s. The summit of the volcano serves as one of the greatest Temple of Fire in Basalt.

The Marble City: A luxurious city on the Penninsula is a city carved from a marble quarry. Starting as a great trade city for marble. Its position made it wealthy enough to carve luxury buildings from the quarry. It has since become a city of grand fireproof libraries and academies, dedicated to the training of Alchemists, Mages and other scholarly pursuits. The density of geomancers allow the marble to be restructured as needed, rather than stagnant. It is often the sight of experimental architecture and a shifting skyline that sailors can catch as they come to harbor. 

Acrean Culture

Sur Dynasty / Citystate of Acre / Tanu Tradeposts

Acrean culture is born from an ancient culture of city states. These were religious states who saw their sorcerer kings as their gods come to earth. Each state had a different patron god. In the cataclysm most of these cities fell alone rather than joining together. With the exception of the last readout of Acre. Its godking brought the refugee’s flooding into his streets and forged a army to combat the oncoming undead. After retaking the city and the tragic death of this heroic lord, the culture elevated the god of Acre to head of the pantheon. The defeat of the Liches requiring the sacrifice of the Gods mortal connection to the world.

In the age of Empires Acre holds a position as a religious pilgrimage site. Natural Mages are seen as divine tools of the gods while those who are brought up as priests. Acrean culture is often seen as a trading culture, who are some of the most adept sailors in Aeth, countered only by the Myr Pirates. Masters of desert warfare they were the main enemy of Sinai until the rise of the Tyrean Empire bottled it to the north penninsula. 

Governance

The citystate is run as a theocracy by the priests of the main temple, while Sur resembles a more common monarchy with legitimacy of lords confirmed by priests.

Architecture

Great Temples: While many of the original city states were destroyed in the initial conquest of the lich and then again in their retaking, Acre stands shining and untouched. Its skyline is dominated by the great ziggurat of the God of Acre. While made of simple stone, it floats above the ground two stories off the ground. One of the early enchantments of the last sorcerer kings. 

Tanu Culture

The Tanu by legend originated as a group who were driven to the brink of extinction, pushed to the very coastal mountains by the horde of monsters that dominated the Hunting Grounds to the East. This was until one day when the great hunters invented the first spears and bows of the world, something to put them on even ground with the monsters. They have since regained the territory of the peninsula, now going into the hunting grounds is a badge of honor and the harvesting of its creatures is the main source of income for the Tanu city states 

Tanu, as a Shaman majority culture were little effected by cataclysm. did take it as an opportunity to take the lich held territory in Acre to give them a place to stage trade from. The Tanu have a host of many beliefs that they have absorbed through trade, some bleeding over into each other and has created a very pluralistic culture. Its traditional pantheon has been adopted and inducted into Mythical canon. The Acrean pantheon has become a big influence on the Tanu trade posts. Arashin from Basalt is one often taken by Tanu Chiefs.

Governance

Tanu in general have fairly insular territories, a unified fear of a monster horde keeps most wars from breaking out and they are generally too far away from things to worry about foreign invasions. While there are no true wars there are several yearly competitions that focus on proving the strengths of cities top hunters. These are generally beloved competitions and move from city to city over the years. 

Architecture

As a nation of shamans they do not have any of the awe inspiring great structures from the A.o.S, they have many innovative buildings unique in construction and materials. Brightly painted and ornately carved. 

Vinrum Culture

Tyre Empires / Sinai Dominion / Nov Republic

Oh god near the end. So Vinrum is a a descriptor for the coastal around the smaller Vinrum Sea in the east. Its closer territories has made it a much more conflicted territory All of their histories far more interconnected. 

The greatest commonality is the widespread of the Mythic Canon. A aggressive polytheistic cult that seeks to adapt and induct all pantheons. Sorting the gods and their myths into various monolithic archetypes who represents single gods acting in many cultures. While largely successfully in their attempts of conversion, it has run up to severe resistance in the Acrean territories who take their attempts to sort their gods as an insult. 

[anapauladibb]

Dizem que, antes de um rio entrar no mar, ele treme de medo. Olha para trás, para toda jornada que percorreu, para os cumes, as montanhas, para o longo caminho sinuoso que trilhou através de florestas e povoados e vê, à sua frente, um oceano tão vasto, que entrar nele, nada mais é do que desaparecer para sempre. Mas, não há outra maneira. O rio não pode voltar. Ninguém pode voltar. Voltar é impossível na existência. O rio precisa aceitar sua natureza e entrar no oceano. Somente ao entrar no oceano o medo irá se diluir, porque apenas, então, o rio saberá que não se trata de desaparecer no oceano, mas de se tornar o oceano." Khalil Gilbran Não podemos viver 2019 novamente, mas, 2020 é o nosso oceano possível. ÓTIMO 2020 para todos nós! 🎄🎅🏼😁🙏🙌🏼💝🥂🍾#felizanonovo #feliz2020 "Before a river enters the sea, it is said, it trembles with fear. It looks back at every journey it has traveled, to the summits, to the mountains, to the long winding path that has trod through forests and settlements, and sees in the distance." before you, such a vast ocean that to enter it is nothing but to disappear forever But there is no other way The river cannot come back No one can come back Return is impossible in existence The river must accept its nature and entering the ocean. Only on entering the ocean will fear be diluted, because only then will the river know that it is not about disappearing into the ocean but becoming the ocean. " Khalil Gilbran We can't live 2019 again, but 2020 is our possible ocean. GREAT 2020 for all of us! 🎄🎅🏼😁🙏🙌🏼💝🥂🍾#light #peace #dream #happynewyear @pauladibb #anapauladibb (em Realengo, Rio De Janeiro, Brazil) https://www.instagram.com/p/B6wVgCYn8yr/?igshid=1iwzbc7poqdqf

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, MINNIE!

You have been accepted for the role of DARYA VORONOV. Admin Bree: “I would like to be a cloud.” Try as I might, while attempting to write this acceptance note, I couldn’t really think of any other line that made as large of an impact as that one. It actually made me laugh out loud, which is rather hard to do where things like this are concerned, but there it was, a seemingly silly little line that defined Darya, particularly young Darya, perfectly. It was, as they say, all downhill from there—but in the best of ways. You painted an image of a graceful young woman defined not by her relationships, but by her love of life and beauty despite (and because of) their shortcomings, and for that, I can’t thank you enough. Thank you for doing our lovely Darya justice, Minnie! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Minnie

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: She/Her

AGE: 21.

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: EST. On a scale of 1-10, I would give my activity a… 5? 6? I have a part-time job, an internship, and a little bit of a social life, but I’ve been getting better at organizing all of it this past week. At the very least, I organized my time well enough to finish this application!

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: OPTIONAL.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Darya (Calliope) Voronov

Darya. As a Russian name, it’s a spelling variation of Daria (meaning rich, preserver), while in Iran, it’s a girl’s name that means “the sea”.

Calliope. In Greek mythology, Calliope is the muse who presides over eloquence and epic poetry; so called from the ecstatic harmony of her voice.

Voronov. Voronov, Voronoff, Woronoff (Russian: Воронов), or Voronova (feminine; Воронова), is a popular Russian surname, derived from the word “ворон” (voron, or raven).

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER? At first, I was drawn to Darya because she reminded me of Maeve lol. But they are certainly not the same, and although it took a few more rereads and a full outline of her bio to understand the clear differences, I got there. Now I see how different the two of them are — and I love Darya for it

I fell in love with her mind, first and foremost. I love the way she dreams, with eyes wide open and fingers outstretched; seeing the thorns and choosing not to just tolerate it, but to embrace it, love it, know it. The way her imagination leads to curiosity, the way curiosity leads to understanding… and then choosing it, living in it. Her mind is forever-moving, always stepping forward, quick and fierce and sharp.

And through it all, her heart is gentle. And good. Which leads me to my next reason! Darya is not what anyone expects her to be; neither the simple, soft common girl whose eyes turn to marbles at the sight of gold, nor the kind lady in waiting who will fall so dreamily into the manipulations of court life. Not even the simpering woman who cannot be with the man she loves because of her country. Her spirit is strong, and her fire is bright and blazing but it does not devour, does not destroy. She is a woman of her own mind, has been and always will.

There is no one quite like her, which is precisely why I have wrestled with the decision to apply for her so much. Obviously, you know how that turned out.

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?

ONE. Why, little bird? her father asked, with eyes as clear as the river a walk away from their home, show me your heart. Please don’t make me explain, Papa, Darya answered gently, explaining will ruin it. Court was unfamiliar to her and Darya, already well-acquainted with being unfamiliar herself, longed to know it intimately. Now, she has; she stands in the midst of crafted lies and mind games. Many do not see her as an equal match, but the best player is the one forever underestimated and unseen. But games eventually come to a close; the final piece is conquered, and the board is flipped over and wiped clean. What is the difference between a game and a battle? The stake you hold in its outcome. The threat of loss. The promise on the horizon. With Anton proclaimed heir and tensions rising high, Darya now has all three; and perhaps one day, she will be more inclined to fight than to play.

— Not all court games are trivial and harmless; some have bite and blood between every line. And for the most part, Darya floats above the nobles, playing their games but seeing right through them. I would like to see her get deeply entangled in them, to be drawn towards the darkness within man and see it not as a game, but a battle. I would like Tatiana and Darya to have tension between them, over closeness to the crown, petty jealousies, and girlish envies! I want to see Darya seeing Arisha’s black heart and deciding she is done merely watching. It’s all fun and games until you lose a little piece of your soul along the way.

TWO. Strangeness suits her. Foreign fits her. Etovost eternal. Darya has spent her entire life as an outsider— how can she ever hold someone’s otherness against them? Court life is a game, but the Grisha make it clear that theirs is war. War, that moves seas and roars in flames, stops hearts and brings darkness thick enough to choke on. And still, the moments she catches — of Grisha laughing at a private joke, of Grisha bickering and walking arm-in-arm — are enough to quell any fear that might arise. Besides — since when has Darya been afraid of the unknown?

— It’s a surprise to me that the characters I was drawn to most weren’t Grisha, which is why I had to include a future plot idea with them! I don’t believe Darya is afraid of or disgusted by the Grisha. Her sentiments towards them are curious, intrigued, perhaps a little wary but by no means antagonistic. Darya has been considered other for her entire life, as both a dreamer in the countryside and a commoner in the palace. Who is she to judge the Grisha for what they cannot control, and who is she to fear them for what she has never been, can never be? I would like to see Darya befriend the Grisha, or at least become acquainted well enough with them to understand. I think it’s very much in Darya’s nature to want to understand. In some ways, she is very much a blank slate, because she comes not with her biases and prejudices but a willing and open mind to learn. It’s her gift, it’s her talent, it’s why she is so clever and graceful and wise. I’m not sure how the Grisha would even feel towards Darya, a simple human girl who has no money or even a noble title to her name, but that makes it even more interesting!

THREE. Once, she was a child who looked upon the palace and dreamt of what glittered beyond. Once, the countryside was her home, and the wind was her friend, and Ravka felt like a magical place to be. Once — once. Her vantage point is not so simple anymore, and Darya has since learned that to dream with your eyes open requires understanding the truth, first. And the truth can be ugly; it can be cruel. And the truth is this: Ravka is not as magical as it once seemed. The heir is dead and the prince to take his place makes her heart ache when she looks upon him. But seeing Anton take on the crown like a bird meant for the sky, like a fox becoming a wolf, has inspired her where it has unnerved many. Let her heart settle back into her chest and let the one who held it (a long time ago, it seems) settle into the throne anew. Let her honor her country: not as a lady in waiting to a princess who wears the stars not like a crown but like a promise, and not as the heart of a prince burning brighter than Ravka fully knows. As Darya Voronova. She has never needed Anton to become who she is destined to become; neither does she need him now.

— For so long, Darya has played the game. She has learned the ways of court and become one of them, or at least as close as she can be. And she never saw herself as just Anastasia’s lady in waiting, or just Anton’s love; but still, seeing Anton take on a great responsibility that he never truly wanted has inspired Darya to become something more, too. Besides, if nothing else, looking for a way to serve Ravka is a great distraction. She busies herself with her duties and her searching, pretending that the whispers of a man she cannot love do not follow her wherever she goes.

(This future plot is basically elaborated on in a headcanon about Darya’s thoughts on Anton’s future wife and her potential future marriage!)

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: Awkward laughter because yes/no?? It honestly depends if there is a character available that I would be willing to take up and write for instead, because I would hate to leave RAR if accepted! If I have little to no muse for the available characters that I might apply for at the time of a character’s death, then it would be a hard no. But I am definitely, definitely open to the idea, and take development of the plot/character more seriously than my own emotional attachments. If I can do it once, honestly, I can do it again.

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):

ONE.

“I’m going to be a merchant and get rich!”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’m going to be a soldier and serve the King.”

And so the bickering began, and the room erupted into shouts and proclamations of futures and dreams. Children, all of them seven years old and unafraid of their futures, reached out with chubby fists and plucked success from the air — as if it was so easy.

“And you, Darya?” The room fell quiet when their teacher spoke. “What do you want to be, when you grow up?”

Little Darya, seven years old and unafraid of anything, answered with a smile to outshine the sun: “I would like to be a cloud.”

The room tittered; the children giggled. Despite her best efforts, their teacher chuckled along with them. “That’s… Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes,” Darya nodded, “I think I would like living in the sky.”

Children cannot be blamed for laughing at what they cannot understand; neither, still, can they be faulted for not understanding it. And oh, they laughed, and laughed, and laughed; they howled and slapped their knees and marveled at how silly and impossible her answer was.

Darya’s smile fell, returned to the thoughtful line it had been before. She recalled the memory of her father asking, with utmost seriousness, exactly which cloud she would become. If she would just close her eyes, their laughter would sound like her mother’s soft hum as she ran her fingers, over and over, through Darya’s hair.

But she did not close her eyes. She waited, with steady breath and an endless replaying of moments so colorful that it drowned out the grays, for their laughter to fade. And it did, after their teacher sharply rose her voice and commanded their attention once more.

The cause was lost; Darya had already lost herself to the wind, forgetting the classroom and the cruelty of children, lending herself to the whim and fancy of memories and daydreams. It did not matter so much, if the children did not understand; she knew, in a little house a short walk away, she was loved. And somewhere across the countryside was magic, a world where girls like her could choose which cloud they would become.

TWO.

It was very difficult to say no to Darya, if only because she asked for so little. Her father knew it would be wiser to slip away without fanfare, without catching the eye of his little bird. But her father was an honest man, an honorable man; just as he offered a rose to his wife when he came home, he offered a kiss to his daughter before each trip to Os Alta.

He knew what to expect from her every time, and he knew he would give in.

“Oh, please, Papa, let me be with you for a little longer,” she begged, leaning into her father’s lips against her forehead. “I would miss you all too much.”

“What about your Mama?” Her father glanced at his wife, who smiled into her breakfast and shook her head as if to say, You are a fool for trying.

Darya had come prepared with a rebuttal, and without pause, she said, “As long as I bring her flowers that aren’t roses, she insists that I come with you.”

A laugh shook out of him from deep within his belly. “So she’s tired of roses?”

“No, it’s not that,” Darya smiled mischievously, “Mama doesn’t want to hear me whine all day. And Papa, I would whine, and complain, and cry… For days, perhaps longer.”

At that, her parents laughed in unison, and it was then that Darya knew she would go with her father to the palace after all. She always did; but humility persisted like a stubborn seed in Darya’s character, and it had firmly taken hold. Her own influence was lost on her; Darya did not yet understand that her parents were besotted with their little girl; that she was their world and for that, the world was hers.

“Goodbye, Mama,” Darya kissed her mother on the cheek. “I will memorize the palace and create a picture for you when I come home.”

Her mother smiled, and her working eye met Darya’s with all the warmth in the world. “Do not forget a thing.”

—

Only her father’s hand, securely wrapped around hers, kept Darya tethered to the ground as they walked through Os Alta. Without him, she was sure that her feet would lift from the ground, and she would fly higher and higher until she would reach the sun, find the boy who lived inside of it and ask why he risked it all.

She was so full of want; it should frighten her, how violently her heart longed to become a part of this. This, Os Alta, the palace, the noble children taking walks around the capital as if they were three feet taller than they were. She said nothing, enraptured by the world around her — how big it was, how small it was, how strange and wonderful and new.

Her father watched her as she watched the world with eyes round and unblinking, more enlivened than she ever was in the countryside. This was his little bird, and she seemed all too eager to fly.

“Why do you love it here so much, Darya?” He held onto his breath, gently, as he waited for her answer.

The sigh that fell from her lips was so romantic, so full of dreaming and wishing, that it seemed all of Os Alta halted; the bustle of Ravka’s capital slowed for this little girl and her large love for it. The people waited for her answer with her lovelorn father — though where he was afraid to lose her to this world, the people of Os Alta were ready to take her. They recognized her heart, that wistful quality that every city recognized and loved to corrupt and harden and tear apart. Os Alta recognized Darya’s heart, and it wanted to eat it.

“I don’t know if I love it yet,” Darya said after a beat of silence. “I just want to know it.”

It was the most honest answer she could give. For how could she love something she did not know? She wanted to see Os Alta in its entirety, wanted to press her hand against its most vulnerable places and learn it by touch. She wanted to understand the glitter and gold and gleam. It fascinated her, it made her curious.

Each visit did nothing to satiate her imagination; it only made it deeper until Darya thought she would one day slip out of her skin and become wonder, whole and pure. Her questions tickled her belly and then her throat and then the inside of her lips, until she thought everyone could see it in her eyes when they saw her: Let me be a part of Os Alta, let me be a part of this palace.

Her father’s grip loosened — or perhaps it was Darya loosening her grip, she wasn’t sure. But something ahead of them was deliriously blue (the skirt of a noble woman’s dress, perhaps), and Darya’s attention was captured.

Her father held on for only a heartbeat longer before letting her go. She wouldn’t wander too far, he knew, he hoped; Darya would, at least, always know where to find him.

THREE.

Ravka is weeping, and still, the sun shines. Anastasia has disappeared, and the palace still busies itself as if they are not on their knees. As if they had not all lost a good man, destined to become a great King.

Ravka is weeping, and still, all Darya can do is sit. Her search for Anastasia is half-hearted and unfulfilled; let her be alone, let her grieve in private. This is the most she can do for her dearest friend: grant her silence, peace, space.

This is the most she can do for herself. Lock herself away in her bedroom, pretend the palace is not already melting away and making room for a new flame to rise anew. A few more days, she pleads to the sun, give me a few more days to say goodbye.

It is not Ivan who haunts her; it is not Ivan’s ghost that follows her, cheek against her hair, lips at her ear, whispering promises she fastened to the stars. The stars have fallen and it’s not Ivan’s name that burns her tongue, leaves a scar that will rip open every time she utters his name.

Anton.

Oh, Anton.

He must know she’s avoiding him. Or — no, Anton must be busy: with grief, with thoughts of his future, Ravka’s future. Darya never asked to be his first priority; but she did hope to be one of them, and even that hope has been shattered. Shards of glass on the floor, biting the bottom of her feet, her palm, her cheek. Every inch of her skin he’s ever touched, cut open.

Is this the body’s reaction to heartbreak? To have pain seared across her skin as if the internal can be made external, as if that will absorb some of the blow? To purge her body of him like this, to empty her heart of him.

No — no. She does not want to be purged of him, cannot let go of how he’s changed her. This is hers; this is mine. I regret nothing.

Once, Darya asked her mother what love was, what it looked like, how it smelled and tasted. Her mother had smiled, tenderly touched the lid of her blind eye, and said, “I showed your father my bloodiest parts and then I let him choose me, then change me. Love is letting everything hurt, and heal.”

It is love that hurt her, irrevocably. There is no other option besides removing all of her from him, returning to Anton the piece of him she’d carried in her hand. Darya is no fool; she will not delude herself. She understands the way of Ravkan court, and she knows there is no place for her in Anton’s life.

I will release him.

“I will release him,” Darya says aloud.

The knot in her chest unravels at the sound of her own voice, declaring her decision to empty air. The muscles in her shoulders loosen, and the grip of her fingers, tightly wrapped in anxious fists, relax.

It is love that will heal her. It is love for Anton that gives her the willpower to extract herself from his side, so that he will never be shackled to what is beneath him (and she is, in title and perhaps more, beneath him now). It is love for Ravka that gives her the clarity to think of herself last and give to her country the King they will never forget.

It is love for herself that gives her the strength to rise from her seat. The healing has not yet begun; it cannot, until she says goodbye to him. And when healing begins, there will be a flood and a great aching to come.

But first — Darya must say goodbye.

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:

ONE. If there was ever a man who could pluck individual colors from the sky, it was Darya’s father. He was a man who did not know how to stop creating; there was too much in the world for him to capture in pigment and brush strokes. The secret to beauty is this, he once whispered, conspiring with her in daydreams and imagination, You leave just enough room for other people to find their own.

Find their own beauty, Darya repeated, as if she was testing the taste of the words in her pale pink mouth.

Yes. Art, little bird, shows you the way to your soul again. It connects you to the world.

And so Darya learned from her father to see beauty in all things. He painted for himself, first and foremost. Perhaps, when it had just been him and his wife, it would have been enough, but for Darya, his darling and dearest daughter, he began accepting payment. Word of his talent spread quickly, and soon he was taking long trips across the countryside and to the palace.

( It was how Darya first met Anastasia. Her father was to paint a portrait of a noblewoman, and Darya insisted on coming along. She promised to be quiet, to be good and silent and still — and promptly snuck away when the sound of laughter came from the barely-open door. She moved along the corners and snuck to the gardens. It reminded her of home only for its greenery; but the flowers in the palace garden seemed brighter, somehow. Darya had been admiring them for hours when the princess found her. ) *

Darya’s mother was a singer — not by profession, but by dream alone. She was also blind in one eye, proof of her surviving the depths of the Unsea years ago when traveling to Os Alta from Ravak’s western coast.

Does it hurt? Darya asked long ago, child fingers brushing the skin on her mother’s cheeks.

No. Darya’s mother did not flinch; waited for her daughter’s curiosity to be satiated.

Do you wish you could see — from both?

And Darya’s mother would smile, slow and sweet. I have your father for that. And now, you.

From her mother, Darya learned the power of words. When her father was away, she and her mother often walked together in silence; hands clasped and sun shining, the two let the wind move them and spoke in gentle squeezes of fingers. When Darya grew longing for her mother’s voice, her mother sang ditties and lullabies and long epics of the man who created the Unsea, which would steal her eyes from her and give her new strength.

And sometimes, Darya’s mother would ask Darya, in a voice that shook delicately with unspoken longing: Will you describe to me the world, little bird?

The three of them were a strange but complete family, and above all, Darya felt lucky to belong to them.

Her father visits her whenever he comes to the palace to paint yet another portrait for a noble, though she sends what she can back home to support her family. But he paints for himself, first and foremost, and no he’s grown to like the challenge of bringing dreams to life through paint and paper. He visits her when he is summoned to the palace. Every time, Darya begs him to bring her mother along; every time, he kisses her tenderly and promises to try.

* This is up to the player’s discretion, of course!

TWO. Undeniably, there are gaps between Darya’s upbringing and the lives most others at Ravkan court know best. It was an easy decision to come to the palace and become Anastasia’s lady in waiting. However, it was a difficult transition to truly become Anastasia’s lady in waiting. It involved long hours of etiquette training, of fittings and exhausting lessons. Best of all, though, were the books. Darya learned to talk politics, of battle, of fashion and culture and music, from words alone.

Learning the proper titles and family histories of every nobleman in court was cumbersome; learning, learning, was riveting, exciting, and Darya was never felt quite finished with this love affair with the palace’s library. She goes there often, to devour more and more. In some small way, Darya does this to keep up with the nobles. But first and foremost, it is for her soul, her mind, her pleasure and need and hunger.

THREE. If we are speaking about fashion alone, then let it be known that Darya takes great care in choosing her gowns. She can scarcely forget that first encounter with the children of nobility in clothing befit paintings. She remembers often how her heart sped up in anticipation, as if to leap out of her chest and run to them, catch up to them, run after them with them and beside them.

It is not for vanity that she takes delight in each visit to the seamstress. With each thread and color and neckline, Darya becomes a thirteen-year-old daughter of a painter, eyes wild with dreaming. Small excitements fade, and the heart so easily grows used to what it wants. But each morning, when Darya glimpses a reflection of her in a dress that would make her past self lips peel with laughter, she feels it all anew. So why not be beautiful? Why not be fashionable, and trendy, and stunning? Why not, indeed.

FOUR. With two artists as parents, Darya has always wondered where her creativity lies. She cannot draw, though she’s tried; and while she can carry a tune, her voice is thin and airy and untrained.

It was not until she learned from Anton to play chess that she began to understand her talents. It was not until Anastasia, with a laugh and a curtsy, took Darya’s hands and taught her to dance. It was not until her father, upon his first time visiting Darya since she joined the nobility in court, brushed back the hair that had fallen from behind her ears and said, How gracefully you learn, little bird. How sweetly you fly.

With a finger in every pie, Darya picked up talents and hobbies with a speed that surprised those who watched her blossom. She was meticulous and unyielding, never surrendering to the daunting task of starting over, and over, and over. There was no better position in life, Darya firmly believed, than to know nothing.

How do you tackle the unknown without blinking an eye? someone once asked Darya.

The less I know, the more I imagine. And it’s great fun, to dream freely.

She struggles incredibly with physical skills (e.g. horseback riding, using a bow and arrow, etc.), but even in this, she is relentless. Perhaps it is the distinct separation between her and the other nobles at court. She may look like them, speak like them, smile and curtsy like them — but Darya cannot change where she comes from, nor does she want to. Just like the children who disdained her when she was a girl, she does not blame them for it; it rolls off of her like a wave, motivates her to strive for things higher than her station.

FIVE. She gave Anton up to his country, so that he might find a Queen worthy of Ravka, of him. And though it makes her stomach turn and her heart lurch, Darya finds herself imagining Anton’s wedding to another often. She wonders who his Queen will be: a beautiful woman, with a cold elegance to intimidate other countries to bend at the knee before Ravka, or a woman who is kind and sweet and diplomatic above all, promising hospitality and safety in her and her King’s home.

This will fade, she reminds herself when the pain becomes nearly unbearable, I must have no sadness in my heart the day Ravka gains a worthy Queen.

She wonders, too, if she will marry. And she wonders if she will love again, if such a thing is possible in Ravkan court. For Anton was an exception, a worthy exception she does not expect to find again. If the court will have her, then Darya will not leave it; but when Anastasia is no longer in need of ladies in waiting, where will she go? She has no title, no standing, no true place in court.

The easier way would be through marriage, but the thought leaves her feeling hollow. It is too soon to think of new partners, and Darya will not ask so much of the world again. To love someone, to hold them forever, to have it all… Her parents have such a story, but such things do not exist in court.

And Darya will not leave. She will not lose Anton and her home, all at once. And because marriage is a difficult future to entertain, she will find another way to stay.

SIX. Darya’s manner of speaking is a blend of her mother and her father. From her mother, Darya inherited concision. Every word from her lips is said with grace and purpose; every sentence is eloquently formed, and still succinct. Her voice is gentle with a soft lilt that comes from her father, who talks as if every sentence is a lyric in a song.

In court, words were all she had, and she learned quickly that even more important than what was said was what wasn’t. Oh, she learned — not to lie, but to blend imagination and truth. She learned to understand the difference, and to understand when not to.

SEVEN. Darya is not quite tidy. She can get lost in her own thoughts and daydreams, and not even notice a mess in her bedchambers if not gently brought back to reality.

EIGHT.

Zodiac sign: Gemini Sexuality: Pansexual, panromantic MBTI: INFP Moral alignment: Neutral Good Hogwarts house: Ravenclaw

EXTRAS: OPTIONAL.

Here is the link to a graphic I made for Darya!

Here is the link to Darya’s mockblog!

ANYTHING ELSE? My favorite book is probably White Oleander by Janet Fitch! 1000% recommend, I’ve been rereading and rereading it since I was 15 so it’s been the longest love affair I’ve ever had.

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Minnie

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: She/Her

AGE: 21.

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: EST. On a scale of 1-10, I would give my activity a… 5? 6? I have a part-time job, an internship, and a little bit of a social life, but I’ve been getting better at organizing all of it this past week. At the very least, I organized my time well enough to finish this application!

TRIGGERS: N/A

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: OPTIONAL.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Darya (Calliope) Voronov

Darya. As a Russian name, it’s a spelling variation of Daria (meaning rich, preserver), while in Iran, it’s a girl’s name that means “the sea”.

Calliope. In Greek mythology, Calliope is the muse who presides over eloquence and epic poetry; so called from the ecstatic harmony of her voice.

Voronov. Voronov, Voronoff, Woronoff (Russian: Воронов), or Voronova (feminine; Воронова), is a popular Russian surname, derived from the word “ворон” (voron, or raven).

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER? At first, I was drawn to Darya because she reminded me of Maeve lol. But they are certainly not the same, and although it took a few more rereads and a full outline of her bio to understand the clear differences, I got there. Now I see how different the two of them are — and I love Darya for it

I fell in love with her mind, first and foremost. I love the way she dreams, with eyes wide open and fingers outstretched; seeing the thorns and choosing not to just tolerate it, but to embrace it, love it, know it. The way her imagination leads to curiosity, the way curiosity leads to understanding… and then choosing it, living in it. Her mind is forever-moving, always stepping forward, quick and fierce and sharp.

And through it all, her heart is gentle. And good. Which leads me to my next reason! Darya is not what anyone expects her to be; neither the simple, soft common girl whose eyes turn to marbles at the sight of gold, nor the kind lady in waiting who will fall so dreamily into the manipulations of court life. Not even the simpering woman who cannot be with the man she loves because of her country. Her spirit is strong, and her fire is bright and blazing but it does not devour, does not destroy. She is a woman of her own mind, has been and always will.

There is no one quite like her, which is precisely why I have wrestled with the decision to apply for her so much. Obviously, you know how that turned out.

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?

ONE. Why, little bird? her father asked, with eyes as clear as the river a walk away from their home, show me your heart. Please don’t make me explain, Papa, Darya answered gently, explaining will ruin it. Court was unfamiliar to her and Darya, already well-acquainted with being unfamiliar herself, longed to know it intimately. Now, she has; she stands in the midst of crafted lies and mind games. Many do not see her as an equal match, but the best player is the one forever underestimated and unseen. But games eventually come to a close; the final piece is conquered, and the board is flipped over and wiped clean. What is the difference between a game and a battle? The stake you hold in its outcome. The threat of loss. The promise on the horizon. With Anton proclaimed heir and tensions rising high, Darya now has all three; and perhaps one day, she will be more inclined to fight than to play.

— Not all court games are trivial and harmless; some have bite and blood between every line. And for the most part, Darya floats above the nobles, playing their games but seeing right through them. I would like to see her get deeply entangled in them, to be drawn towards the darkness within man and see it not as a game, but a battle. I would like Tatiana and Darya to have tension between them, over closeness to the crown, petty jealousies, and girlish envies! I want to see Darya seeing Arisha’s black heart and deciding she is done merely watching. It’s all fun and games until you lose a little piece of your soul along the way.

TWO. Strangeness suits her. Foreign fits her. Etovost eternal. Darya has spent her entire life as an outsider— how can she ever hold someone’s otherness against them? Court life is a game, but the Grisha make it clear that theirs is war. War, that moves seas and roars in flames, stops hearts and brings darkness thick enough to choke on. And still, the moments she catches — of Grisha laughing at a private joke, of Grisha bickering and walking arm-in-arm — are enough to quell any fear that might arise. Besides — since when has Darya been afraid of the unknown?

— It’s a surprise to me that the characters I was drawn to most weren’t Grisha, which is why I had to include a future plot idea with them! I don’t believe Darya is afraid of or disgusted by the Grisha. Her sentiments towards them are curious, intrigued, perhaps a little wary but by no means antagonistic. Darya has been considered other for her entire life, as both a dreamer in the countryside and a commoner in the palace. Who is she to judge the Grisha for what they cannot control, and who is she to fear them for what she has never been, can never be? I would like to see Darya befriend the Grisha, or at least become acquainted well enough with them to understand. I think it’s very much in Darya’s nature to want to understand. In some ways, she is very much a blank slate, because she comes not with her biases and prejudices but a willing and open mind to learn. It’s her gift, it’s her talent, it’s why she is so clever and graceful and wise. I’m not sure how the Grisha would even feel towards Darya, a simple human girl who has no money or even a noble title to her name, but that makes it even more interesting!

THREE. Once, she was a child who looked upon the palace and dreamt of what glittered beyond. Once, the countryside was her home, and the wind was her friend, and Ravka felt like a magical place to be. Once — once. Her vantage point is not so simple anymore, and Darya has since learned that to dream with your eyes open requires understanding the truth, first. And the truth can be ugly; it can be cruel. And the truth is this: Ravka is not as magical as it once seemed. The heir is dead and the prince to take his place makes her heart ache when she looks upon him. But seeing Anton take on the crown like a bird meant for the sky, like a fox becoming a wolf, has inspired her where it has unnerved many. Let her heart settle back into her chest and let the one who held it (a long time ago, it seems) settle into the throne anew. Let her honor her country: not as a lady in waiting to a princess who wears the stars not like a crown but like a promise, and not as the heart of a prince burning brighter than Ravka fully knows. As Darya Voronova. She has never needed Anton to become who she is destined to become; neither does she need him now.

— For so long, Darya has played the game. She has learned the ways of court and become one of them, or at least as close as she can be. And she never saw herself as just Anastasia’s lady in waiting, or just Anton’s love; but still, seeing Anton take on a great responsibility that he never truly wanted has inspired Darya to become something more, too. Besides, if nothing else, looking for a way to serve Ravka is a great distraction. She busies herself with her duties and her searching, pretending that the whispers of a man she cannot love do not follow her wherever she goes.

(This future plot is basically elaborated on in a headcanon about Darya’s thoughts on Anton’s future wife and her potential future marriage!)

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: Awkward laughter because yes/no?? It honestly depends if there is a character available that I would be willing to take up and write for instead, because I would hate to leave RAR if accepted! If I have little to no muse for the available characters that I might apply for at the time of a character’s death, then it would be a hard no. But I am definitely, definitely open to the idea, and take development of the plot/character more seriously than my own emotional attachments. If I can do it once, honestly, I can do it again.

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):

ONE.

“I’m going to be a merchant and get rich!”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’m going to be a soldier and serve the King.”

And so the bickering began, and the room erupted into shouts and proclamations of futures and dreams. Children, all of them seven years old and unafraid of their futures, reached out with chubby fists and plucked success from the air — as if it was so easy.

“And you, Darya?” The room fell quiet when their teacher spoke. “What do you want to be, when you grow up?”

Little Darya, seven years old and unafraid of anything, answered with a smile to outshine the sun: “I would like to be a cloud.”

The room tittered; the children giggled. Despite her best efforts, their teacher chuckled along with them. “That’s… Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes,” Darya nodded, “I think I would like living in the sky.”

Children cannot be blamed for laughing at what they cannot understand; neither, still, can they be faulted for not understanding it. And oh, they laughed, and laughed, and laughed; they howled and slapped their knees and marveled at how silly and impossible her answer was.

Darya’s smile fell, returned to the thoughtful line it had been before. She recalled the memory of her father asking, with utmost seriousness, exactly which cloud she would become. If she would just close her eyes, their laughter would sound like her mother’s soft hum as she ran her fingers, over and over, through Darya’s hair.

But she did not close her eyes. She waited, with steady breath and an endless replaying of moments so colorful that it drowned out the grays, for their laughter to fade. And it did, after their teacher sharply rose her voice and commanded their attention once more.

The cause was lost; Darya had already lost herself to the wind, forgetting the classroom and the cruelty of children, lending herself to the whim and fancy of memories and daydreams. It did not matter so much, if the children did not understand; she knew, in a little house a short walk away, she was loved. And somewhere across the countryside was magic, a world where girls like her could choose which cloud they would become.

TWO.

It was very difficult to say no to Darya, if only because she asked for so little. Her father knew it would be wiser to slip away without fanfare, without catching the eye of his little bird. But her father was an honest man, an honorable man; just as he offered a rose to his wife when he came home, he offered a kiss to his daughter before each trip to Os Alta.

He knew what to expect from her every time, and he knew he would give in.

“Oh, please, Papa, let me be with you for a little longer,” she begged, leaning into her father’s lips against her forehead. “I would miss you all too much.”

“What about your Mama?” Her father glanced at his wife, who smiled into her breakfast and shook her head as if to say, You are a fool for trying.

Darya had come prepared with a rebuttal, and without pause, she said, “As long as I bring her flowers that aren’t roses, she insists that I come with you.”

A laugh shook out of him from deep within his belly. “So she’s tired of roses?”

“No, it’s not that,” Darya smiled mischievously, “Mama doesn’t want to hear me whine all day. And Papa, I would whine, and complain, and cry… For days, perhaps longer.”

At that, her parents laughed in unison, and it was then that Darya knew she would go with her father to the palace after all. She always did; but humility persisted like a stubborn seed in Darya’s character, and it had firmly taken hold. Her own influence was lost on her; Darya did not yet understand that her parents were besotted with their little girl; that she was their world and for that, the world was hers.

“Goodbye, Mama,” Darya kissed her mother on the cheek. “I will memorize the palace and create a picture for you when I come home.”

Her mother smiled, and her working eye met Darya’s with all the warmth in the world. “Do not forget a thing.”

—

Only her father’s hand, securely wrapped around hers, kept Darya tethered to the ground as they walked through Os Alta. Without him, she was sure that her feet would lift from the ground, and she would fly higher and higher until she would reach the sun, find the boy who lived inside of it and ask why he risked it all.

She was so full of want; it should frighten her, how violently her heart longed to become a part of this. This, Os Alta, the palace, the noble children taking walks around the capital as if they were three feet taller than they were. She said nothing, enraptured by the world around her — how big it was, how small it was, how strange and wonderful and new.

Her father watched her as she watched the world with eyes round and unblinking, more enlivened than she ever was in the countryside. This was his little bird, and she seemed all too eager to fly.

“Why do you love it here so much, Darya?” He held onto his breath, gently, as he waited for her answer.

The sigh that fell from her lips was so romantic, so full of dreaming and wishing, that it seemed all of Os Alta halted; the bustle of Ravka’s capital slowed for this little girl and her large love for it. The people waited for her answer with her lovelorn father — though where he was afraid to lose her to this world, the people of Os Alta were ready to take her. They recognized her heart, that wistful quality that every city recognized and loved to corrupt and harden and tear apart. Os Alta recognized Darya’s heart, and it wanted to eat it.

“I don’t know if I love it yet,” Darya said after a beat of silence. “I just want to know it.”

It was the most honest answer she could give. For how could she love something she did not know? She wanted to see Os Alta in its entirety, wanted to press her hand against its most vulnerable places and learn it by touch. She wanted to understand the glitter and gold and gleam. It fascinated her, it made her curious.

Each visit did nothing to satiate her imagination; it only made it deeper until Darya thought she would one day slip out of her skin and become wonder, whole and pure. Her questions tickled her belly and then her throat and then the inside of her lips, until she thought everyone could see it in her eyes when they saw her: Let me be a part of Os Alta, let me be a part of this palace.

Her father’s grip loosened — or perhaps it was Darya loosening her grip, she wasn’t sure. But something ahead of them was deliriously blue (the skirt of a noble woman’s dress, perhaps), and Darya’s attention was captured.

Her father held on for only a heartbeat longer before letting her go. She wouldn’t wander too far, he knew, he hoped; Darya would, at least, always know where to find him.

THREE.

Ravka is weeping, and still, the sun shines. Anastasia has disappeared, and the palace still busies itself as if they are not on their knees. As if they had not all lost a good man, destined to become a great King.

Ravka is weeping, and still, all Darya can do is sit. Her search for Anastasia is half-hearted and unfulfilled; let her be alone, let her grieve in private. This is the most she can do for her dearest friend: grant her silence, peace, space.

This is the most she can do for herself. Lock herself away in her bedroom, pretend the palace is not already melting away and making room for a new flame to rise anew. A few more days, she pleads to the sun, give me a few more days to say goodbye.

It is not Ivan who haunts her; it is not Ivan’s ghost that follows her, cheek against her hair, lips at her ear, whispering promises she fastened to the stars. The stars have fallen and it’s not Ivan’s name that burns her tongue, leaves a scar that will rip open every time she utters his name.

Anton.

Oh, Anton.

He must know she’s avoiding him. Or — no, Anton must be busy: with grief, with thoughts of his future, Ravka’s future. Darya never asked to be his first priority; but she did hope to be one of them, and even that hope has been shattered. Shards of glass on the floor, biting the bottom of her feet, her palm, her cheek. Every inch of her skin he’s ever touched, cut open.

Is this the body’s reaction to heartbreak? To have pain seared across her skin as if the internal can be made external, as if that will absorb some of the blow? To purge her body of him like this, to empty her heart of him.

No — no. She does not want to be purged of him, cannot let go of how he’s changed her. This is hers; this is mine. I regret nothing.

Once, Darya asked her mother what love was, what it looked like, how it smelled and tasted. Her mother had smiled, tenderly touched the lid of her blind eye, and said, “I showed your father my bloodiest parts and then I let him choose me, then change me. Love is letting everything hurt, and heal.”

It is love that hurt her, irrevocably. There is no other option besides removing all of her from him, returning to Anton the piece of him she’d carried in her hand. Darya is no fool; she will not delude herself. She understands the way of Ravkan court, and she knows there is no place for her in Anton’s life.

I will release him.

“I will release him,” Darya says aloud.

The knot in her chest unravels at the sound of her own voice, declaring her decision to empty air. The muscles in her shoulders loosen, and the grip of her fingers, tightly wrapped in anxious fists, relax.

It is love that will heal her. It is love for Anton that gives her the willpower to extract herself from his side, so that he will never be shackled to what is beneath him (and she is, in title and perhaps more, beneath him now). It is love for Ravka that gives her the clarity to think of herself last and give to her country the King they will never forget.

It is love for herself that gives her the strength to rise from her seat. The healing has not yet begun; it cannot, until she says goodbye to him. And when healing begins, there will be a flood and a great aching to come.

But first — Darya must say goodbye.

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:

ONE. If there was ever a man who could pluck individual colors from the sky, it was Darya’s father. He was a man who did not know how to stop creating; there was too much in the world for him to capture in pigment and brush strokes. The secret to beauty is this, he once whispered, conspiring with her in daydreams and imagination, You leave just enough room for other people to find their own.

Find their own beauty, Darya repeated, as if she was testing the taste of the words in her pale pink mouth.

Yes. Art, little bird, shows you the way to your soul again. It connects you to the world.

And so Darya learned from her father to see beauty in all things. He painted for himself, first and foremost. Perhaps, when it had just been him and his wife, it would have been enough, but for Darya, his darling and dearest daughter, he began accepting payment. Word of his talent spread quickly, and soon he was taking long trips across the countryside and to the palace.

( It was how Darya first met Anastasia. Her father was to paint a portrait of a noblewoman, and Darya insisted on coming along. She promised to be quiet, to be good and silent and still — and promptly snuck away when the sound of laughter came from the barely-open door. She moved along the corners and snuck to the gardens. It reminded her of home only for its greenery; but the flowers in the palace garden seemed brighter, somehow. Darya had been admiring them for hours when the princess found her. ) *

Darya’s mother was a singer — not by profession, but by dream alone. She was also blind in one eye, proof of her surviving the depths of the Unsea years ago when traveling to Os Alta from Ravak’s western coast.

Does it hurt? Darya asked long ago, child fingers brushing the skin on her mother’s cheeks.

No. Darya’s mother did not flinch; waited for her daughter’s curiosity to be satiated.

Do you wish you could see — from both?

And Darya’s mother would smile, slow and sweet. I have your father for that. And now, you.

From her mother, Darya learned the power of words. When her father was away, she and her mother often walked together in silence; hands clasped and sun shining, the two let the wind move them and spoke in gentle squeezes of fingers. When Darya grew longing for her mother’s voice, her mother sang ditties and lullabies and long epics of the man who created the Unsea, which would steal her eyes from her and give her new strength.

And sometimes, Darya’s mother would ask Darya, in a voice that shook delicately with unspoken longing: Will you describe to me the world, little bird?

The three of them were a strange but complete family, and above all, Darya felt lucky to belong to them.

Her father visits her whenever he comes to the palace to paint yet another portrait for a noble, though she sends what she can back home to support her family. But he paints for himself, first and foremost, and no he’s grown to like the challenge of bringing dreams to life through paint and paper. He visits her when he is summoned to the palace. Every time, Darya begs him to bring her mother along; every time, he kisses her tenderly and promises to try.

* This is up to the player’s discretion, of course!

TWO. Undeniably, there are gaps between Darya’s upbringing and the lives most others at Ravkan court know best. It was an easy decision to come to the palace and become Anastasia’s lady in waiting. However, it was a difficult transition to truly become Anastasia’s lady in waiting. It involved long hours of etiquette training, of fittings and exhausting lessons. Best of all, though, were the books. Darya learned to talk politics, of battle, of fashion and culture and music, from words alone.

Learning the proper titles and family histories of every nobleman in court was cumbersome; learning, learning, was riveting, exciting, and Darya was never felt quite finished with this love affair with the palace’s library. She goes there often, to devour more and more. In some small way, Darya does this to keep up with the nobles. But first and foremost, it is for her soul, her mind, her pleasure and need and hunger.

THREE. If we are speaking about fashion alone, then let it be known that Darya takes great care in choosing her gowns. She can scarcely forget that first encounter with the children of nobility in clothing befit paintings. She remembers often how her heart sped up in anticipation, as if to leap out of her chest and run to them, catch up to them, run after them with them and beside them.

It is not for vanity that she takes delight in each visit to the seamstress. With each thread and color and neckline, Darya becomes a thirteen-year-old daughter of a painter, eyes wild with dreaming. Small excitements fade, and the heart so easily grows used to what it wants. But each morning, when Darya glimpses a reflection of her in a dress that would make her past self lips peel with laughter, she feels it all anew. So why not be beautiful? Why not be fashionable, and trendy, and stunning? Why not, indeed.

FOUR. With two artists as parents, Darya has always wondered where her creativity lies. She cannot draw, though she’s tried; and while she can carry a tune, her voice is thin and airy and untrained.

It was not until she learned from Anton to play chess that she began to understand her talents. It was not until Anastasia, with a laugh and a curtsy, took Darya’s hands and taught her to dance. It was not until her father, upon his first time visiting Darya since she joined the nobility in court, brushed back the hair that had fallen from behind her ears and said, How gracefully you learn, little bird. How sweetly you fly.

With a finger in every pie, Darya picked up talents and hobbies with a speed that surprised those who watched her blossom. She was meticulous and unyielding, never surrendering to the daunting task of starting over, and over, and over. There was no better position in life, Darya firmly believed, than to know nothing.

How do you tackle the unknown without blinking an eye? someone once asked Darya.

The less I know, the more I imagine. And it’s great fun, to dream freely.

She struggles incredibly with physical skills (e.g. horseback riding, using a bow and arrow, etc.), but even in this, she is relentless. Perhaps it is the distinct separation between her and the other nobles at court. She may look like them, speak like them, smile and curtsy like them — but Darya cannot change where she comes from, nor does she want to. Just like the children who disdained her when she was a girl, she does not blame them for it; it rolls off of her like a wave, motivates her to strive for things higher than her station.

FIVE. She gave Anton up to his country, so that he might find a Queen worthy of Ravka, of him. And though it makes her stomach turn and her heart lurch, Darya finds herself imagining Anton’s wedding to another often. She wonders who his Queen will be: a beautiful woman, with a cold elegance to intimidate other countries to bend at the knee before Ravka, or a woman who is kind and sweet and diplomatic above all, promising hospitality and safety in her and her King’s home.

This will fade, she reminds herself when the pain becomes nearly unbearable, I must have no sadness in my heart the day Ravka gains a worthy Queen.

She wonders, too, if she will marry. And she wonders if she will love again, if such a thing is possible in Ravkan court. For Anton was an exception, a worthy exception she does not expect to find again. If the court will have her, then Darya will not leave it; but when Anastasia is no longer in need of ladies in waiting, where will she go? She has no title, no standing, no true place in court.

The easier way would be through marriage, but the thought leaves her feeling hollow. It is too soon to think of new partners, and Darya will not ask so much of the world again. To love someone, to hold them forever, to have it all… Her parents have such a story, but such things do not exist in court.

And Darya will not leave. She will not lose Anton and her home, all at once. And because marriage is a difficult future to entertain, she will find another way to stay.

SIX. Darya’s manner of speaking is a blend of her mother and her father. From her mother, Darya inherited concision. Every word from her lips is said with grace and purpose; every sentence is eloquently formed, and still succinct. Her voice is gentle with a soft lilt that comes from her father, who talks as if every sentence is a lyric in a song.

In court, words were all she had, and she learned quickly that even more important than what was said was what wasn’t. Oh, she learned — not to lie, but to blend imagination and truth. She learned to understand the difference, and to understand when not to.

SEVEN. Darya is not quite tidy. She can get lost in her own thoughts and daydreams, and not even notice a mess in her bedchambers if not gently brought back to reality.

EIGHT.

Zodiac sign: Gemini Sexuality: Pansexual, panromantic MBTI: INFP Moral alignment: Neutral Good Hogwarts house: Ravenclaw

EXTRAS: OPTIONAL.

Here is the link to a graphic I made for Darya!

Here is the link to Darya’s mockblog!

ANYTHING ELSE? My favorite book is probably White Oleander by Janet Fitch! 1000% recommend, I’ve been rereading and rereading it since I was 15 so it’s been the longest love affair I’ve ever had.

[olympivnshq]

congratulations molly !  your application for ORPHEUS literally converted me into an orpheus fangirl, so i hope you’re very proud of yourself  - kidding !    but not really. we absolutely loved your take on him, it was a very good to see that you embraced his youthfulness and indecisiveness and desire to love and be loved, just as we picture in our minds when we read the tale of orpheus. we’re totally hyped to accept you with your first faceclaim choice: TIMOTHEE CHALAMET!

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ  OOC INFO.

Molly, EST, 22 

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ  DEITY  —  GENDER. AGE RANGE.

Orpheus  —  MALE. 20-24

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ MORTAL NAME. JOB/OCCUPATION. BOROUGH/NEIGHBORHOOD.

Oliver Reed, Student (primarily), Manhattan, Greenwich Village

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ AESTHETICS.

a rose in bloom, a coffee stained apron, slate grey, falsetto, combat boots, a messy scrawl, a leather-bound journal, hiking in the woods, $1 pizza, freckles, Shakespeare, a crooked and sheepish smile, the eye of a storm, acoustic guitars, green tea, 6th floor walkups, worn beanies, sore throats, calloused fingers, bushy eyebrows, quarter notes, flickering candles, large sweaters, love letters, deep sighs and yawns, the pluck of a violin, open mic nights, prep school, poetry slams, denim jackets, Sufjan Stevens, coming of age movies

☆ﾟ*・ PLAYLIST.

i. a song to fix what’s wrong, to take what’s broke and make it whole, a song so beautiful // ii. and i am not alone, i hear the rocks and stones, echoing my song, I’m coming // iii. can’t promise you fair sky above, can’t promise you kind road below, but i will walk with you my love, any way the wind blows

☆ﾟ*・ HOW WOULD YOU PLAY THEM?

Orpheus is full of potential. He’s got the blood of Gods and Muses running through his veins, after all. But he’s still mortal. He’s young and vulnerable and a little too trapped in his own head, doubt always festering. But then, his talent, bubbling up inside himself, is overwhelming. He is able to sway the Fates with his melodies, he can charm Persephone with his songs and make Hades cry with his voice. He is able to split the River Styx for himself, and he writes Epics that make you believe in the world again. He’s got the ability to make you see the way the world should be. And, he has all of the love in the world for Eurydice. You can hear it in the tremble of his tune. But he still turns around, as the doubt creeps in. He still looks around, and Eurydice falls away. But we keep listening to his tale, repeating it over and over in our heads, as though something will change. Because he has that singular ability to make us feel hopeful, again and again and again. 

Oliver is quite a bit like Orpheus. He’s slick and he’s sweet, and talented to boot. Regarding his musical ability- he’s just as able. But he’s a bit more quiet about it all. He’s an English major, writing tales and spinning stories. But his real dream is to write musicals. Musicals that will live on stages and in minds, forever. He hasn’t got too much, his rent is too high, he’s working three jobs (waiting tables, concessions at a local cinema and walking dogs) just to afford his tuition. But he’s happy, scrawling in his journal, seeking inspiration anywhere he can. Occasionally you can hear him singing sweet songs at bars, dotted around the city. He hasn’t found his object of affection just yet - he’s young and there’s so much of the world around for him to experience. But one day, he will love so desperately that someone could write poetry about him.

(There are many versions of the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, and as such, there are variations on who Orpheus actually was. Some say he was a King’s son, some list him as being a son of Apollo. Some don’t mention a father at all. With my own preference, I am having him be the son of Apollo - the musical talent is a given, and they share a youthful incandescence that I simply cannot ignore!)

1. are they more likely to stand with the pantheon or against it?  With it, completely. Orpheus doesn’t look for trouble, even if he’s content with the mortals.

2. what is their stand on mortals? Orpheus is part of the mortals, so he perceives them as his people. He doesn’t quite feel welcome in the world of the Olympians, and he enjoys the simplicity of life, on the ground.

☆ﾟ*・ SAMPLE PARA (OPTIONAL)

It was his favorite time of year, the buds dotted around Central Park. Flowers waiting to bloom. Oliver could feeling the spring in his veins, and it tickled him pink. His boots scuffed along the familiar path. He made his way to his favorite bench near Sheep’s Meadow, a quiet hum, vibrating on his lips. There was still a bit of a chill in the air, and he pulled his hat down to cover his ears. As he neared the bench, he felt a sense of calm wash over him. He sat, feeling the carved letters that sat all around him, smelling the cut grass, hearing a young boy on a swing set. He pulled a worn, leather journal out of his tattered bag, opening it up, delicately, so as to not lose any of the used pages. His scrawl was chaotic and quick, but he could recite the poems and the songs, any day. Today, he clicked open his pen, and began to write down a song of spring. The city made a symphony, and Oliver simply wanted to capture it in whatever way he could.

[pierrotdugan0417]

To start the beginning of a new week I will only tell you about this life metaphor It is said that the river trembles with fear before entering the sea; she looks back, peaks and mountains, the long and winding road she passed between the jungle and the towns, and sees in front of her an ocean so big that you wrap me around the only one that can mean disappearing forever. But there is no other way. The river cannot go back. Nobody can go back. Going back is essentially impossible. Otherwise the river cannot return. The river has to accept its nature and enter the ocean. Just diving into the ocean will melt the fear. Because only then will the river know that it is not about disappearing into the ocean, but about becoming the ocean. So do not fear that it is not waiting for a new week because the universe believes in you in your ability and courage to face everything with courage happy Monday happy start to the week Para iniciar el inicio de una nueva semana solo les hablare de esto metáfora de la vida Se dice que el río tiembla de miedo antes de entrar al mar; mira hacia atrás, picos y montañas, el largo y sinuoso camino que pasó entre la selva y los pueblos, y ve frente a ella un océano tan grande que me envuelves al único que puede significar desaparecer para siempre. Pero no hay otra manera. El río no puede volver atrás. Nadie puede volver atrás. Volver atrás es esencialmente imposible. De lo contrario, el río no puede volver. El río tiene que aceptar su naturaleza y entrar en el océano. Simplemente sumergirse en el océano derretirá el miedo. Porque sólo entonces el río sabrá que no se trata de desaparecer en el océano, sino de convertirse en océano. Así que no temas que no sea esperar una nueva semana porque el universo cree en ti en tu capacidad y valentía para afrontar todo con valentía feliz lunes feliz inicio de semana https://www.instagram.com/p/CkqkjArutPR/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[anapauladibb]

"Dizem que, antes de um rio entrar no mar, ele treme de medo. Olha para trás, para toda jornada que percorreu, para os cumes, as montanhas, para o longo caminho sinuoso que trilhou através de florestas e povoados e vê, à sua frente, um oceano tão vasto, que entrar nele, nada mais é do que desaparecer para sempre. Mas, não há outra maneira. O rio não pode voltar. Ninguém pode voltar. Voltar é impossível na existência. O rio precisa aceitar sua natureza e entrar no oceano. Somente ao entrar no oceano o medo irá se diluir, porque apenas, então, o rio saberá que não se trata de desaparecer no oceano, mas de se tornar o oceano." Khalil Gilbran Não podemos viver 2019 novamente, mas, 2020 é o nosso oceano possível. ÓTIMO 2020 para todos nós! 🎄🎅🏼😁🙏🙌🏼💝🥂🍾#happynewyear #felizanonovo "Before a river enters the sea, it is said, it trembles with fear. It looks back at every journey it has traveled, to the summits, to the mountains, to the long winding path that has trod through forests and settlements, and sees in the distance." before you, such a vast ocean that to enter it is nothing but to disappear forever But there is no other way The river cannot come back No one can come back Return is impossible in existence The river must accept its nature and entering the ocean. Only on entering the ocean will fear be diluted, because only then will the river know that it is not about disappearing into the ocean but becoming the ocean. " Khalil Gilbran We can't live 2019 again, but 2020 is our possible ocean. GREAT 2020 for all of us! 🎄🎅🏼😁🙏🙌🏼💝🥂🍾#happy2020 #❤️ (em Realengo, Rio De Janeiro, Brazil) https://www.instagram.com/p/B6wBjzYnpTf/?igshid=vdz1lcb1c6bb