#Pomino

[gaygreenranger]

➡ I haven't introduced you guys to Olaf.

Adopted him on 10/29/23

[divulgatoriseriali]

Dal Chianti Classico al Vinsanto: viaggio nel vino etrusco e romano

In tutte le parti del mondo la parola Chianti risveglia nelle persone pensieri stupendi o ricordi indimenticabili. Difatti, è uno dei vini italiani più esportati al mondo. Il Chianti Classico, in particolare, viene venduto per il 10% della vendita internazionale proprio in UK. Ma come è nato il Chianti? Cosa significa Chianti Classico? Qual è la storia del Chianti Classico, Come si distinguono i…

[tigerlyla-of-metinna]

Chapter 4: A Plan Gone Awry

Summary:

Sarah puts her plan into action to meet Emhyr in the privacy of his chambers. Her plan did not go as expected.

“I wish to speak with you. Privately” Mererid did not mince words, shooed the girls with a flick of a wrist. “All of you. Leave us.”

Any other day Sarah would argue, aggressively, at this usurpation in her own house but the severe manner of the chamberlain brooked no discussion. Sarah leaned over Martina and whispered a command. Martina nodded and ordered the girls to clear the table before ushering them out of the cottage. Mererid remained quiet, staring firmly at Sarah, arms across his chest- a mannerism the chamberlain displays rarely.

It made her nervous.

After the doors are closed, and only the two of them are alone, the air felt thick with uncomfortable tension. It was so quiet; Sarah could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. She decided to cut the tension by offering him a seat.

“Would you like some tea, Master Chamberlain?”

He answered by reaching for the Pomino on the table and poured himself a glass. Sarah’s mouth formed an “o” in surprise. She reached for a glass herself but Mererid held out his hand and poured for her.

“Am, am I… in trouble, sir?” she asked hesitantly, adding courtesy to soften whatever blow she’ll receive. Mererid drained half the wine and set the wineglass on the table, spinning the stem between his fingers. Without taking his eyes off his half-empty wineglass, he motioned for Sarah to sit. Sarah obeyed, also taking a swallow of her own liquid courage, hoping the spirits’ fire to warm the blood that flowed frozen in her veins.

Mererid filled his glass almost to the brim and emptied it in one go, earning a wide-eyed shock from Sarah.

“Master Chamberlain! Sir! You are still on duty… so, ease up on the wine?”

He stifled a burp. “What I am about to say, I cannot utter while sober.”  His eyes were still clear. Focused. But it had that telltale glaze starting to film over it. Sarah took a measured gulp of her own drink. She couldn’t stop her eyebrow from rising at the sight of him refilling his wineglass.

“Your Majordomo was very insistent on you replacing one of the maids cleaning the emperor’s apartments, citing your past experience as a maidservant under the emperors’ employ-“

Sarah spluttered as the wine went down her windpipe.

“-and it just so happens one is on a seven day of paid leave to tend to an ailing father two weeks from today. Looks like her misfortune is your golden opportunity for some private time with His Imperial Majesty-“ Mererid quickly raised a hand when Sarah opened her mouth. “Don’t bother denying, milady. I am not dumb nor blind to what is going on.”

Mererid grinned satisfactorily, seeing Sarah’s face burned beet red as he hit the mark. He lifted the wine to his lips and drained half its contents.

“I strongly advice you, Lady Sarah, to give up this hopeless- and dangerous- endeavor. A gardener. A peasant hoping for more than crumbs at her masters' table. You have to be of noble blood first and then maybe you have a slim chance of competing with His Imperial Majesty’s lovers.”

[prilosecthegreat]

Pominoes

Shes so girl fail I love her

[wineeveryscene]

Castello Nipozzano in Chianti Rufina, Toscana　訪問

2024年8月19日、フィレンツェの東, キアンティ・ルフィナの中心に位置するフレスコバルディ所有のニポッツァーノワイナリーを訪問しました。ワイナリー見学は翌日で、まずはワイナリー内のアコモデーションにチェックイン。昔オリーブオイル搾油所だったところを改装した、それは素敵な客室で、ブドウ畑を眺望できるジャグジーで夢心地。夕食はテラスで夕焼けを見ながら、フレスコバルディのワインと共に。

さて、翌日11時からワイナリー見学へ。ガイド役のFedericaさんが、1000年以上続くファミリー、オーナーのフレスコバルディ家の歴史からレクチャー。中世に銀行家として繁栄を築いたファミリーは、芸術や建築にも影響を与え、ワイン造りは19世紀の中ごろから。アルノ川を見下ろす山の中腹に位置するニポッツァーノ城は西暦1000年代からフィレンツェを守る要塞で、1855年トスカーナで初めてカベルネ・ソーヴィニヨン、メルロー、カベルネ・フラン、プティ・ヴェルドが植えられました。「ニポッツァーノ」の名前の由来は「井戸がない」で、このあたりは水に乏しいのでブドウ栽培に適していたようです。

醸造所も見学させていただき、400年間使われているというセラーには1864ヴィンテージのワインも！

見学途中で、ニポッツァーノのフラッグシップであるNIPOZZANO RISERVA Chianti Rufina Riserva DOCG2021を試飲。90%サンジョヴェーゼ品種で残り10%はヴィンテージによるそうで、2020年ヴィンテージはメルローとカベルネ品種。樽熟成2年間。ミネラルとスパイスを感じ、キメ細かなタンニンが印象的なエレガントな味わい。

見学終了後、クラッシックなテイスティングルームへと移動し、美味しそうな生ハムやチーズと共に3アイテムの試飲させていただきました。

BENEFIZIO RISERVA Pomino Bianco Riserva DOC2022

シャルドネ100%、樽熟成12カ月。ニポッツァーノの北東にあるフレスコバルディ所有のポミーノワイナリーは標高300m～800mにあるため冷涼で、高品質な白ワインを産するそうです。

ドライフルーツや白い花の香り。ボリューム感がありながら、果実味と酸味のバランスがパーフェクト。

NIPOZZANO VECCHIE VITI Chianti Rufina Riserva DOCG 2021

サンジョヴェ―ゼ90％で、残り10%はマルヴァジア・ネラ、コロリーノ、カナイオーロから。コンクリートタンクで自然発酵し、木樽熟成2年間。フローラルでフルーティーな香り、繊細で��らかなタンニン、果実の凝縮感と酸味の調和が素晴らしく、余韻が長い。

かつてはフレスコバルディ家の“プライベート・コレクション”と呼ばれ、子供が誕生するとこのワインをその子のプライベートセラーに保存し、その後の人生の大切な節目に飲まれるという伝統があったそうです。

MORMORETO Toscana IGT2021

カベルネ・ソーヴィニヨンを主体として、サンジョヴェーゼ、カベルネ・フラン、プティ・ヴェルドをブレンド。小樽熟成2年間。ニポッツァーノの頂点となるワイン。フランス品種を使用する“スーパータスカン”の出現に先駆けて、1983年発売。ラズベリー、ブラックベリー、紅茶やヴァニラの香り、フルボディでありながらそのフルーティーさと繊細なタンニンが心地良い。

[reginadeinisseni]

Il fu Mattia Pascal – Luigi Pirandello | Riassunto e analisi per capitol...

Mattia Pascal vive a Miragno, dove il padre, intraprendente mercante che ha fatto fortuna in modo misterioso, ha lasciato in eredità alla sua famiglia (composta da sua moglie e i loro due figli, Mattia e Roberto) diversi possedimenti, tra cui un podere con mulino; questi averi sono gestiti da Batta Malagna, un disonesto amministratore soprannominato “la talpa” che lentamente li sta prosciugando (approfittandosi dell’inettitudine della madre di Mattia). Mattia racconta brevemente della sua infanzia, passata tra le lezioni del modesto istruttore privato Pinzone e le visite della severissima zia Scolastica, che cerca inutilmente di convincere la madre di Mattia a risposarsi con Gerolamo Pomino, padre di un grande amico di Mattia e Roberto, anch’esso chiamato Gerolamo Pomino (II).

[patricioml]

Yo pomino y ñamñam

[entropicthymes]

you know what would actually be really fucking wild? like. wilder than what you suggested. wilder than a song about a calculator. so wild that it made people have to ponder for a moment about the definition of wild. more wild than a pickled egg sandwich. more wild than pomino, italy. the think that i think would be really fucking wild. like. wilder than what you suggested. wilder than a song about a calculator. so wild that it made people have to ponder for a moment about the definition of wild. more wild than a pickled egg sandwich. more wild than pomino, italy. is a song thats about - get this, this is so fucking wild - a song about shit that takes way too fucking long and i mean so fucking long istg the longest time ever its the worst tbh - that fucking long to get to the goddamn point

wouldn't it be real fuckin wild if someone made a song about a calculater

[lorellabaggiani]

Ferragosto a kilometro zero #pomino #petrognano https://www.instagram.com/p/ChSeWboMgGW/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[of-toussaint]

Notes from Corvo Bianco

Chapter: 1/?

Rating: M (implied/offscreen smut)

Words: 3k

Relationships: Regis/Dettlaff/Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

-----------------------

A length of parchment, affixed to the wall at the level of a tall man’s eye, and printed in the immaculate script of a practiced scribe:

Honored guests and beloved family, fondest welcome to Corvo Bianco.

- To preserve the floors, one must clean one’s boots of mud, blood, and other unsavory matters prior to entering the house.

- Should msr. Geralt be absent or rendered insensate, final word on all domestic matters falls to Barnabas-Basil Foulty.

- Persons undertaking to meddle with msr. Regis’ alchemical supplies have only themselves to blame for whatever ills befall them.

(a later addendum, in a smaller hand: “This is doubly true regarding Yennefer’s possessions.”)

Here the ink changes. The style of the handwriting seems older, the tone more clipped:

- Whatever foolishness one may be considering, Roach is off-limits. I’ve bandaged too many bites.

- The bard is not allowed in the wine cellar unsupervised.

(A final line in blocky letters, irritation near palpable, reads: “Lambert is not allowed in the wine cellar at all.”)

Or: The retired life of Geralt and his family, as told through notes, transcripts, and found correspondences.

(read chapter 1 below, or on ao3)

A crumpled ledger found on the cellar table, much smudged by ink and wine alike:

IV Birke 1277

3 barrels S. (1275) in trade to Castel Ravello:

- 1 barrel Est Est (1269)

- 2 barrels Erveluce (1268)

1 barrel S. (1276) lost to misadventure. This leaves current inventory at 2 barrels Est Est, 3 barrels Erveluce, 2 barrels Fiorano, 1 barrel Pomino, 4 barrels Sepremento, and 12 cases White Wolf for the personal consumption of the estate.  

1 barrel S. (1275) in trade to Belgaard:

- 2 barrels Fiorano (1271)  

- 4 addl. cases White Wolf (1275), with the compliments of the heads of household 

Vintner’s note: reminder to propose a more extensive exchange with Belgaard for next year. Already, this spring has the promise of mildness about it. Outlook for the growing season is exceptional.

From the journal of Barnabas-Basil Foulty, majordomo:  

XVI Birke 1277

Madama Yennefer returned for the summer this morning, to the relief of the veteran staff and the curiosity of our most junior workers. With the renewed success of the vineyard, we have many who were hired only this spring, and have never had the pleasure of our lady’s company—tomorrow I must arrange introductions, when she has had time to settle herself. Her arrival is timely. The pleasant weather appears to be here to stay, and if last year is any indication, she will no doubt wish to oversee the annual airing and continued refitting of the house personally. While the renovations to be completed this year are far less extensive than during her previous stay, I have no question that her expectations will be high, as always, and her preferences exacting. 

With the dawn messeres Geralt and Jaskier rode out to greet her. The staff were not the only ones pleased by her return; the cause of the sunny expressions worn by our resident witcher and bard upon riding through the gate was unmistakable. At the stables they assisted her in unpacking those few bags with which she travelled (the majority of her belongings having wintered here with us, though apparently those accompanying her still being too numerous to move by portal). Her mare this year is a new mount, and skittish of unfamiliar hands. No matter. Our principal stablehand, Jean-Pierre, is very skilled at handling even the most reluctant of horses, and saw to the mare with ease. She is to be stabled alongside Roach, which should go some way to instilling confidence in her. 

Upon approaching the house, the front door flew open to disburse messere Regis, appearing overjoyed if, it must be said, a trifle ruffled. Of late he has been immersed in his studies. In fact, prior to this morning I had not seen him in some days—days during which I assume he has remained sequestered in his laboratory, down in the cellars. His current project is a source of some speculation amongst the staff, but I have stressed to them that wisdom would dictate respect for the privacy of any alchemist of his proficiency, even were he to be possessed of merely human talents. In any event, the enthusiasm with which he and our lady embraced each other suggests that we may see more of him during the days ahead.  

Ah, the changing of the seasons. Truly, there is nothing which can compare to summer in Toussaint. 

Excerpt from a letter, discovered at the bottom of a bag destined for the postmaster:

“... and Mary, I couldn’t even begin to guess what they get up to in there! I’ve worked some odd places, but by the gods, I’ve never seen the like to this menagerie. A witcher running the place is strange enough, though this one’s not so bad, really. A quiet man, and thoughtful; nothing like the tales you hear up home. But to be working for one! At a winery! Sweet Melitele, that’d be enough to set a man’s head spinning on its own. But that isn’t the end of it, is it? That minstrel young Joanna likes so much, you know the one—goes by Dandelion? He’s here, at all hours, and if he has another place he calls home I’ve never seen him leave for it. He’s got another name in private, too; heard them up at the house call him by it. Tell Joanna her bard’s called Jaskier when he’s at home, see if it doesn’t please her something fierce.  

But there’s more still. Hold your prayer beads close for this next bit, because I certainly felt the need for a smack of religion when I learned the whole of it. There are a couple of other fellows that share house with the witcher and the bard, and we got it out of Georges who’s been here for a while now that those men—well, there’s no easy saying it. They aren’t human. Vampires, Mary. Now I know what you’ll say to me. You’ll tell me I’ve been too heavy into my cups, like. But I swear it’s the truth. I an’ the other boys from up north, of course, we were right afear’d at first when we learned of it. Georges just laughed at us. Said the witcher knew what he was about and that we’d settle ourselves, soon enough, when we met ‘em. I didn’t believe him at first, but—it's funny. He was right.  

The older one (though I dunno how you judge these things, with vampires, he certainly looks the older but who’s to say) is an alchemist... and a doctor, seems to be, some kind of scholar. I only met him up close the once, when I cut my hand carving out a new post for the fence. He heard the commotion out in the yard and came bustling out with his bag. Tutted like a mother hen and cleaned the wound with something that stung like the devil, but he were—well. He were very kind, Mary, could’ve seen I was terrified of ‘im a league off but he just talked, softly, all the while. I can’t say naught but that I hope to high heaven I always meet him in so good a mood. The other one I’ve never met outright. Only seen him from a distance. He’s taller, dark and brooding as anything (just our Martha’s type, you know the ones), and the local lads keep their distance from him more than t’other. They won’t share what that’s about; some bad business from a few years back, or so I gather. They say it’s all water under the bridge now, but of course you know how some things do linger. Anyway. He doesn’t come down into the vineyard much, but they say he’s always polite, when you do have call to talk to ‘im. I’m content to believe that from a distance, thank you very much. 

And that isn’t even touching on the lady. She only got here a few weeks back, but already it’s like the place never existed without her. Don’t you fuss at me, now. Nothing for you to be jealous over—this one’s a sorceress, and I’m as rightly scared witless of her as she is grand, which is plenty. She’s more than proper spoken for, in any case, if the rumors have any truth to them. But then, it’s not my place to pry into what folk do in their private affairs.  

Well, I’ll end the letter here, a’fore I talk your ear off. Thinking of you and the girls always. I’ve never been paid half so well as at this place—it's true what they said, at least, about the witcher making sure the Duquessa looks after us Nordlings as well as the locals. I’m saving every crown. Goddess willing, I’ll be able to send for you by Feainn.  

- Your Roderick.” 

Scrap from the notebook of an itinerant merchant:  

… passing through again at the beginning of Blathe 

10 lengths of silk for the trim (the Nilfgaardian; instructions were very particular) in white, and to write back straight away by raven if the tailor needs anything further 

2 dozen lute strings, catgut 

10 stone of salt, suitable for preserving 

Acquisition of a delivery in Metinna, to be brought on return. Have been advised that parcel is fragile distillation equipment, and is to be handled with care. 

Transcript of a conversation overheard between a stablehand and a vineyard worker:

Ida: … don’t tell me you’re fresh out of gossip. You pretend at being above it, but I know you better’n you think. (her accent is rough, the rugged tones of the Temerian peasantry. In her mid-twenties; she is clearly the older of the pair) 

Ettore: Minx. Ugh, but there is nothing of interest to discuss. Everyone here is so well-behaved of late, it’s been dreadfully dull. (his voice carries the sonorous roll that marks him as Toussaintois) 

I: This place? Well-behaved? That’ll be the day. If it isn’t the contractors it’s the staff, and if it isn’t the staff it’s them up at the house. Come on, I’ve all this laundry to hang. (her tone is a teasing whine, flirtatious) Entertain me, Eto. 

E: (with a wink) Since you asked so nicely. Speaking of our honored patrons... did you know I overheard messere witcher and his little bard talking the other day?  

I: Did you, now? 

E: Indeed. They were most wrapped up in the details of some ghastly monster slaying. It caused the bard no small measure of excitement, or so I surmised from the tone of his exclamations.  

I: That’s barely interesting. He’s always off about some new ballad or other.  

E: You speak truly, but what is far more fascinating is what other uses he then saw fit to set his mouth to. These I overheard as well, through the walls of the stables. 

I: (squeals) Ooohh, you’re dreadful! What then? 

E: Naturally, once I realized what was in progress, I withdrew to grant them a bit of privacy. Although if privacy is what one is after, one could perhaps do better than behind the stables.  

I: You’re not wrong. I’m sure the bard’s mouth wins him applause from all corners. (her voice lowers, conspiratorial) He’s been very generous with it, too, from what I can tell. Gets up to all sorts of things, in all sorts of places. 

E: (delighted) Oh, I’m certain. Him and that witcher. What do you know? 

I: Him and them all. Just the other day, Malka went down into the cellars after a bottle of red for the kitchens. Well, she hadn’t been down there more’n ten seconds before she turned right around and walked out again, red as the wine she went in there for. She wouldn’t speak on it, but the bard came stumbling out not long after, followed by that witch. 

E: (laughing) No! 

I: I tell you! Rearranging her skirts and looking just as smug as you please, and him with the smile of a man whose brain is still somewhere down in his trousers. 

E: They’re all as bad as each other. Would you like to hear what I witnessed, but a few evenings past? 

I: You know I would. 

E: Ah. Well, I was returning from seeing to the horses for the night, and as it happened the evening was very clear. These early summer sunsets, you know—a vision worthy of la Duquessa’s own artists. I still had a few scraps and some wine leftover from my lunch, and it seemed a fine idea to take in the view from the hill behind the estate.

I: (her eyes soften) You should’ve come and got me, you ninny. I’d’ve liked to see it with you. 

E: I will bear it in mind for next time, bellisima. On this occasion, though, I’m glad I was alone. I doubt we should have avoided causing an interruption, were we together.  

I: Out with it. What’d you see? 

E: A-hem. Well. As I say, I made my way up the hill and had only just seated myself upon the bench, when what should I hear but... giggling.  

I: (incredulous) What, some maid get lost on the path down from the tourney grounds? 

E: Nothing of the kind, I assure you. In the fading light I cast my eyes about, but in vain—until I thought to look along the rooftop. Suddenly—I don’t know how I missed it at the first—I see those two... odd gentlemen up there. Seated upon the roof! 

I: (gasping, her voice dropping to a hush) The... you know... 

E: The very same. Up on the roof, side by side as though it were the most comfortable perch in the world. The younger with his arm around the older, and the older leaning his head upon his shoulder as though a schoolgirl with her paramour. They were not without companions, either. A great many ravens were scattered about nearby, of the kind that always seem so plentiful of late.  

I: They like them, I think. The birds, that is. Anyway. What’d you do? 

E: Bellisima, I am possessed of good sense. I remained silent. Fortunately for me, they were rather invested in each other to spare much notice for one stablehand in the wrong place at the wrong moment.  

I: (chuckling) Invested, were they? That what you call it in Toussaint? 

E: There are more colorful descriptors, I assure you, and they would be apt. I have never seen a man in such a precarious position so utterly determined to undo the fastenings of his companion’s overshirt. I’m sure the performance was praiseworthy, but I found myself unwilling to stay for the second act. 

I: You did say you had sense in your head. First I’ve seen of it, though. 

E: I should provide you with further opportunities to observe it, then. Since your laundry now hangs to dry, would you care to accompany me up the hill? I am reasonably certain the view will be free of gentlemen, in any state of undress.  

I: (grinning) Sure about that, are you? What if I object? 

E: Adorata. Your wish is, as ever, my command. 

Majordomo’s journal:

XXVII Birke 1277

Progress on the year’s renovations has progressed quickly. To my astonishment (and, I must admit, delight; the man is in a far more pleasant mood when his hands are occupied), this is due in no small part to the carpentry expertise of messere Dettlaff. He both takes and gives direction well, and is untiring in his dedication to the work. Thanks to his efforts and under the steady eye of madama Yennefer, the additions to the kitchens will be finished by the turn of the savaed. 

And nothing could have been better timed. Though the preparations for the Belleteyn festival this year are lighter than they might be, they are vital nevertheless, and Marlene has directed the kitchens into a flurry of activity. The majority of the staff will partake of the reveries in Beauclair, to be certain, but our patrons d’estate have plans to remain at home. Messere Jaskier privately confided in me that we will, in fact, have guests. Our humble home is expecting no less than royalty. To celebrate madama Yennefer’s birthday, the lady Cirilla is expected to make a surprise visit, in company of the queen of the Skellige Isles. 

Talking of renovations, there is a point I must remember to raise, as a matter of pride of household. Having passed recently into the main bedchamber on an errand to retrieve messere Geralt’s armor for cleaning, I was immediately overwhelmed past the threshold with what I can only describe as a mild seasickness. While from the outside, the dimensions of the room appear unchanged, it seems that our lady has recently seen fit to alter the interior dimensions to her own specification under the power of her arts. Put simply, the room is now far more spacious within than without. 

Naturally, I have no objection to this—if the other inhabitants of that bedchamber have no quarrel with this intervention, then far be it from me to create one. However, I did notice that the dimensions of the furniture within the room remain unchanged. Notably, I could not help but be aware that a bed built for, at most, two adults now provides routine respite to five. (How regularly messeres Regis and Dettlaff actually sleep, I am unsure, although I hesitate to raise the question as on this point ignorance may go hand-in-hand with decorum). I must make inquiries—discreetly, naturally—as to whether the appointments in the room are still to the satisfaction of its inhabitants. If not, suitable replacements must be ordered at once.  

Perhaps an idea best raised to the one who altered the room in the first place. That my lady will have firm opinions on the matter, I’ve no doubt whatsoever. 

A note in precise, tidy script, found in the interior pocket of a set of armor prior to cleaning:  

“Yes, your last letter reached us well in advance. Stop worrying. I know it’s been almost a year since I’ve been to visit, but you can hardly expect I’ve forgotten the route. I’m glad you’ve been able to keep it a surprise. I’m as keen to see you all as you are to see me. Cerys keeps saying she’s going to ply you with mead and challenge you to a duel as soon as we arrive, so best prepare for anything.  

Tell Jaskier I expect a serenade upon our arrival. We’ll be with you soon. Until then, good health.  

All my love.  

Ciri.” 

[byneddiedingo]

Ivan Mozzhukhin in Feu Mathias Pascal  (Marcel L'Herbier, 1926)

Cast: Ivan Mozzhukhin, Marcelle Pradot, Lois Moran, Marthe Mellot, Pauline Carton, Irma Perrot, Mireille Barsac, Michel Simon, Jean Hervé, Pierre Batcheff, Isaure Douvan. Screenplay: Marcel L'Herbier, based on a novel by Luigi Pirandello. Cinematography: Jimmy Berliet, Fédote Bourgasoff, Paul Guichard, René Guichard, Jean Letort, Nikolas Roudakoff. Art direction: Erik Aaes, Alberto Cavalcanti, Lazare Meerson.

Feu Mathias Pascal takes nearly three hours to demonstrate the truth of Kris Kristofferson's observation that "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." Mathias (Ivan Mozzhukhin) is a studious young man working on a magnum opus, The History of Freedom, while the world around him begins to crumble: His widowed mother is cheated out of her home by an unscrupulous magistrate in their small Italian town. Meanwhile, his shy, homely friend Pomino (Michel Simon) wants him to court Romilde (Marcelle Pradot) on his behalf, but she secretly has a crush on Mathias, who falls in love with and marries her. Because Romilde is under the thumb of her shrewish, demanding mother the marriage quickly sours, and when the two people Mathias loves more than any others, his mother and his infant daughter, die, he decides to leave town. In Monte Carlo, he wins a fortune at roulette, but after deciding to go home he learns that he has been declared dead. Embracing this new opportunity for freedom, he goes incognito to Rome, where he spots the pretty Adrienne and, following her home, takes a room that her father has for rent. There's much ado involving a plot to marry Adrienne (Lois Moran) to the odious Terence (Jean Hervé), and in the course of it Mathias realizes that you can't have your freedom and enjoy it too. It's a fascinating mess of a film, with startling shifts in tone from pathos -- the death of Mathias's mother and child -- to Kafkaesque surrealism -- Mathias's stint as an assistant librarian in a dusty, rat-filled jumble of a library -- to romantic comedy -- his rescue of Adrienne from the clutches of Terence and his fake-spiritualist cohorts. The narrative gets a little elliptical, especially toward the end, when Mathias exposes the corrupt magistrate who cheated his mother. But the Russian actor Mozzhukhin is adept at both the pathos of Mathias's life and the Buster Keaton-like deadpan comedy of much of the film, and he's well-supported by the cast, including Simon in one of his earliest roles as Pomino. Filmed on location in San Gimignano, Monte Carlo, and Rome, the movie provides glimpses of such familiar places as the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, and the Forum, strikingly free of traffic and tourists.

[dolll111]

Lubiłam na Ciebie patrzeć

Bo to właśnie w tobie widziałam nadzieje na lepsze jutro

Teraz gdy Cię widzę

Chcę przez przypadek rzucić niedopałek w Twoją stronę

Żebyś zaczął płonąć razem z nim

jeszcze niedawno powiedziałabym że spłonę za Ciebie

Bo byłeś najpiękniejszą gwiazdą

Jakąkolwiek widziałam

I nie mogłabym pozwolić na to

Żeby osoba która rozświecała mi drogę tak jasno

Była dziś tylko popiołem

Ale okazałeś się gwiazdą która chce we mnie uderzyć

Pomino tego że tak pięknie świeciłeś

Chciałeś mnie zabić

[maripr]

I made a lil tomato ovo

His name is Pomino

[yennefxr]

this is my first fic apéritif, a hannibal inspired dinner scene between yennefer and vilgefortz (+ mentions of ciri ) set at stygga castle  warnings: spoilers for book 8, mentions of canon violence, injury detail, food/alcohol, vilgefortz being himself 

a/n: it’s based on a meme i’m sorry, there’s some ciri/yen stuff at the end!! pls read i would love feedback

APÉRITIF -

It’s their ritual, unholy as it is cruel.

By day, she’s beaten, bound and bruised, for a confession sought through spilt blood and bone. Done unto her in vain, of course – he can loosen her teeth, but not her tongue.

When night falls, perfume is rubbed into her open wounds; she’s preened with glamour and dressed in swathes of black velvet by a servant boy unable to meet her eyes.

Finally, she is presented to the host, the piece de resistance of his gruesome banquet, taking the seat at the head of the table. Most nights, they’ll have company, his demi-monde of torturers; Rience, Bonhart, Schirru, but tonight they’ll dine alone.

He doesn’t look at her instantly; he studies his own reflection, the burnt mar of a once handsome face in the bronze of his wine goblet.

The servant returns, bolder sans captive, to fill the table with dishes so extravagant she can’t help but wonder who this opulence is truly intended for.

A suckling pig with dulcet honeyed skin, eyes replaced with overripe figs, foie-gras and doughy bread, oozing Zerrikanian fruits, ortolan bunting, still sizzling in tart armagnac and finally, two roasted hares, poised and erect as if slaughtered mid-fight, garnished with bloody vermillion blooms.

Only when the door shuts and they are left alone does her host look at her, one good eye, one dead crystal spinning grotesquely to and fro within it’s charred socket. She tastes acid in the back of her throat.

“I underestimated you, and for that, I hold myself in contempt.”

Vilgefortz’s voice was smooth and composed, as it always had been, and he regards her now with the same unwavering intensity, as he always had.

“With all my knowledge and intrusion I could never entirely predict you…”

“Oh spare me!” Yennefer sings her outburst, petulant and dramatic, a wild smile on her face.

“You think you can beguile me? As you did the Chapter? As you did the continent?”

She snorts at her host, (which under any other circumstances would be considered a serious faux-pas) tossing back her raven hair to laugh insolently.

Oh, he likes her like this. The lashes did nothing to quell her fire.

Vilgefortz responds with a lascivious smile, ignoring his captive when she blanches.

“The horsewoman of war, yes my dear, the goddess of righteous fury. Your presence on the battlefield strikes fear in the hearts of the most battle hardened of warriors.”

He pours two goblets of pomino bianco, wine she hadn’t indulged in since - she takes a moment to recall - Thanedd.

Bastard.

“And you”, she seethes  “played king off of king, chartered in war on the whim of whichever fool had the misfortune of your countenance. The fucking peacekeeper. Cheers.”

Vilgefortz laughs at that and extends her a goblet. What remains of her hands, grisly sinew and crushed bones, twitch with muscle memory but ultimately refuse the host’s invitation.

He smirks arrogantly, and steps forward.

There are few things in life more torturous than the rack, but as Vilgefortz’s cool hand strokes across her shoulder to trap her neck in a vice like grip, just shy of the dimeritium collar he had shackled her in upon her arrival at Stygga, Yennefer begins to reconsider. His fingers lace into her hair and guide her head down towards the full goblet he is pressing insistently to her lips.

Her jaw is broken and throbs dully, thanks to a well-delivered kick from Rience’s boot, but she manages to swallow, albeit sloppily, trying to keep her body rigid despite the white-hot fury that surges through her.

Yennefer hears him tut, and she imagines ripping the tongue from his throat.

The goblet disappears and in it’s stead, an ivory napkin materialises in his hand. He gently wipes her lips, with the patience of a mother cooing over their messy infant. Once he’s done coddling, his finger traipses the length of her jaw, and she feels the thrum of magic as he sets her bones anew.

“Spare yourself the martyrdom, Yennefer. Submit to me. Show me where the girl is and I will grant you whatever you desire.”

Vilgefortz’s hand ghosts through her hair to hold her chin. He drops to one knee as if in dark reverence of her. Inches from him, Yennefer can appreciate Ciri’s handiwork – he’s half formed, an abomination of ugly flesh. She’s hypnotised and repulsed by the sight, pink muscle tugging over yellowed bone, the white of his canines, the salacious wave of his tongue as he offers her the world.

“Respite, power, revenge…”

He takes her broken hands and brings them to his face – his eyes search hers blindly, for weakness, a flicker of passion, of selfish want.

And then, Yennefer feels.

That euphoric buzz of magic as he rebuilds her hands with the gentle tenderness of a lover. Each nerve reignites and sings under his warm breath. Her heart stops when he brings the flesh to his lips. He pauses:

“A child of your own flesh. A womb.”

The room falls silent. He waits and so does she, for chaos to consume her, for fire to reign down, for lightning to strike him dead but it doesn’t come. Just clarity. Cool, quiet and final.

Yennefer had been bartered before, and never again.

There was not a thing in the world Vilgefortz could offer her.

Not a kingdom more precious, nor power so devastating she could wreak havoc on all that had wronged her.

Nothing as important as her daughter. As her Ciri.

She remembers at once their laughter, the miscast spells and spilt ingredients over an old workbench as they poured over elven runes way into the night. How ghastly Ciri’s pronunciation had been! How with every passing day her daughter started to resemble her more and more, a pointed brow here, a haughty tone there, stood with her hands on her hips as she chastised the world just as her mother had taught her. How Yennefer yearned for those moments again.

Nothing in the world as precious.

Yennefer looks down at Vilgefortz, at the leering half of the man who would destroy the whole continent.

What a peculiar feeling, she thought as she smiled, to have found someone worth dying for.

“Go to hell, Vilgefortz.”

Then she spat in his face.

———

thank you for reading, this is the meme:

[la-vida-es-solo-un-momento18]

Coraz więcej lat..

Mija wiele lat

To dość długi czas

Leczco poradzić na to mam

Skoro każdy widzenia punkt swój ma

Rodzic pomino mijających lat

Widzi dziecko radosne cały czas

Dziadkowie osobę pełną sił

Przyjaciele towarzysza w komedi jakim jest życie

A ja widzę maskę pod którą skrywa się ból

Osobę bez duszy, pustą wydmuszkę

Jaką stało się ciało z którego życie uleciało

Autor nieznany...

[aliensycho]

Bycie samemu dla siebie pomaga, ale nie służy. Pomaga nauczyć się samotności, milczenia, indywidualnych wypadów na miasto które wcześniej były nie do pomyślenia. Jednak przez to zyskuje się czas na rozmyślenia nad sprawami których i tak nie da się zmienić. Wieczory stają się krótsze i chłodniejsze, pomino lata. Uśmiech znika z twarzy jakby miał nie wrócić.