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chromiumagellanic06 · 8 months ago

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Just Me and You

Aegon I Targaryen x Visenya Targaryen

Summary: Aegon betrayed Visenya when he wed Rhaenys; She finds a way to do something about it. Pre-conquest.

Warnings: some NSFW, Incest, (vague) sex, Blood Magic, Sibling Incest, Jealous rage, alcohol, etc.

Disclaimer: All rights for the characters belong to GRRM and company. img credits to Pinterest.

Word Count: 4.4k

"Don't look so glum," Visenya told her brother, kicking his leg, "You're frowning like a man sent to the gallows." They lay on the garden grass, behind a curtain of wild roses none ventured into, a place they had made their own.

The setting sun shone red and blushed orange in the sky as night tugged at the other end of the horizon, and the autumnal lights, the day's golden sun, made Aegon's face glow admirably.

He laughed through his nose, "I lose my boyhood on the morrow, do show some mercy, dear sister." She laughed at his jab, and propped herself up on the grass to gaze at his face.

His silver hair fell tardily across his brow, his lilac eyes watching her, touched with jest but drowned in hesitation.

“I lose mine girlhood on the morrow also, brother,” she smirked, though she was unsure of herself, “I do not imagine it to be so dull myself.” Then she leaned close, trying her best to conceal the tremor in her frame, the hesitancy in herself.

He sighed, reached for her lips, and her fear burned away, their noses brushing, and for a moment there was only silence in the garden, quiet and the smell of pine and rose and steel.

When she laid back on the grass, both their faces were red, his more so than hers, but it was he who crept a lone hand to his side to hold hers.

“You are right,” he tutted when his breathing levelled, “as usual—”

She kicked his leg again, her words sharp despite his pained laughter, “Do not jest now.”

He quieted a second later, his hand tightening around hers, and she felt relieved instantly. He was there—he had been there, for as long as she could remember. Aegon and Visenya, meant to be wed, meant to be one, by the old ways of their homeland that was lost.

They were their legacy, silver hair and lilac eyes. They were meant to wed since the day Aegon was born.

“It was all leading up to this, I know,” he sat up this time, “Our lives lead up to tomorrow, I just know it, Visenya,” and then, he leaned over Visenya's face, noses again touching, eyes again fixed. She smiled, eyes sparkling despite herself.

“We were always meant to be together, Aegon,” she whispered, arms wrapping around his neck.

Aegon smiled, “Just me and you,” brother and sister, husband and wife, lord and lady.

He kissed her, tongues dancing, eyes flickering close, breaths mingling, and when he laid back down on the green grass, he said, “It shall be divine indeed, dear wife.” Dear sister, dear wife. She chuckled.

The fire was lit on the volcanic coast of Dragonstone, the company had gathered—people of their ancestry, an array of white hair and lilac eyes—Targaryens, Velaryons, Celtigars, even the occasional Volantian, all wrapped in dark tones, for only Aegon and Visenya wore white. Orys Baratheon stood alone with a head of dark hair, smiling throughout the ceremony, ignorant of the whispers that rang among the people of his paternity.

Aeron’s bastard son, they rumoured, before the rituals began.

A priest of the old faith stood presiding. He read hymns in the tongue of the dragon, declarations of purity, of love, of spiritual binding.

They cut the other’s lip with a shard of black dragonglass, stained the other’s forehead with a drop of their blood. Bled into a cup as dark as Valyrian Steel, drank from it, and swore allegiance to the other.

One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.

Sēpar ao se nyke, Visenya.

Just you and me, Visenya against the world of the West. Ambition shall be our only limit, he promised.

Visenya soared through the skies on Vhagar’s back, holding onto the reins and saddle of her friend, urging her to gain speed. She had no wish to remain in her home that night.

She wore silks, a gown of black and red, rubies to match—as had Aegon, she recalled. Even after all this treachery, he was the other half of her soul. He wore ash black, his cloak as red as blood on the inside, the picture of their union—black and red, fire and blood, even as he took Rhaenys to wife.

Rhaenys. White wrapped and adorned in flowers. A disgrace to the dragon.

Rhaenys. Her tit-flashing, whoring little sister. Sister.

Visenya scoffed at the winds, felt her hair whip behind her, delighted in the world’s cold embrace which served to quell the fire within her. She should have known that her sister wouldn’t leave anything for her—her Queen that was her beauty had slain Visenya’s bishops, her rook, nearly all her pawns. It was horrid enough that every man or woman who visited the isle preferred her company to Visenya’s, that songs were sung of her art and beauty, her glory, rather than Visenya’s skill with the sword, but this had been too far.

She had taken her Aegon.

She had taken her husband.

She had taken her soul.

She should have known, Visenya chastised herself, shaking her head against the sky and the clouds, feeling the rush of flight, the risk of the moment. With every low curtsy, with every loud laugh at his less than funny remarks, with every zealous stare of her sister’s as Aegon returned to Visenya’s chambers every night, she should have known of her scheme—a net to entrap her knights, a trap to make her yield.

She should have known that Aegon was weak—weak to his dreams, but weaker still to his desires.

She should have known that he would fall to their brazen slut of a sister, rather than keep his vows to her.

Just you and me, the liar had promised three turns ago, and she, the fool, had believed him. She was wrothful of her tears, but held them regardless.

Visenya was a warrior. She wouldn’t weep over lost love.

When clouds came, and night fell, Vhagar plummeted from the skies, the flapping of her wings near silent, as was her general call. She landed in a forest, of all places, shoving her rider into a low-lying branch.

Visenya fell to the ground, brushing leaves out of her braid when she realised that the familiar heft at her waist was lost. She had left Dark Sister in her fury. Vhagar had made herself comfortable, and looked ready for slumber, curling into a canopy’s shadow till only her reptilian eyes blinked ominously in the darkness.

She crooned, growled. Hungry.

Visenya sighed, mindful that she had fetched her friend before the eve’s meal and had indeed forced her to miss her luncheon of cows and goats—she had been insistent, in her brooding rage before the wedding rituals, to smell only of fire and brimstone. If she couldn’t scream her ire, she’d make it be known in another way.

Visenya trailed out of the woods, finding a large village nearby. She recognised the grassy fields, the edge of forest, the dusty streets well enough. She was near the Dothraki Seas. As she treaded the village’s main pathway, passing homes lit with candles, happy families chattering within, Visenya nearly forgot her anger. It was dusty, even in the night’s darkness, and only a few walked the village at the hour. Most of them gathered around a well near the centre of the village. It had caught her attention by then.

She stopped at the periphery, watching the scene. Men, women, children, whole families, dropped gold, silver, jewels into the well, and joined their hands, bowed their heads and left. She followed suit, staring into the dark well. It was new, lined and well spent on, but jewels and ceremonial sacrifices floated on the surface. Jewels floated.

Visenya roped up a bucket of the water, and examined it. Salty. She cupped a handful and drank it.

She spat it out instantly. Inanely salty. The well had gone brackish when it was grounded. She threw the bucket back into the dark well, continuing her search.

So much for her interests. Unfaithful brothers and brackish wells.

She had walked to the outskirts of the village before she found any sheep. A whole herd, white and large, being handled by a boy too young to have gathered it all alone. He led the flock from a field to a pen beside a small, compact hut.

“You there,” Visenya called, and the boy shut the pen’s door firmly before greeting her. She must have looked odd, she realised. A white-haired woman in a black and red gown, gracing his doorstep an hour past sundown.

“I wish to have a half dozen of your sheep—”

“Not mine, lady…” he glanced at the hut. Just then, the door to the hut slammed open. Out of it hobbled an old woman, wrinkled and hunched, a shrivelled soul in a black tokar with a head of hair as silver as hers.

“Do as the lady says, boy, get six sheep,” the old woman ordered.

Strange…Visenya shook her suspicions away. Things were different this far east, she reminded herself.

“How do I pay you?” She asked the old woman as she took the reins for six sheep from the helper boy. “I have some gold, I believe.”

“A drop of your blood shall do.” Her voice was scratchy, her green eyes twinkled strangely.

“My blood?” Visenya raised a brow, unsure.

“Valyrian blood has power; this shall do a world of good for this village,” the old woman struggled towards her hut, returning with a discoloured glass vial. “Come you from across the Narrow Sea?” Visenya considered the exchange. Her heritage was guessable, a young face with silver hair, her lilac eyes, would give away her bloodline easily. Why blood? She had heard tales of maegi sorcerers who used blood to regain youth, used flesh to cure illness.

“Volantis,” Visenya lied, sure that her silken robes would let her pass for one of those worthless diluted slavers. “The Walled City.” She unsheathed a dagger, iron, not steel, to not give herself away, and struck a gash across her palm.

“Now, now,” the old woman smiled, her face wrinkling further, yellow, broken teeth glimmering in the dark evening, and gathered the blood in her vial. “You need not lie to me, Lady Visenya.”

Lady Visenya.

Visenya tightened a grip on her blade, cursing herself for having left Dark Sister behind on Dragonstone. Levelling her voice to dampen her alarm, she asked, “How do you know who I am?”

The woman corked her vial with an old piece of resin-laden wood, and waddled back into the hut, throwing the words behind her as she walked, trapping the door to her home open, “I see much that others may not.”

She took the sheep, convincing herself against seeking the old woman out further, and retraced her steps to the woods. She found Vhagar exactly as she had left her, and even after she roasted the sheep with a spell of flame, chewed on their flesh and spat out the bones, she wouldn’t budge.

“Soves, Vhagar!” She struggled atop her saddle, trying in vain to coax her beast to take flight. Vhagar only grumbled in her throat, shaking her rider off with a flick of her tail. Visenya rolled on the ground as she fell, unhurt but distraught.

“Fine,” she said, insulted and angered, and walked to the edge of the clearing. She laid down on the patch of moss there, gasping from the fall still and frustrated by Vhagar’s antics. She didn’t quite catch her sleep taking her.

She dreamt of flames, and scales. A dragon’s egg, in her grasp, warm from the embers she had found it in, the gash in her hand bleeding, bleeding, bleeding over ash and dragon scales, a mangled wyrmling in the distance—its scales and wings torn and bloody, twisted and knotted like some horrendous image from her sister’s poor childhood sketches come to life.

When she awoke, Visenya was grateful to the strange woman. However strange she had been, she had distracted the warrior enough for her rage to cool. But now, she knew not where to place her efforts.

“You are a pain, I hope you know that!” She screamed at Vhagar, who remained in the shadow of the woods’ canopy, slumbering in peace, unaffected by her rider’s rage, unresponsive at her attempts to force her beast to fly, for fuck’s sake, fly! She stumbled back to the village, dusty streets filled with people now, young children chasing each other through the fields.

She passed the ill well from the previous eve, raised an eyebrow at the people who huddled around it. A hoard of women chattered aloud, Westerosi mixed with lower Valyrian, some dialects of Dothraki and Pentoshi tossed around in the hubbub. They were filling water from the well, large barrels and wooden buckets laid out in rows.

“You there,” she beckoned to a young girl, barely ten, with pigtails and an ugly yellow dress, “The well had gone brackish,” she did not ask.

The girl shrugged her shoulders, “The priests have done rites for a sennight past. It worked.” Visenya needed to hear no more. She followed the cluttered houses and long alleys to the home of the old woman. Blood had power.

She found the desolate hut again, but no helper boy and no swine nearby. Climbing the three clayed steps to the closed door, she knocked—three raps with her fist, and the door swung open.

She took a careful step inside.

The woman’s hut only smelled of honey and metal, sickly sweet and bloody, though Visenya wasn’t sure if it was her gashed hand that stank of blood, for it had started bleeding again and profusely. The home was comfortable, with a familiar stench of old wine and everything inside the low-lying hut was warm and red and brown, lit by gold candles as the windows were curtained with dark, heavy velvet.

The old woman was no where to be seen.

In front of the flames, however, sat a young, rather beautiful lady, clad in red and gold silk. Her ebony hair was braided with intricacy, piled atop her head in the classical sense of the Ghiscari. Visenya recognised her robes to be resembling a tokar, and found her eyes to be a familiar green.

No.

A chilled breeze crept through the open door, leaving Visenya with a wave of shivers.

“Cold outside, isn’t it?” the beautiful woman read her mind, staring at Visenya with a crystal-clear interest through her shimmering green eyes. She waved a hand at the fireplace. Bizzare as it was, and quite shockingly also, a flame spluttered alive amidst the wood. Visenya backed away from the flames, turning to the door to find it shuttered close.

She turned back with trepidation, dagger in hand, “You’re a witch.”

“Yes,” the young woman stood, smiled in a way so dazzling that she’d put Rhaenys to shame, “I must thank you for yesterday. The villagers much appreciate your kindness.” Valyrian blood has power. “As do I, as you must concur,” she curtsied, her tokar catching orange in the light of the flame. She had used her blood for the gift of youth? The witch inched towards Visenya, “But you are not here for gratitude.”

Visenya considered the woman, the meaning of all this. Would he return to her? In one fluid motion, she sheathed her blade and addressed the witch, “No.”

“No,” she smiled, lips morphing red, teeth glinting white. It reminded Visenya of the old woman—same woman, she reminded herself. “No, you want knowledge,” she turned on her heel, her silk robe brushing against Visenya’s red and black gown. “It would be my pleasure to reteach the craft to one of your kind.”

“Reteach?” She followed the woman through a door, short and cramped such that they both had to bow to miss the head, into a poorly lit room with cabinets upon cabinets filled with jars and herbs and strange, browned fluids. Visenya saw the vial that had contained her own blood, empty save for a thin sheen left on the glass, next to old yellowed parchment with strange writings.

“Your people were the inception of sorcery, Lady Visenya,” the witch told her, standing far too close for Visenya to find agreeable, “But the craft has been lost to your people, as has your home.” Valyria’s gone. They belonged nowhere, Aegon had reminded her constantly.

She placed a candelabra on a rickety wooden table, clicking her pale, slender fingers to light the wicks, and asked for Visenya’s hand. Visenya watched, with bated breath, as her hand was held atop the flame. It didn’t burn, fire doesn’t burn a dragon, but her blood sizzled in the golden glow.

Aegon. She closed her eyes, brow scrunching, resolve hardening. They were meant to be together. Just them. Aegon and Visenya. A tale written in stone.

“You know what it is that I desire.” She harshened her voice.

“Yes,” the witch handed her a tome, old and wrinkled, the pages blanched and yellowed. “I return the knowledge of your ancestors to you, Visenya Targaryen.”

She didn’t stay long enough to ask why.

Three links of silver, blood drawn from iron and fire—Visenya reached for Aegon’s Dagger, taken from his solar without his notice, and she balanced the light, sharp blade on her lap as she read on, A circlet of ash, an object of desire, bound by a hymn that Meleys shall answer.

Dragon’s blood had power, but a god’s had more.

Visenya sat on the floor of her chambers, the hour of the bat bringing strange whispers with the ocean winds, whispers that rang strangely along her windowpanes, undrowned by the crackling blaze in the fireplace. Her legs ached from the harsh marble against them, and her chest heaved rampantly under her thin white shift.

Visenya sliced her thumb on the sharp edge of the dagger, staining the jagged curve with her blood, the blood of the dragon, then traced the dripping red across the three silver links in front of her. Visenya took a deep breath, shuddered, and sang a song, the likes of which had not been sung within the Keep of Dragonstone for years long passed.

“Oh, Meleys, jaesa hen jorrāela,” Oh, Meleys, goddess of love, she began, and voiced a testament to her power, against her own nature. She was Vhagar, the goddess of war, but all was in love also.

She threw the links in the flames, and sang the song again, her words echoing through the stone halls of the Keep to ring pure and melodious in the ears of Aegon, stark awake as he was at the balcony of Rhaenys’ chambers, eyes fixed westwards.

Queen takes queen.

A knock at her door—and Visenya stumbled towards the doors she had bolted shut. Her hand had been liberal in the pouring of wine. She sat alone, as she had every night since her return from Essos. Three nights spent alone—suppers missed, mornings lost, only flames and blood and spells and Vhagar in her days. Anything to allay herself of the pain of seeing Rhaenys and Aegon, the latter all but drooling over her tits at every stupid remark she made.

Gods, how foolish she felt, running from them, hearing her sister’s ugly lies of destiny and love. Grab any man by the cock that hard and he’ll dream himself a love story.

She opened the door a fraction, surprised to find her brother outside. Pawn forward? He looked the same, and it hurt her. The same silver hair, the same posture, the same expression on his face as whenever he treaded close to her—calm, calm, eternal calm, for they were one soul, so what had he to fear or reproach? Visenya ventured back inside, and he followed, bolted the door shut as though the rooms were still his. Ha. She supposed that he had never renounced her aloud.

“Quite soon of you to bore of the woman who warms your bed,” she remarked, gulping down wine from a silver goblet, caution thrown to the wind as anger surged through her again. She would not take the name of the woman she had once called sister, not to him. “Took you three years to bore of me, thought she’d last longer.”

That angered him, just as she knew that it would. His jaw tightened, eyebrows cross, “What are you implying, Visenya?”

Implying. Poets and dramatists implied. They twisted their words to reflect pesky things like sentiment and beauty. She was no beauty, preaching the arts. She was war.

“I am implying nothing, brother. I am not a frolicking maid to dance around the truth, forever oblivious of how foolish she seems. Why the fuck are you here?” She threw the chalice in his general direction, missing by a considerable edge.

She expected him to rage after her, to scream, to argue, to order her to submit, ha, to fall to her knees in reverence of her lord husband—he did so adore the western ways.

He did not.

And it was then, that she wondered, whether the spell had indeed worked. Aegon embraced her, as drunk and writhing as she was, held her close, black and red—ash and rubies—fire and blood, and she lost her breath.

“You ran from me, Visenya,” Aegon whispered in her ear, his hands holding her tight, “Left me alone to face the day.”

Visenya laughed, bitter, mocking, more sobful than amused, “I left you?” She wished she could push away, keep her dignity, denounce his impish desire for both her and Rhaenys. She couldn’t. Between the nights he spent away and the atrocities she committed to regain him, she could not push him away, even if he burned her pride and turned her to ash.

“Did you not see me wear our colours for you?” En Passant. He wounded in passing, intention drowned by sheer will of might.

He kissed her, and she clenched her eyes shut to stop her tears from flowing. Red and Black. Targaryen colours, not their colours, but, yes, he had defied tradition. He had not worn cream or white to meet Rhaenys, had not claimed to be hers alone. But he had taken her still.

“I saw you wed our sister,” and she cringed at how high her voice sounded. Shrill and broken. A helpless damsel weeping for her losses. That she will not be. Visenya pushed Aegon away, turned away, walking to the gallery, gazing at the ocean and the night, unable to face him, to show him her weakness.

She heard him breath, heard him approach her, unsure, hesitant as he had been that sunlit eve in the gardens.

She scoffed, anger and confidence filling her again, “Was it all a lie, brother? All your proclamations? All your love?” He snaked his arms around her waist, wet lips touching her shoulder, her ear, her cheek. Visenya threw her head down, struggled out of his reach, refusing to let him have the final word, refusing to let him win her over that easily.

I am war.

“Was it funny for you?” She asked, “To flirt with her half our lives and come fuck me when night fell? Did it please you to use me?” Fool, she was. The greatest fool. Convinced that Aegon would be immune to her sister’s wiles, convinced that he’d put her first.

“I cannot say that I do not love her,” he admitted, and she watched the stars, blurry eyed, not trusting herself to speak and not weep. “You and I are one soul, Visenya,” he sounded wistful, as broken as she was, “When you ache this way,” he turned her forcefully, caught her face in his hands, though only inches below him she stood in stature, and she could see his eyes glisten, “I wish to bring the skies down to see you smile.”

To be as they once were—one heart, one soul, one flesh, one life. Dragons meant to be one for eternity. Balerion and Vhagar. Aegon and Visenya. His vision since boyhood broken in the face of another’s beauty.

“Then renounce her,” she confessed her wish, her voice loud and clear despite the treachery in her words, “Be mine, Aegon,” she buried her face in him, “Just you and me.” For eternity.

Aegon sighed, eyes again caught onto the horizon. Aegon gazed across the Blackwater, to the land ripe for conquest, his dreams returning to him. Dream of ice, dreams of blood. He told her, “I cannot.”

Visenya laughed, broken forever, and banged her fist against his chest in sync with her sobs that had finally broken free. He held her, his older sister, more torn apart by his fault than he had ever seen her before—and the thought crushed him.

What have I done? He dared ask, but he couldn’t—Rhaenys, Rhaenys, Rhaenys. Music for laughter and blossoms for smiles. He couldn’t let her go.

When her tears ceased, her eyes were red. She left his embrace, left him cold, and turned the bottle of Arbor Red over her mouth. She gulped the sour wine more out of necessity than desire, unable to face her failure or the fact that he wished to amend their bond. Knights defend.

When the glass bottle emptied its last drop on her tongue, she fell on her bed, dizzy, warm, hot, burning. Her final move, in this game of chess against Rhaenys, where Aegon was both prize and puppet.

“Come here,” she beckoned to her brother. Aegon followed her words, stood beside her bed, took her hand and let her lead it to her heart. She told him, in drunken ecstasy, her eyes unfocused and words slurred, “I am not her, Aegon—but I am still yours,” and she heard her own heart’s beat, its thrum, its drum within her as frantic as her thoughts’ run. Oh Meleys, grant him lust. Her eyes closed.

She remembered screaming, but not out of pain, remembered him promise to honour their vow also. She felt his skin against hers, the heft of his flesh moving, shifting, rhyming with hers. She remembered little, other than the warmth of his lips on her breast, the shivering feel of his seed dripping out of her cunt, oh, so familiar.

When she awoke, she found her voice almost entirely lost. Her head ached, worse than it had in a long time. She recalled no dreams, found her bed empty—but her skin littered with bruises and bites, a milky mess between her legs.

Visenya fell back on her bed, relishing in the feel of that moment—pained, tainted, claimed.

Checkmate.

#asoiaf #asoif fanfic #aegon i targaryen #visenya the conqueror #visenya targaryen #queen visenya #dragonstone #blood magic #aegon the conqueror #house targaryen #vhagar #aegon x visenya #game of thrones

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acquiremarketresearch · 5 years ago

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Accelerometers Market Gross Margin, Attractiveness, Competitive Landscape and Key Players - Aeron, Honeywell, Ixblue, & more

Accelerometers Market Gross Margin, Attractiveness, Competitive Landscape and Key Players – Aeron, Honeywell, Ixblue, & more

Acquire Market Research

The Global Accelerometers Marketresearch report delivers a sweeping analysis of the current and futuristic growth of the industry that will assist clients, market players, potential and investors to make further business decisions accordingly. The report involves valuable insights into the market size, share, revenue, sales volume, attractiveness, and CAGR. The report also…

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#Accelerometers #Accelerometers Market #Accelerometers Market Applications #Accelerometers Market Manufactures #Accelerometers Market Trends #Accelerometers Market Types #Accelerometers Market United States #Aeron #analysis #forecast #Growth #Honeywell #Ixblue #L3 Communications #Lord Microstrain #market #sample #Trends

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iimmcrtalis-archive · 7 years ago

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Rachel: so if Miriam is fucko #2 who's fucko #1

Aeron: Faron

Rachel: [ img of thing 1 & 2 ]

Aeron: god

Aeron,: Faron is Fucko # 1 Warren is Beefy Booty Call Eludysia is Bingo Night 🔪🔪 Cas is Spero [ latin for hope ] Jesse is Peter Parker ( cause he's a photographer ) Emma is Sunflower

also notable: spooky babe is Ra livewire is K

revas’ contact names for ppl y’all

#:: ooc #desiderrium #allurfavesrgay #amongstmortals #im crying over this

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heididahlsveen · 7 years ago

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Yesterday I left my pink home. I’ve had it for a while now, but yesterday I closed the door or teleported to another place.

My virtual life started in 2008. It was due to a program called “Facts on Saturday” here in Norway. Just that Saturday I watched it, the program was documentary about people who lived a virtual life, for example, the documentary followed an American woman who left her marriage because she had found the great love in virtual life. I remember I thought, “How is it possible to be so stupid? I have to try that! ”

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When I started my virtual life, when I became a living in the metaverse, I knew I had to be true to what I consider as my call in life: To tell stories with special focus on the folk material. And to be a mere citizen of a 3D world was not enough of me, I had to be an active citizen, I had to create. First I started making poses and tried to understand the magic of taking pictures. Somehow, I still tried to tell stories, but my competence in taking pictures is and was very limited, and I really did not have the patience to understand photoshop; sometimes I have been lucky, usually not.

[aesop_image imgwidth=”300%” img=”http://www.fortellerkunstner.no/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/452liten.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”on” captionposition=”left” revealfx=”off”] #gallery-0-22 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-22 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-22 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-22 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

After a certain time in the pixel life, you become yourself, you feel like you need home, where you can undress ^^ and invite friends. I did not want to rent, I wanted to buy, to own my land. So I bought a full region, a sim from LL. The making of a home was not my main purpose, the making of a folktale was. I wanted people to walk into a Norwegian folktale and create their own story. Now, I was not a creator, I was not a builder, I can rezz a prim and that is all – so I hired builders, among them Soror Nishi, to make the image of the folktale, my role was a kind of storyteller, or maybe rather a curator. The first companion opened in December 2009, and had an amazingly numbers of visitors.

The interest of a place is shortlived, soon there is an another place to visit and experience. I closed it for visitors to have it rebuild. This time I hired the incredible hobbit Andrek Lowell, to create the landscape of the story. The sim reopened in December 2010 – not as much visited this time as first time. Then I gave up, it became too expensive to own a full sim.

[aesop_image imgwidth=”300%” img=”http://www.fortellerkunstner.no/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/447liten.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”on” captionposition=”left” revealfx=”off”] #gallery-0-23 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-23 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-23 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-23 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

Since then I was lucky to participate in different art projects with other creative members of the metaverse. I learned a lot, I wrote…. And then it stopped. The last years, the only thing that has kept me coming back, to log in every morning has been the virtual animals.

I’ve had my dedication to virtual animals over the regular, I would say. I started with bunnies created by Ozimals and continued with the fantasy creatures called Meeroos. A virtual animal or AI animal is an animal that can reproduce itself and often there are some structures related to this, whether you want to breed a particular gen or mutate or create an elite. In many ways, virtual animal breeding has similarities to real life, except that it goes much faster in the virtual world and the animal, in prinsiple never dies. But you have to make sure to feed the animal otherwise you will lose it. I did this in 2009 to 2012.

[aesop_image imgwidth=”300%” img=”http://www.fortellerkunstner.no/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/450liten.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”on” captionposition=”left” revealfx=”off”] #gallery-0-24 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-24 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-24 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-24 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

In 2014, I went back to Ozimals. Which did not happen in silence at all, when one of the creators / owners contacted me:

Aeron Constantine: thanks for the Ozimals support onomatopoetikon, I have to know — what does your name mean? heh onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): Oh sorry did not see this, means sound of words like: grrr, iik etc. Old customer found her way back. Aeron Constantine: /me grins, I remember you Aeron Constantine: well… one of you Aeron Constantine: well welcome back to Ozimals, glad to have your support after all these years Aeron Constantine: (This is Malk onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): thank you, yes. Lovely to be back and figure things out. Aeron Constantine: /me smiles, a few changes a long the way – nothing terribly crazy I don’t think Aeron Constantine: lots of fun new things though onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): Wonderful Aeron Constantine: let me know if you need any help getting reacquainted Aeron Constantine: if you haven’t seen it yet, we do have a helpful trait list on the wiki now onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): thank you, so far all fine, the basic is the same. onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): yes, I have looked at it Aeron Constantine: http://wiki.ozimals.com/index.php?title=Trait_Timeline Aeron Constantine: oh great 🙂 onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): Thank you Aeron Constantine: np!

[aesop_image imgwidth=”300%” img=”http://www.fortellerkunstner.no/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/pinkhome5_001.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”on” captionposition=”left” revealfx=”off”] #gallery-0-25 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-25 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-25 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-25 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

Aeron Constantine: have a great day, sorry to interrupt but welcome back :3 onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): No interuption and thank you the same Aeron Constantine: of course, were there any bunnies you’ve lost or have gone back to Oz that you can’t live without? 🙂 onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): Well, now I would like to see what I can breed, and luckily I found one mini rex chocolate I though would be hard to get. onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): found on the market Aeron Constantine: it’s getting harder and harder to locate older original furs onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): Yes, I would think so. Aeron Constantine: we’ve retired A LOT onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): I saw on the list Aeron Constantine: check out Mini Rex Too Chocolate Aeron Constantine: we recreated from scratch 3 of the original breeds for a LE onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): I have not seen that onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): oh how lovely Aeron Constantine: want to be surprised or a link to a photo? Heh onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): yes, would love to see a photo Aeron Constantine: https://www.flickr.com/search/groups/?w=1184616%40N20&m=pool&q=Mini%20Rex%20Too%20Chocolate Aeron Constantine: have 3 :3 onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): thank you Aeron Constantine: no problem onomatopoetikon (mimesis.monday): beautiful

Then suddenly, 14 days ago, Ozimals disappeared. And now there is no reason to log in anymore. Maybe it is for the best.

Bye, bye my pink home Yesterday I left my pink home. I've had it for a while now, but yesterday I closed the door or teleported to another place.

#Ozimals #second life #Virtual world

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giveawayposts · 4 years ago

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Gear Patrol Start Your Morning Sweepstakes - Win Herman Miller Aeron

Gear Patrol Start Your Morning Sweepstakes – Win Herman Miller Aeron

Gear Patrol Start Your Morning Sweepstakes open for United States, which is going to ends on August 10th, 2020. So, all active participants should enter fast before the end date. Just submit your entry and get chance to win Herman Miller Aeron with ARV of all prizes is $2388.95.

Sweepstakes Entry Page Sweepstakes Official Rules Ends on 10-08-2020 (DD-MM-YYYY)

How To Enter :

No…

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gpsdanoticia · 4 years ago

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Hey Mail liberado pela App Store, agora disponível para todos

O Hey Mail depois de ter sido bloqueado na App Store, este novo serviço de correio electrónico da Basecamp Hey está finalmente disponível para download para iOS e iPadOS.

Antes este novo serviço serviço só estava disponível através de uma pré-visualização apenas por convite, isto depois de ter passado dois em desenvolvimento. Este novo serviço de correio electrónico foi só agora lançado…

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ketoprakdl · 4 years ago

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Pandora's Tower (UNDUB) (USA) Wii ISO

Pandora’s Tower (UNDUB) (USA) Wii ISO

KetoprakDL – Pandora’s Tower is an action role-playing game developed by Ganbarion for the Wii. The game released in May 2011 in Japan, April 2012 in PAL territories, and April 2013 in North America: while Xseed Games published the game in North America, Nintendo was the publisher in all other regions. Focusing on the efforts of protagonist Aeron to rid his love Elena of a curse that is turning…

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#.iso #Action #Nintendo #Pandora&039;s Tower #RPG #Wii #Xseed Games

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crimsonstarry · 1 year ago

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I am under the bold assumption that if I post my WIPS maybe one day i will finish them.

#.img aeron #acedia oc thingos #my art #wip

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serenstars · 6 months ago

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while i'm working out remaking my pinned, here's most recent screenshots from each of my currently active files.

Aeron (tav; roguebard) | Vesper (durge; druidbard)

Ceri (tav; sorceranger) | Calliope (durge; bard)

Iris (durge; sorcerer) | Sterling (tav; cleric)

#img #t: aeron #d: vesper #t: ceri #d: calliope #d: iris #t: sterling #if my fellow plural mutuals recognize sterling.....🤫 dw about it

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folhadegoias · 4 years ago

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Jornais de Goiás - Equipamento desenvolvido pela Aeronáutica identifica novo coronavírus no ar

Jornais de Goiás – Equipamento desenvolvido pela Aeronáutica identifica novo coronavírus no ar

Na busca pelos melhores recursos científicos para serem usados contra a Covid-19, a corrida contra o tempo é fator decisivo e de extrema importância. Um dos resultados do trabalho da Força Aérea Brasileira (FAB) nesse sentido é o equipamento que identifica a presença do coronavírus no ar. A inovação, que deve ser finalizada em sete semanas, é desenvolvida nos laboratórios do Instituto Tecnológico…

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#Bolsonaro #Brasil #Destaque #Goiânia #Goiás #Governo do Brasil #Governo Federal #Jair Messias Bolsonaro #Manchetes #Ministério da Defesa #Notícias #Presidência da República #Secom #Últimas notícias

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skookworks · 5 years ago

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Gallery: The Unspeakable and the Inhuman Above is my 2007 cover design/illustration for a give away CD of recordings of The Unspeakable and the Inhuman. Unspeakabe was a comedy horror podcast serial produced that year. The series was written by Derek Fetters and Sam Stewart. It’s an original, very funny take on the Cthulhu Mythos. Derek handed out the CDs to interested folks at the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival that year. He and I attended the Festival a few times before life got in the way.

Derek and Sam put together nine episodes of Unspeakable before, yeah, life got in the way. Those episodes are currently being hosted at 19 Nocturne Boulevard, a site that presents original adaptations of horror stories. Download and listen!

In 2008 a friend of Derek’s designed a website for the show and asked if I could contribute some art. That website is gone but the illustrations are below.

#gallery-0-6 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-6 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-6 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-6 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

Story Seed #42 1-800-MAKEDIE

Posted in a less prominent place on one of those community bulletin boards often found in grocery stores and coffee shops and bars, a small flyer reads: 1-800-MAKEDIE Call anytime. Leave a name. No explanation needed. We’ll handle the rest.

The protagonist calls the number. Perhaps as a joke. Perhaps out of morbid curiousity. Perhaps in a moment of late night drunken justification. Leaves the name of someone they hate on the recording.

Possibilities:

The person named is found dead, horribly murdered. The protagonist waits in agony and guilt for the other shoe to drop. Time passes. The murder goes unsolved. The case is forgotten. The protagonist calls the number again.

The person named is found dead, horribly murdered. The protagonist waits in disbelief and guilt for the other shoe to drop. Time passes. The murder goes unsolved. The case is forgotten. The protagonist becomes obsessed with finding out who was behind the number and who committed the crime.

The person named is found dead, horribly murdered. The protagonist waits in trepidation for the other shoe to drop. Time passes. The murder goes unsolved. The case is forgotten. The protagonist has saved the flyer. When a friend laments about a horrible person in their life, the protagonist gives them the number.

The person named is found dead, cause unknown. The protagonist waits in agony and guilt for the other shoe to drop. Time passes. The protagonist questions whether they were responsible for the death or if it was just a weird coincidence.

The person named is found dead, horribly murdered. The police arrest the protagonist and charge them with the crime. The protagonist was at home, asleep, during the time of the murder but has no witnesses and all evidence points to their guilt.

The person named comes after the protagonist with murderous intent. Their family has been kidnapped and the ransom is to kill the protagonist.

….?

Recommendation: Monster Brains

Monster Brains is a primarily visual blog from Aeron Alfrey. The blog is themed around fantasy illustration. Each post is spotlights a single subject. Sometimes it’s a run of covers from a specific publication. Sometimes it’s a collection of related images – VHS box art or book covers. Usually each post features the work of a different fantasy artist. Alfrey has been updating this blog for years so there are thousands and thousands of weird images to peruse. If you like what you see, add something to the tip jar.

Current Events

I love how “unlimited data” becomes “we didn’t expect you to use this much data so we’re throttling your usage”. We get our cell phone service from Consumer Cellular. The Nephew spends most of his waking moments using his phone. On Friday I got a notice that we had reached the limit of our unlimited data plan. Kinda. Sorta. Consumer Cellular gives us 35G of shared data per month. “Unlimited”. Once we hit 35G we can use more data, they just throttle the speed that they provided that data. For an additional fee they will allow the data to be provided at high speed.

So Consumer Cellular has gone from being a company I’d recommend to being just another lying cell phone company. Their plans are still cheaper and easier to manage than the previous companies we’ve worked with. And if we didn’t have a Nephew our data usage would be much, much lower. I’m just not a fan of being lied to.

That I’m leading with complaints about our cell phone service tells you how exciting our life is right now.

Big Sister delivered another cooler full of wonderfulness – French Beef Burgundy Pie, Cuban Pork Ribs over Red Beans, and Thai Green Curry Chicken. We are lucky, luck people.

This week did demonstrate why I’m still more concerned about dog bites than about infectious diseases. One of my fellow carriers got her hand mauled by a dog. She’s the sixth carrier to get bitten in the last 12 months. I don’t know the exact circumstances of this bite. Like far too much news I heard about it via a post on Facebook. She included a photo of her bandaged hand. Dog bites happen more in sunny weather. Customers leave their dogs out in their yards or leave their front doors open to get some air in their house. They think that keeping their screen door closed with keep their dog in the house. And that works until the dog sees someone approaching that door.

I’ve had it happen a few times over the years. The dog leaps at the door (or window) and goes through the screen. Oftentimes the dog is surprised that the screen didn’t hold and pauses momentarily to process this new state of being. It had, after all, been throwing itself against the door (or window) on a regular basis and had never passed through it before. On a good day the dog’s owner will grab the mutt and pull it back it in. On a bad day someone gets bitten. On my route I’ve learned which houses are inadequately prepared for dog breakouts and I just don’t deliver on days when they’ve left door and windows open.

Things get trickier when delivering on other routes. You never know what ferocious beast might be lurking on the other side of a fence. Even the sweetest, friendliest dog has sharp teeth. A concientious carrier will include dog warnings for subs in their pulldowns but they can’t cover all the addresses all time. People dog sit. People have new dogs. People have dogs that the carriers don’t know about.

I end up appreciating the friendly, mellow dogs on my route even more. The ones that just look out the window at me and shrug. The ones who just don’t care. Those are my “good dogs”.

Hopefully your week has passed pleasantly. Hopefully your coming week has something worth looking forward to nestled amidst the chores and noise. Take care of yourself. Be good to your friends and family. Be kind to strangers. And if you have the opportunity to punch a Nazi be sure to wear gloves.

Tuesday Night Party Club #19 Gallery: The Unspeakable and the Inhuman Above is my 2007 cover design/illustration for a give away CD of recordings of…

#99Stories #1-800-MAKEDIE #19 Nocturne Boulevard #Cthulhu Mythos #Derek Fetters #H.P. Lovecraft #Monster Brains #Sam Stewart #story seed 42 #The Unspeakable and the Inhuman #Tuesday Night Party Club

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