#Pragmatic! That's what him and Constance are

[general-du-vallon]

ID: 4 screenshots of Porthos in BBC Musketeers, various scenes. 1. A screenshot of an instagram feed, main post is Porthos and Athos, cloaks around them, an outdoors scene. 2. Porthos and Charon in the street in court of miracles, facing each other, grinning. 3. Porthos on a horse, belts all done up over his armour, lots of weapons, horse decorated for war. 4. Porthos driving the cart with Bonnaire, someone poking their head out the curtains behind with a modern cap on. End ID.]

I reckon Porthos was the quiet hero? of the quartet of Musketeers. Or he was underrated anyway. The others all get talked about for various reasons; but Porthos often gets overlooked. But he was a workhorse; a reliable generalist and a great strategist. You could always depend on him. It was often him that would see a plan before anybody else. Or danger. S3 of MUSKETEERS was a mishmash, but it was nice to see the Porthos character get his just desserts. Especially as Dumas' Porthos did well in the army and so did the real life Porthos that he was based on.

[captainofthetidesbreath]

Cerrit and Laerryn stand as FANTASTIC foils. They are so similar in their temperaments even as the lives they lead, their visions for Avalir, the things they believe worth all their immense personal sacrifice are all so different. They are the polar opposites of the Ring of Brass, but they're often so much the same as people, in disposition, in what they've sacrificed and what for.

Seemingly aloof but they are actually just so sincerely and poignantly devoted to and driven by the people they love—people they sacrificed time with in pursuit of their work. Direct, pragmatic, unyielding, precise, ruthless, committed to what they set out to do. Unparalleled in their cleverness and ability to achieve.

The Senior Sightwarden in his cloud-top perch, and the Architect Arcane in her underground workshop. The Hall of Eyes filled with clarity in the silent absence of arcane working, the Meridian Labyrinth filled with understanding in the humming constancy of ambient magic. A mage slayer who felled Vespin Chloras, and a mage who proved Vasselheim justified. Seeking to curtail ambition against seeking to widen the sky. Both who understand, at the end of it all, that they have valued having loved and being loved enough to regret having nearly lost those relationships in pursuit of their obsessions.

Dedicated, too dedicated, to their work for this city. So willing to give and sacrifice in service of Avalir. Coming in at opposite approaches to the city's future. They gave up time and relationships with the people they love, for whom they do it all, in the name of this service.

He walks away as she refuses to put down her ambitions with her Leywright, and he believes she has endangered them all; she points him to the nearest exit to help ensure his escape, and he tells her that she gave them a chance with a new working of her Leywright. It's a quirk of fate, if that's the word, that he is the one who unwittingly gives her that bow, the final piece she needs for this Leywright to be complete.

Unwavering devotion, and personal sacrifice, and fervent dedication. To be unparalleled in service to Avalir. To have so desperately loved those they sacrificed in pursuit of that service. They are, in many ways, as opposite as any two can be in this story—but also so remarkably similar.

[july-19th-club]

i think the thing i like best about the musketeers, corny and overwrought as it sometimes is (but who doesn’t like their fantasies a little bit larger than life?) - is that it is a show fundamentally optimistic about the things the source material wasn’t. the book by dumas starts out as an adventure-comedy and then about two-thirds of the way through takes a sharp and irreversible turn into a very dark revenge tragedy. constance dies in the book, poisoned by a milady in disguise as a helpful nun. you can’t save the girl you love; you can’t even start a life with her; you can only hold her while she’s dying. in the end, milady is killed by athos, as he fulfills his promise of execution, the morality of which he has spent the entirety of their turbulent divorce fighting himself about. in the show, constance escapes every death trap set before her, growing in confidence and narrative power every time (a whole separate post could and will be made about the intricacies of her romantic agency, which grows or stagnates in a way that’s realistic to the challenges she faces in the setting, and her reasons for not leaving her first marriage, and then later her reasons for choosing not to have children, but i digress). she integrates smoothly into the main adventuring party, participating in the plots they foil, the cases they solve, and the battles they fight, and forges strong bonds with any other woman she encounters, threading a ribbon of support throughout the network of characters that’s really satisfying. milady herself never dies in this adaptation either. eventually she becomes a sort of amoral ally, popping in and out of the narrative whenever the heroes need the expertise of a cold-blooded, sarcastic killer whose moral code, warped as it is, still permits her to do some good when the right people ask nicely. she’s such a rich, sneering portrayal of a timeless femme fatale, performed with just the right degree of emotional weight balanced by sincere pragmatism and carelessness. and when her former husband goes to make good on his threat to end her life, it’s his friends, the other violent swordsmen with whom he spends most of his time, who urge him gently to reconsider. they don’t make arguments, they just provide the leeway in which he can think about what he’s doing. and he chooses not to execute the villain. he gives her the chance to leave the country, and someone says ‘i’m glad you saved her’ and he suggests it’s possible he has, in so doing, saved himself. unlike aramis, i’m not a religious man, but if i were i might suggest that athos’s failure to kill her once was a sign or warning from on high. his life measurably improves after he - deliberately, this second time - puts down his weapon. perhaps that’s god, or the author, smiling down on the optimism at the heart of the story. somewhere in all the blood and blades and muskets and brawls, there’s a different heart beating than the heart that beat its way through the original. it makes the motto of the story sound a little more cheesy, and a little more honest. when you’ve just stabbed your ex-wife to death and none of your friends have achieved love or success, ‘all for one’ is a little hollow. ‘just us, for each other, the world be damned,’ it says then. when your story is structured around second chances, for the worst of your acquaintances and for the best of your friends, then maybe you are all doing for each other, and that backbone allows each one of you to go out into the world as the story ends and do for all.

[lananiscorner]

FE3H - White Clouds - Character tidbits I loved - part 4

1) You know shit’s getting real when Constance has unprompted second thoughts about her Nuvelle restoration plans and Marianne of all people is willing to throw hands:

2) Balthus taking a much more pragmatic approach to the imminent war:

3) Dedue calling out Gilbert for abandoning Dimitri when he needed support the most:

4) Dimitri recounting his first meeting with Catherine:

5) Ferdinand explaining the state of affairs with the Adrestian houses after the war declaration and his heartbreaking line “ I...I... What do I do? ”.

6) Flayn tricking Felix into doing chores:

7) Leonie being upset that Sylvain flirts with every woman except her and Sylvain just grabbing that shovel with both hands and digging himself deeper:

8) Mercedes agreeing to help Alois overcome his fear of ghosts... by offering to tell him her scariest story:

9) Petra sticking with Byleth even though she knows it might cause trouble for her homeland. I love you, Petra, please tell me you can S-support Femleth!

10) Seteth’s seemingly surprising stance on crests (not so surprising once you know who he is and what crests really are) and his support of Ingrid in her crest woes:

11) Last but not least, these two dorks trying and failing to be smooth:

[animanightmate]

Guards! Guards?

I wrote this a few years ago now, but then the forum it was originally posted to imploded, so I thought I'd bring it here, dust it off, tinker with a few bits, round out some of my assumptions, and present tumblr with this short thesis (herein be spoilers)...

Ahem

I cannot believe it took me so long to put it together, but I’ve not long (ish... see above) worked out that Guards! Guards! (the first Watch novel by Terry Pratchett) has a large element of parody of The Three Musketeers (not just the book but various adaptations), as well as classic noir. Now, it’s possible I’m obsessed (I am, but shh), but here’s the way I see it:

The Night Watch as The Black Musketeer regiment – a group of armed men charged with keeping The King’s Peace in the nation’s capital, and rivals to another armed body of similar ilk within the city – subverted in that they’re the most despised body of men in the city, considered less an honour than a punishment, their rivals (Day Watch qua The Red Musketeers) have a great deal more power, and they’re determinedly pedestrian (as opposed to equestrian).

Vimes as Athos – in charge, though somewhat reluctantly, functional alcoholic, trailing rumours of him being “brung low by a woman” – subverted in that he’s about as common (and proto-Socialist) as it’s possible to be, plus the woman is just his way of talking about the city herself.

Carrot as d’Artagnan – eager, young newcomer to the city from a place far away, sent by his father’s advice, naturally talented, filled with longing to be the best guard he can be – subverted in that he’s easy-going rather than apt to fly into a temper and challenge people to duels (his arresting of the Head of the Thieves’ Guild was earnest, but not hot-headed), he’s tall, and he’s actually the king he’s sworn allegiance to.

Nobby as Aramis – the romantic, the ladies’ man – subverted in that there's a lot more enthusiasm than “success” in that department, absolutely zero discretion, and I’m fairly certain he’d struggle to spell poetry...

Colon as Porthos – pragmatic and overweight, a little indolent – subverted in that he’s the only one of them actually married rather than a pure hedonist, is about as flash in appearance as a lump of putty, and has a vehement lack of desire for any increase in rank.

Vetinari as Richelieu is so obvious that it’s probably wrong, knowing the man (men) concerned.

Lady Ramkin as Milady – a woman who keeps turning up and shifting people’s understanding, has a strong chemistry with the alcoholic – subverted in that  she’s about as noble-born as you can get, hasn’t a devious bone in her body, is part of Vimes’s future rather than his past, and is demonstrably a virgin

I’m yet to work out exactly the corollaries for Constance, Rochefort, Bonacieux, et al, but Guards! Guards! is, of course, not content with parodying one, or even two literary genres (classic fantasy meets police procedural meets detective noir meets swashbuckling meets conspiracies and secret societies), so not everyone in the book will fall under a Musketeer pattern, and not every element of The Musketeers will turn up parodied.

Anyway, that’s it. I’ve not read Guards! Guards! in years, though it doesn’t take much peering through my blog to see that I’m obsessed with The Musketeers. A bit. Ahem. So I’m very much open to critique from more knowledgeable readers.

Thoughts? Criticisms? Additions? What do you reckon?

[emblemxeno]

What were your opinions on the 3H routes right after you finished them?

Flower (1st route): Wow that was just like Echoes! We freed humanity from the corrupting influence of gods! And we stopped Crests from being over valued. Even if we had to do some shady stuff, I'm glad we were able to get a bright future for Fodlan in the end :D

Moon (2nd Route): Words can't describe how much I love Dimitri. I didn't expect Edelgard to fall that far without me, idk I wonder if she's too harsh here. Where the hell was Rhea all this time? It's weird how a major player just isn't that involved in this story. I'm glad we were able to get a great end in this route too, but it seems like it's better this time than in CF and I didn't even have to side with the Slithers. Weird.

Flower (2nd Time for DLC): Wow, okay yeah this sucks. Everyone is miserable. It isn't just people being pragmatic or whatever, people are just sad and wary and uncomfortable. The fact that we're so okay with lying to people and working with terrorists and a serial killer is ridiculous. Honestly I hate the fact that Byleth can so easily make people go against their own morals just because they love them so much. Edelgard is either just that arrogant and self-righteous or her writing is all over the place.

Wind (3rd route): I really love Claude, and he had very nice character growth; I thought he was ever so slightly pushy at times with his prodding and less than subtle disdain for the church, but seeing him grow out of it into a more understanding person who can accept that he was wrong was nice to see. Edelgard, I barely know you, why are you talking to me like that. Honestly I find the dupstep really annoying. Wow, the Relics were dragon bones! Neat twist! Wish more people reacted to them, though. Poor Rhea she really got fucked up the past 5 years. Nemesis kind of came outta nowhere but all right. At least this final map theme rules.

Snow (4th route): Honestly not as bad as I thought it was gonna be, considering lots of people put this as their least favorite route. Why is Byleth so obsessed with not wanting to kill Edelgard, when to get to this route you had to choose "Kill Edelgard"? The Black Eagles are much more entertaining here, and also seem much happier at the end of this run than they seemed on Flower. I love Rhea and the dragon fam so much. Why am I fighting her now? And why was her giving a few of the church members her blood even a thing? Funeral of Flowers is making me cry ;-;

Cindered Shadows: Yuri my love, Constance my queen, Balthus is too sexy for his own good and Hapi... she's cool. The map design here is better than most of the main game tbh. Constance has the weirdest character quirk I have ever seen. YURI NOOOO, WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS, I THOUGHT YOU WERE GONNA TAKE ME OUT ON A DATE! Oh he's actually been working for Rhea this whole time, what a guy! Aelfric and Jeralt are the Incel and Chad meme and you can't convince me otherwise. That final CG was too good, I love my wolves.

[emmy024]

December 22nd, climate about five degrees and the sun high in the sky. Light rays poured in through the window that was patiently cleaned by the brown-haired young woman; although the photo on the table was an indicator that she had her hair long, it was now an almost masculine cut and with a visible scar on the upper left half of her head.

The whole house smelled of cleaning products and lemon thanks to the spray diffuser. Julian Casablancas’s furious voice was heard even on the sidewalk. She hummed the melody while moving her body to the music’s beat. She still remembered how and when she first heard them: on the radio she turned on solely to place one of the records she inherited from her late father.

There she met one of her greatest pleasures. And all thanks to the birthday man who was not available to celebrate today. "Surely his friends throw him a huge party wherever he is. It’s a pity my invitation was revoked just a few months ago." Almost by miracle and quick medical attention, if she could add.

Rub a little more until you placed her hands on her waist. It looked perfect, in a much better state than she found it when she started. "Well, now I can see my reflection. Cool" she thought with a satisfied smile. “Now I dare Emily to tell me something because my house "looks like a garbage dump."

Her mother (she hated being called “mother”) was an overly obsessive person about cleanliness. Not even because she opened her head like a coconut Emily was able to leave it alone. Eh: at least she gave her daughter a few months of pure peace until her life was in order.

But at least cleaning was entertaining. Away from sad thoughts that could put her life at risk. Also, it was a good activity for a Sunday afternoon. "Until I start cooking Christmas dinner. Then everything will go back to the mess it all was."

Since her mother hated the idea of anything related to cooking, it was her duty to make good use of grannie Constance's recipe book and prepare a delicious Italian dish. That year the Vickers-Luciani would celebrate with the Redfields as an addition to the five-person dinner (including Jake Müller). It was her duty to do things right.

The recipes written by nonna Vickers had to be interpreted perfectly, or three generations of angry Italians would fall on her head. And no one would want that...

She though about it a lot. What could be prepared? Something easy or going to charge? Pasta? Parker's favorite lasagna? "No, we eat that almost every Sunday. I must do something different for once..."

What would Mr. Brad Vickers tell her if he were there? "He would probably be as pragmatic as any man can be, saying 'I don't really mind” and get me frustrated. Just as what he did to Emily."

She decided when cleaning the oven’s door to go for dishes that he once liked. They were relatively simple. And the bonus point was that they would work with her mother. Minestrone soup with the addition of a delicious starter of grisinis along with a spicy sauce. Also, some carbonara for her and her stepfather who both loved the taste of cheese in their throats.

He finished scraping a dirt stain that seemed permanent and finished cleaning the kitchen. At last, she could relax.

"And now?" She made a very thick coffee and added whipped cream from the supermarket. A thawed croissant and two sachets of sweetener. She took a seat at the kitchen table, caressing the head of her tabby-haired Boxer who watched her eat.

The music stopped once it reached the end of The Strokes' second album, leaving her in silence only interrupted by the incessant whimpering of her three pets. "Aaaand… what now?" A sense of dissatisfaction accompanied the emptiness felt inside.

She lit a cigarette and reached out her cell phone. She checked some notifications received during a well-deserved moment of peace and noticed something. In one of the recognized functions to return one (or not) to a happy past: exactly four years ago she shared her favorite photo. Chelsea and her dad.

"What a handsome guy he was! I got the best of him: nose and chin. And a little bit of personality too." She smiled feeling sadness. How much she would like to call him to make a father-and-daughter day. "How old he would be? About fifty-four? Damn, old man!”

"Key word of the day: would be" she lamented, giving the last drink of the delicious and hot coffee. “See, Polly-Sue? If it weren't for this man and his fascination with dogs, you'd be with another family that wouldn't give you this little bit of a delicious croissant.

"Dog’s madman", he whom left mom the most unbearable Cocker Spaniel and therefore my absolute favorite."

She handed the tip to the dog, her four-legged best friend wagging her short tail excitedly. She got up to clean utensils to go decisively to look for a precious object... That for some reason her guts demanded to have it on hand. Sometimes those things happened to her: a sudden desire to go for something related to her past. As a faithful anti-everything of things with a mystical side, she attributed it solely to longing.

True to their style, the three dogs followed her devoutly into her room. Chelsea scrambled her drawer of her wardrobe; she ran documents and other artifacts. She took the most important one: a huge photo album, copied by a melancholic Emily so that she would have something to hold on to. Chris confessed that it all was by pure regret for multiple mistakes Emily let run in the past. Things not said and actions not taken. Well-hidden lies and drawn truths.

In her opinion it was time to remove that painful thorn. "But that's the way she is. You can't teach an old dog new tricks."

She went back to the kitchen. It was her pleasure to see familiar faces of unknown people. She picked up the nicotinic cylinder again and gave it a long puff at the time she opened the album. The title was "Copy number four. Take great care of it and don't do anything I wouldn't do. “As if I were going to use it for a Fourth of July barbecue!”

A succession of photographs from her parents' wedding to her first steps was made available to her. She always found it enjoyable to watch two adults in love enjoy their stellar night surrounded by friends, family and office mates; it was embarrassing to see her sit on a toilet, learning both to stop using diapers and learn not to urinate on herself. “I’ll never understand why this was worth photographing. Like what the actual fuck is wrong with parents!”

Mr. Vickers appeared smiling with a drink in his hand, wrapping around Barry and a man named Marvin. From what she heard about Marvin, he was a good colleague, an admirable father and an exemplary policeman. Constantly thinking about the well-being of others. Barry, on the other hand, was the typical red-haired father who made terrible jokes in order to embarrass his daughters and entertain others; but the heart of that muscled man could house planet Earth.

“I missed him so much! I should send at least one message to ask how things are going, it feels like I’m an ungrateful bitch”. The poor man always cared about her well-being, even if he was covered with work.

Emily exuded her classic strong, confident woman's attitude, surrounded by tall, handsome guys. Something that always made her laugh was the fact that her uncle Josh of just thirteen appeared among adults, much more handsome than him. What a spoiled child's face! Acne, an embarrassed expression next to an awkward smile as he was kissed with affection by his sister and brother-in-law.

She recalled that such a photograph was on his personal desk, inside the lavish office of an aristocratic family full of books and dark aura.

A blonde man with messy hair dancing and making her mother spin like a princess was Uncle Joseph; in another a man with brown hair was none other than the older brother of his neighbor Tyler Speyer. They seemed to dance like there was not tomorrow, or that was her interpretation; Forest's affable smile next to his long hair brought a smile to Chelsea’s face.

If he had remained alive, she was certain that she would be fond of him, never mind the fact that he never liked children.

Magic continued with sporadic parties or gatherings to eat a barbecue between the STARS members. It was no secret among the survivors that all (or at least most) of them were on excellent terms. Except for some setbacks between Emmy/Brad may have had with Chris, the rest were good friends.

It was time to look at photographs of a long-awaited pregnancy. Rumors had it that there was once a photo of her mother crying while holding a pregnancy test. Sherry was a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them; if she claimed it existed then it was one thousand percent legit. Also, how would a dude who loved documenting his life not go about portraying every happy moment of the long-awaited baby?

"Dad was the first hipster that existed. Had Instagram existed in his time, he would’ve been the king of daily posts." Not to mention that after four attempts that ended in miscarriages the mere idea of finally having a kid would probably be glorious to them.

They were very cautious: they didn’t announce it until after four months had passed. That's when the real party started.

A string of photographs announcing it to their work colleagues, receiving gifts in the form of stuffed animals and unisex clothes (they hadn’t yet bet what gender the baby had) and baby-related furniture. One of those gifts was ironically the best: Uncle Joseph had the brilliant idea of gifting them a skeleton-shaped bear. He found it funny and appropriate for a baby.

"Too bad I was afraid of that thing until I was five” she laughed at the time after she gave a puff to her cigarette “He never saw that coming.”

All those snaps were an absolute delight. Those smiles and excitement cheered her soul, much needed for a recovering addict.

One caught her eye: a rather handsome guy, straight nose and blond hair with a good guy face named Richard hugged his mother and handed over a bag of children's utensils next to a stuffed giraffe. The animal was sitting, smiling as he held a heart on his paws. Reggie the giraffe!

Rumors said that each one of the STARS members found that plushie so adorable and soft that they proceeded to hug it one by one. Twelve adults, with adult lives and work, worshipping a stupid giraffe. "And then I’m the crazy and childish one."

Maybe that's why she always felt accompanied and safe to have that giraffe in her arms. Perhaps they gave her a little bit of safety and love by hugging that thing.

A true pity was that it all ended months later. The rest of the pictures looked somewhat lacking in charisma along with color. They only showed their parents, rarely appearing in the same photograph. Either it was her dad sitting in the rocking chair surrounded by stuffed animals, or Emily with a belly almost twice as big as her body. Chelsea did not want to imagine the pain that they must have gone through as a couple to have lived through such a setback.

Time went by and arrived at the first photos where she was already born. The very first contact with her mother's skin was captured, Emily cried and caressed her dirty head barely covered by hair. Why on earth babies come into the world like that? Next, she was held in her dad's arms, resting both on the couch in the hospital room.

No one to congratulate them, they lived in fear that a handful of mercenaries would kill them; there was no newborn party or introduction to friends. The Vickers family (at least the third’s son’s branch) took refuge in the two-room house waiting for the storm moderate.

They needed nothing more than themselves in those ten days stolen from the clutches of fateful fate. It was a follow-up until she found her favorite. Despite not remembering anything, Chelsea was glad to have lived them. It gave her the possibility of having that beautiful image on her hands.

She finished the cigarette and lit another one, although that time she went to the fridge for a bottle of water. She carefully stole it off the album, observing it carefully to delight her eyes and soul.

Her dad was sitting on a purple rocking chair, probably cross-legged. It was a beautiful day out, late summer and approaching autumn; the sun was still shining strong enough to leave a beautiful yellowish glow as it filtered in. This luminous effect radiated perfectly against the strong profile of a man mesmerized by his first and only daughter.

He held her carefully and his heart filled with love. He smiled at the little figure who slept with the pacifier still on her mouth. This baby girl of mere days old wrapped in her pink blanket and wearing a ridiculous pink hat. Behind, room full of toys, stuffed animals and even a rocker horse. Stacked diaper packs, ready-to-use bottles along with the mysterious toy raccoon she still had at home. Why did that thing always appear in photos?

Seeing that snapshot filled her soul with an inexplicable peace, almost as if she were once again hugged by her dad. To be surrounded by the muscular arms of a 5ft 9in, Christian heart and science-loving mind. "How much do I need you! These days more than ever, and that's the worst thing it can happen to anyone."

She kissed it fondly. She saved it again delicately and then closed the album. She already knew how the story ended regarding her life and her father’s. Why contaminate it with spoilers?

“Ti amo, papà. Grazie di tutto e buon compleanno.”

She gave a kiss to the sky as hers nonna Constance used to do when referring to her deceased son. She smiled heavily and went to storing it and then put some music on. That time she chose something to give a little nod to the birthday boy with his favorite band. She selected with her phone The Joshua Tree and the music was played at full volume.

[gardenofkore]

“The Norman monarchs tended to choose their wives not from among the families of powerful Sicilians. Rather, they married women from prominent European courts. Thus, their wives might be presumed to have brought a European influence to the cultural life of the kingdom. However—despite the fact that a number of the Norman queens ruled as regents for their underage sons; despite evidence that some of the queens had the capacity to influence Sicilian culture and even exerted a certain amount of effort to this end—this does not seem to have been the case.

The Norman queens (like their husbands) were often larger than life characters, whose extraordinary biographies reflect the turbulent times in which they lived. Roger II married a woman by the name of Elvira, daughter of a Spanish king (Alfonso VI, king of Castile and León) and his Moorish wife (Zaida, who took the Christian name Isabella when she married Alfonso). The marriage seems to have been a sentimental as well as a dynastic success. Elvira bore Roger five sons, including the next king of Sicily, William I, before she died in 1135, at the age of about thirty five. A medieval historian reports that following Elvira’s death, Roger was “so saddened by the bitterness of mourning that he closed himself for many days in his room, and did not appear except to his private staff; and so it happened that a rumor gradually spread, not only to those who were far away but even to those in the immediate proximity, that Roger had died.” Roger was obliged to put down an attempted coup when an ambitious Sicilian count sought to take advantage of the power vacuum resulting from the king’s withdrawal from the public eye.

Although Elvira had given Roger five sons, only one of them—the sickly, unpromising William—reached maturity. Fifteen years after Elvira’s death, Roger was obliged to marry again in order to ensure succession. Again, his long celibacy was quite extraordinary. Even with a plurality of potential heirs, a medieval king was likely to remarry following the death of a wife, both because marriage presented an opportunity to forge political alliances and because a consort came in handy at state ceremonies. Roger’s reluctance to remarry seems to provide further evidence of his affection for Elvira. But William, against the odds, survived his father and was crowned king of Sicily following Roger’s death. In about the year 1150, he married Margaret of Navarre, daughter of King Garcia IV Ramirez of Navarre and Margaret de l’Aigle. The biography of William’s consort demonstrates what would become a truism of the Norman queens: they attracted attention, in general, only when their actions offended public opinion. Following her husband’s death, while Margaret ruled as regent for her son, the second William, she summoned a party of Frenchmen to Sicily (including Peter of Blois, who acted as tutor to young William). The Sicilians were not pleased at the influx of foreigners; nor did the French seem inclined to lengthen their stay in Sicily, although Margaret insisted and ultimately prevailed on this point. With Margaret’s support, one of the Frenchmen—Stephen, son of the count of Perche—was made chancellor and archbishop-elect of Palermo. This action earned her the enmity of the Sicilians, who resented the power given to a “puerum alienigenam” (a foreign-born boy) and suspected that less than professional sentiments motivated the queen’s actions. It was said that “the queen, although she was Spanish, called this French boy her brother, spoke to him too familiarly, and looked at him with hungry eyes; they feared that under the cover of professional proximity, an illicit love was hidden.” But Margaret’s efforts to staff her court with Europeans proved unfruitful. Peter of Blois soon left Sicily and described the island afterward as a hazard to travelers by virtue of both its climate and its people (“Sicily is to be faulted because of its air, and it is to be faulted for the malice of those who live there; I consider it hateful and almost uninhabitable”). Stephen’s (and Margaret’s) political enemies would drive Stephen himself out of Sicily in 1168.

So, too, a late Norman consort—Sibilla, wife of Tancredi of Lecce, an illegitimate grandson of Roger II who vied for control of Sicily following the death of William II in 1189—drew the enmity of her contemporaries by virtue of her political machinations. We possess a wholly unsympathetic account of Sibilla in the history written by Peter of Eboli. Peter, a partisan of Sibilla and Tancredi’s rivals for the Sicilian throne, Norman Constance and Hohenstaufen Henry VI, details an intrigue that pitted Sibilla against Constance. In the opening chapter of this unsavory history (which, in honesty, seems to consist of equal parts polemic and factual account), Tancredi asks Sibilla to invite Constance to Palermo. In her reply to him, Sibilla accuses him of raving senselessly; to honor Constance with her company, Sibilla believes, would implicitly acknowledge Constance’s authority. In the end, Constance, rather than being received as an honored guest, was imprisoned by Tancredi and Sibilla. But the ruse did not last long. The pope interceded and Constance was released to the keeping of her husband. Following Henry’s elevation to the Sicilian throne, Sibilla would repent and seek forgiveness for her scheming; she, along with her daughter, would end her life in an Alsatian convent. The machinations of that Constance against whom Sibilla plotted, of course, would have a more appreciable effect on history. And historians would repay Constance in kind, making her (like the kings of Sicily) the protagonist of fantastic tales. Constance, daughter of Roger II, had been consigned to a convent, from which she was summoned to marry her Hohenstaufen husband in order to grant dynastic support to his Sicilian ambitions. She had already reached an advanced age, by medieval standards, when she was married and had passed her fortieth birthday when she bore her first and only child, Frederick II. The fourteenth-century historian Villani reports that Frederick’s birth challenged belief on two counts: because he was born to a woman consecrated to God, and because of his mother’s age (which he exaggerates, giving her more than fifty two years when she gave birth). The Sicilians, Villani says, frankly doubted Constance’s capacity to bear a child at her age; “for which reason, when the time came for her to give birth, she had a tent pitched in the center of Palermo, and made an announcement that any woman who wished might come to see her. And many came and saw, and so the suspicions ceased.” Giovanni Boccaccio, in his biographical dictionary of famous women, exaggerates both Constance’s age—he calls her a “wrinkled old woman”—and the prophetic significance of her pregnancy and Frederick’s birth. He attributes to Constance’s son the responsibility for the eventual fall of the Kingdom of Sicily. And after detailing his (rather fantastic) version of Constance’s late marriage and pregnancy, he asks: “Who will not judge Constance’s conception and childbirth to be monstrous?” In truth, Constance’s actions were characterized by less supernatural portent and more pragmatic significance. Following Frederick’s birth (in 1194, and in Iesi, not Palermo) and Henry’s death (in 1197), Constance ignored her husband’s wishes that a German ally be made Frederick’s regent. She sent the Germans out of Sicily, named the pope regent to her son, and had the four-year-old prince crowned king of Sicily in Palermo, before her own death in 1198. History might remember the name of the Sicilian queen, particularly when she—like Margaret of Navarre or Constance, or like Adelaide, Roger II’s mother—acted as her son’s regent following her husband’s death. But the queens seem to have had little appreciable impact on the cultural life of the kingdom. The Norman kings tended to marry women from European (typically French or Spanish) courts, like the consorts mentioned above—with the exceptions of Sibilla, wife of the illegitimate and luckless Tancredi, and Constance, wife of the scion of a German house, both of whom were Sicilians. William II married Joanna Plantagenet, daughter of Eleanor of Aquitaine, a name that looms large in the history of European literature. But even this match seems to have done little to promote Romance letters in Sicily. Rather, the Norman monarchs seem to have pursued a diametrically opposed literary policy: they solicited the production of poetry in Arabic.”

Karla Mallette, The Kingdom of Sicily, 1100-1250. A Literary History, p. 93-97.

[talltales]

pair:   jackson / reader desc:   decay gives way to life         through time, and time only words:  2k rated:  15+ genre:  drama/romance notice: sequel to safe harbor gifted: to @alrightyaphroditie​ and @dawnofus, for their requests

                           —AND THE SIGHTS WERE AS STARK AS MY BABY                                    AND THE COLD WAS AS SHARP AS MY BABY

she is a dangerous, seamless sort of woman—filled to the brim with a fusion of beauty and chaos. it suits her in the same way that red suits roses, jackson thinks, after she’s drifted to sleep with her fingers curled under his shirt.

he can’t really imagine it being any other way.

it takes several minutes to pull himself out of her grasp, half for her determination to chase his heat and half for his own hesitation to leave hers—a balancing act in more ways than one, centered on the growing ambiguity between what is and what could be.

ninety-six days.

in the dark, he turns to watch her curl into a ball beneath the thick blankets, fending off the cold that he leaves in his wake. a glance at the window reveals only the pitch blackness of night, rain dimly lit by the glow of the moon. the smell of it lingers in the air like a cloud of smoke. but jackson has learned to breathe it and draw strength from it.

the rain is plague and sustenance—fortune and fury. the only mercy that it ever granted was the leveling of those deadly tides. somewhere, he supposed, the dam holding those waters in the city had broken and it was flowing unchecked, into the surrounding lands.

maybe there were people still out there. maybe they’d already left.

he finds it hard to care, regardless. the center of his concerns mumbles in her sleep against her pillow, lashes fluttering against the onslaught of her own dreams.

wordlessly, he slips into the kitchen and allows his fingers to trail along the pots that litter the tables between; the beginnings of a flower garden, with seeds nestled deep into rich soil. potential lies locked within them and jackson has taken to waiting with her, holding onto bated breath for the first sprout to breach the earth from below.

she’d taken to gardening with less fuss than he’d imagined. once she’d grasped the basic concepts she was unstoppable.

the network of lights crossing the ceiling beams is his own contribution, offered in lieu of laundry duties for the week. it was a simple enough trade. jackson pretends that the veiled excitement in her eyes had nothing to do with it.

with a quick look over his shoulder, he assures himself that she’s still sleeping. practiced hands open the drawers and cabinets that contain a simple mixing bowl, the sugars and flours and miscellaneous things required for his task. a small packet with a faded label lays beneath his fingers when he’s done and examining the ingredients with an engineer’s eye.

he begins his work.

fifty-one days.

he’s given his first taste of hope. there is promise in the quieting of those deadly waters, and jackson—reasonably, he thinks—decides to act upon it. when he dons his raincoat and ventures down the stairs instead of up, he dares to believe that something could change.

it takes all of two days to get her to stop screaming and let him leave the shelter they’d made for themselves. it takes a day longer to stop her crying.

the first time, all he finds is a dozen corpses between them and the building next door, sunken beneath the waters and reaching for the slate grey skies. jackson learns again not to look down. the second, he finds a rowboat to tow into the hollowed out shelter of the first floor. it’s a fruitful journey that exceeds the bounty of the last, and the two to come.

there isn’t a soul alive as far as he goes, but there are empty units; apartments and small groceries situated above expansive garages. he empties each little by little, building his bachelor’s apartment into something better resembling a home, one piece at a time.

the grocery has a generator. he spends the better part of two weeks dismantling it and transporting the parts, and another week stocking their newly functioning refrigerator with the spoils of his afternoon journeys. it beats dragging their bagged perishables from cold, dirty water.

he brings back books. art. board games.

when he unloads the latter, jackson hears her laugh for the first time in months. the sound draws his eye upward, along the stair-line to where she stands. startled, with a quivering hand held over her mouth.

she cries for the next two hours.

the grieving process, he supposes, is a messy thing. particularly when the loss is not of a single person but an entire world. she folds herself into his coat when he opens it, crawling across his lap and burrowing to the warmth hidden beneath. jackson can’t say he minds the contact when his eyes begin to burn; when it gets harder to shove it back and back and back. there are other times for those sorts of things.

there are always other times.

seventy-five days.

“do you think that we’ll ever taste fruit again?” the question comes quietly, murmured between spoonfuls of chicken soup and the flickering of the candlelight, “or eggs? are there even farms anymore?”

there is an absence in her voice; an airy quality that makes her seem as if she’ll blow away in the slightest wind. but her eyes are fixed upon him—holding his gaze with no give.

she is daring him, jackson realizes.

challenging him to feed her more hope, when he is clinging to that first and only taste of it from weeks before. she is a dangerous, seamless sort of woman. beauty and chaos. it suits her in a way that red suits roses. he can’t really imagine it being any other way.

but, there are no more roses.

there are no more fruit.

“if i find a melon out there, you’ll be the first to know,” he says instead, biting his tongue against the spiked words that he wants to inflict upon her—quiet retaliation for making him think.

“my birthday is in three weeks. you better hurry.”

there is no humor in her smile; merely pain.

eighty-one days.

and though logic argues against any effort, he ventures ever further into the outskirts in the city when the rain relents; in search of rooftop gardens that haven’t been washed away, markets that aren’t swelling with the sickly sweet scent of rotten fruit.

if she notices his efforts, she says nothing. her only answer to the packet of rose seeds laying in her palm is a soft sigh—“putting me to work, are you?”

“i figured it was time,” he watches her bite her lip before she steps closer, past the ever-shrinking boundaries between them to strip away the heavy layers of his outerwear.

the seeds vanish into her pocket.

“you would.”

their banter gives way to silence, as it does of late. he preoccupies himself with the easy way she smoothes his damp hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. there is care in her movements, clouded as it is by her usual bristling demeanor.

“now that’s what i call a tragedy,” she whispers, busying her fingers with the buttons of his shirt—through the violent shivers rattling his bones, jackson realizes that she is talking about him, “you’re a mess.”

his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth; every thought skitters to a stop at the tentative smile playing across her lips. finally, he finds his words and pushes them out as she peels the wet fabric down his shoulders, “watch your mouth. you, of all people, should understand what i’m trying to do here.”

it has the intended effect. her lips press together as she winds the soaked clothing into a ball and tosses it into the waiting metal bin with the rest of their wash.

“yeah, i do.” she levels a look at him—sharp and bittersweet; filled with a secret that he isn’t meant to know. “you’re trying to get yourself killed going out there for something that you think i want more than i want you here. safe.”

as if the air has been drawn out of her, she drifts to the window and remains there, back turned and arms crossed over her waist.

whatever glimpse he’d caught of joy in her is lost.

he is lost.

ninety-six days.

he only notices that she’s awake by the sound of her muted footsteps, crossing the space between them—his attention is on the improvised stand and the smoother held between his fingers. the tips of them are caked in a layer of vanilla icing that is nothing short of an assault on the senses.

“you’re making a cake,” she asks, and it is anything but a question. how could she wonder, after all, when the evidence is laid out before her?

“and you’re distracting me,” muttering, jackson sets aside the smoother and wipes his hand on his t-shirt before picking up the half-full piping bag of forest green icing. the only color he could find, as it were. “go get cleaned up, we’re having breakfast.”

when he spares her a glance, she is watching him with a strange look—lips parted as if to speak—before she enters their small kitchen space and begins digging for a skillet, “we’re not eating cake for breakfast.”

“it’s your birthday. why not?”

he pauses when he hears the telltale sniffle, faint enough that it almost slips beneath the click of the gas being turned on. from the refrigerator, she pulls a small bottle of plant-based eggs and pours them onto the heating pan, “because it’s my birthday, and i say so.”

“heard.”

they work in comfortable quiet, steadily through the dull echoes of rain washing over the roof. the constancy of it lulls him into a daze. it’s easy to work in, he finds, while piping amateurish decorations onto the perimeter of the cake.

he tops the piped icing with diced pieces of dried melon.

it looks good enough.

he’s in the middle of writing her name across the top when he feels warmth at his back; a soft heat that sinks into his bones and makes it hard to focus, “what is it?”

her words are muffled against the fabric of his shirt—face pressed into the expanse between his shoulders, “you really get on my nerves sometimes, you know? you’re so fucking pragmatic about this whole thing that i wonder if you've even grasped the reality of what happened.”

she exhales, and the sound is shaky at best. teary at worst.

frozen, jackson listens—tries to quell the racing of his heart. it pounds rebelliously against his ribcage, but he keeps his voice even, “and?”

“but i realize that i needed that. more than i needed to be coddled like a child. as far as we know, it’s just the two of us now anyways. so i might as well learn how to see the good in what you do.”

her grip tightens, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. it’s far from the first time that she’s been this close; far from the first time that he’s felt the effects of it—a residual glow at the edges of his thoughts.

giddiness, he labels it, before shoving into a box reserved for things he does not need to think about.

“i love you.”

but there is no box for that.

“i love you,” she repeats, so softly that he can barely hear it. but jackson can feel her lips moving against his back, “you don’t have to reciprocate—“

“i do.”

slowly, he sets down the piping bag and lays it next to the almost almost finished cake.

it takes effort to loosen her grasp on him and turn around; to think past the voice in his head roaring that this is a bad idea. this is the very thing that he’d been trying to avoid, living in such cramped quarters with the only soul he’d dared to bring into his sanctuary.

looking back, it’d been her, the pretty barista with the prettier smile that’d drawn him downstairs in the first place—hoping that he’d be fortunate enough to find her standing behind the counter, making his favorite drink.

he’d gotten lucky, looking back.

“i do,” he admits, threading his fingers through her hair. as her head dips into the crook of his neck, jackson allows himself to breathe. she smiles, and he feels it against his skin—

beauty and chaos. it suits her in the same way that red suits roses.

he can’t really imagine it being any other way.

“i do.”

for longer than you’ll ever know.

                           and the nights were as dark as my baby                            half as beautiful too

[laughingpinecone]

ToT letter 2021

I am laughingpineapple on AO3

Hello dear author! I hope you’ll have fun with our match. Feel free to draw from general or fandom-specific likes, past letters, and/or follow your heart.

Art likes: characters doing something, even something very simple, illustrating a moment rather than abstractly posing. I also enjoy seeing them wear different clothes, getting a feel of what their fashion sense is like beyond their canon outfit(s). Or dressing them up for some outlandish AU!

Likes: worldbuilding, slice of life (especially if the event the fic focuses on is made up but canon-specific), missing moments, 5+1 and similar formats, bonding and emotional support/intimacy, physical intimacy, lingering touches, loyalty, casefic, surrealism, magical realism, established relationships, future fic, hurt/comfort or just comfort from the ample canon hurt, throwing characters into non-canon environments, banter, functional relationships between dysfunctional individuals, unexplained mysteries, bittersweet moods, journal/epistolary fic, dreams and memories and identities, canon-adjacent tropey plots, outsider POV, UST, resolved UST, exploration of secondary bits of canon, leaning on the uniqueness of the canon setting/mood, found families, characters reuniting after a long and/or harrowing time, friends-to-lovers, road trips, maps, mutual pining, cuddling, wintry moods, the feeling of flannel and other fabrics, ridiculous concepts played straight, sensory details, sickfic, places being haunted, people being haunted, the mystery of the woods, small hopes in bleak worlds, electricity, places that don’t quite add up, mismatched memories, caves and deep places, distant city lights at night, emphasis on non-human traits of non-human characters (gen-wise, but also a hearty yes xeno for applicable ships), emphasis on inhuman traits of characters who were human once and have sort of shed it all behind

DNW: non-canonical rape, non-canonical children, focus on children, unrequested ships (background established canon couples are okay, mentions of parents are okay!), canon retellings

All requests are for both fic and art!

Death Crown: Death, trick

(I haven't played the DLC yet so, alas, no demons, or no spoilers for the demons, at least) I am absolutely charmed by the overall mood of this game and would like to see something more in that vein! Anything! Got more sacred (or unholy?) geometrical architecture for Death to interact with, maybe in greater detail than just wrecking it? What else feels like a contemporary take on a Bosch painting? Can Death get lost?

Ghost Trick: Jowd, Cabanela, trick, treat

Anything focused on Cabanela being an unstoppable force (confident, untiring, sparkling, stubborn, dexterous, loyal to the bitter end, legs) and/or Jowd being an immovable object (sarcastic, strong, depressed, self-deprecating but knowing he's hot stuff, also stubborn, clever but an emotional dumbass, round). Figuring out stuff? Something in the new timeline is linked to the old timeline? Coat? Dancing? Scarves? Halloween costumes?

I like Cabanela/Jowd and Cabanela/Alma/Jowd and Cabanela/Alma in scenarios where Jowd isn't around and Alma/Jowd in general (REALLY like all these, okay. like this is the one request where I'd love the most self-indulgent shippy takes as well), and dig Lynne/Memry. Yomiel/fianSissel and Emma/JM also cool!

Hylics: any, trick, treat

(I have only played the first game so far so please no overt spoilers for Hylics 2. Feel free to include stuff from it but... stealthily, I guess?) This is an "anything that feels somewhat like canon, please" sort of request! Love the mood, love the cast, love the little added details in their menu screen. Those can be prompts? Or the oddball stats? How do ToT's trick and treat freeforms apply to Hylics' overall... hylicsness, what would those guys think constitutes a "creepy" moment or a "fluffy" one?

Not into ships for this one, however I WILL say that Dedusmuln has all the proverbial curves in the right places. mostly their face.

Kentucky Route Zero: Weaver

Math, debt, the liminal state of almost being a ghost, seeing the world with a strange clarity... just anything Weaver, please! How'd she make her way to the town? What was it like for her to be working on Xanadu for a time? What about the community broadcast! Does she have an opinion on Carrington's oeuvre? You know... things... stuff. Weaver things. and stuff.

I love the whole cast and Weaver... wove... her story through most of them so feel free to bring in whomever. Not interested in ships here though.

Paradise Killer: Lady Love Dies, trick

A post-canon glimpse of life on '''''perfect''''' 25? That's not QUITE enough class consciousness to make the whole thing work, you guys. What does 'normal' life feel like to LD now? After following Henry's case and talking to Shinji so much, can she see that it's doomed to fail again, and then what? What IS Island 25 like, anyway? (what comes after Island 25, even?)

I liked the choice of canon romances - if it has to be just one I'd prefer it to be Crimson, but I'd also be interested in seeing what a V or triad with Doom Jazz would look like. They're all so chill about stuff

Pyre: Volfred, trick, treat

Pragmatic idealist, charismatic and bad at people, pacifist, activist, physiologically incapable of shutting up for a hot second, what's there not to love... I am very into either of the following: C. Volfred Sandalwood has a fantastic day; C. Volfred Sandalwood has a terrible no good day. Everything is great! Pre-exile antiestablishmentarian antics, maybe with Bertrude? Political gambits? The very physical dangers of the Downside which may or may not catch a scholar by surprise (who saves him?)? Tree problems? Meeting Oralech for the first time and Volfred thinks he himself is hot stuff but out of the two, Oralech is clearly the VIP? Feeling like he should live up to Lu Sclorian's legacy but he feels much closer to other Scribes (and what does Lu have to say about it, one way or another?)? The thrilling intimacy of Reading? The thrilling intimacy of lowercase reading also, maybe reading old manuscripts found in the Downside?

I very much ship him with Tariq and/or Oralech. The only canon ship I like is Hedwyn/Fikani. I also like Soliam/Gol, Bertrude/Pamitha and Celeste/Jodariel. Love all the Nightwings + Dalbert (+Deluge...?); love to dunk on Manley, Brighton and Lendel (I don't enjoy flat-out bashing, more like... I enjoy the way they are portrayed as horrible gremlins in canon and if they turn up in fic I'm not interested in more positive portrayals)

Signs of the Sojourner: Rhea, Elias, trick, treat

Once again pretty much an "anything in the style of canon" request. I love this setting, its themes and all the little lives that fill it. I am interested in a wide range of postcanon scenarios and love the whole cast - does Rhea come back to $town any number of years down the line and find $character? How'd their storyline end up in the medium-long term? What the hell is up with the Stranger (seriously, three runs and I never managed to speak with them, I have no idea)? What's life like for Elias back home, or in a new home if they can't keep the store, or if Rhea landed the Oscar ending or whatever (just, please, not dead Rhea. I love that ending but can't stand to consider what it'd do to Elias)? Or does he join the caravan just once? Who did Rhea grow to really like and can't wait to see every time? Any ghost stories or creepy encounters on the caravan's route? Does Thunder help?

I'm neutral on ships here - good with Rhea&Elias, good with background Rhea/Elias but I wouldn't like a romantic focus.

Totally Normal Wizard Apprentice: apprentice, wizard, master, trick, treat

(conflict of interest disclaimer, I illustrated this but didn't write nor nominate it) What awaits the apprentice outside the wizard's tower? It sounds like a pretty wild moon out there, I loved all the worldbuilding hints of the bigger setting. Does the wizard keep track of the apprentice, with her telescope or otherwise, and how does she take care of her ruined parlor? Was this all some sort of 5d chess on the master's part, and if so to what end? And what kind of otherworldly patience does this man possess, anyway, to handle the apprentice on a daily basis?

Twin Peaks: Margaret, Diane, Lucy, Tammy, trick, treat

(bass-boosted ethereal whooshing) For tricks, I would like to see any of these characters face the woods, the mystery of the woods, and/or a new symbol of your liking. Or: Margaret in the city, Diane and the moon, Lucy and the color blue, Tammy incognito.

For treats, a happy meeting. I love the whole cast and I'm always thrilled by gonzo "&" pairings, bring in whomever! Coffee and pie? The Bookhouse Boys? A kinder aspect of the woods?

Fandom-specific notes: love s3, love the books too. I like Lucy/Andy, Margaret/Sam fwiw, and rarepairs Tammy/Cynthia and Diane/Constance. Please no Fireman's-house-is-the-white-lodge, no Twin Perfect, no Judy-was-destroyed (nor is destroyable).

Arcade Spirits: Percy, Teo, treat

More than anything, I love the sense of group and camaraderie among the arcade's staff and regulars, and I'd love to see some more of it. I picked Percy and Teo 'cause they're my faves but anyone you may want to add, up to and including Sue, is very very welcome. Is there any aspect of gaming that feels like it could be adapted to this strange world of contemporary arcades? Cosplay shenanigans for everyone courtesy of Ashley? Any other activity that could show how Percy and/or Teo get along with the others, like they were all forming little groups during the beach chapter? It's such a feel-good canon, any feel-good situation would be great!

My Ari is with Percy but I'm not really interested in shipping here. All sorts of friendships though!

[veronicadm]

hi, it’s elle with one of my two muses, veronica jean demontfort. i can’t wait to play her in this group !

i’ve been keeping a close eye on VERONICA , JEAN , DEMONTFORT lately . by all means , i’ve started to notice the striking resemblance between her and constance zimmer , but something sparked my interest more . as it turns out - the demontfort family have indeed tried their best to tuck away veronica ’s  controlling tendencies , but it only seems to bring out her abrasiveness more . according to close confidants , on rare occasions , she can be humorous , last time they saw this side of her was , and i quote - “ON HER FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY” . but most shocking of all , seems to be the fact that ever since i dug deeper in her life , i somehow couldn’t shake the image of a grand collection of tequila, long-line coats, pencil skirts, inappropriate laughter, dedicating her time to keeping things buried, frequented cursing when things fail to go her way, a judgemental stare over her glasses frame & deleting emails without reading them out of my head .

triggers: alcoholism, abandonment, parental death, paranoia

despite preconceived notions about veronica and her family’s riches, she did not grow up full rich. she grew up in seattle, born veronica zellman james, her mother was her father’s former secretary and her father a big ceo of a telecoms company. the two never had any more childen because she was unwanted in the first place. her mother was flighty and her father chose either work ot alcohol and drugs over her every time so it was up to veronica to make sure she got what she needed.

from a young age she had been forced into a resourceful mindset and stepped in to fill her own parental role. her parents would fight, her mother would leave and not come back for weeks, her father would succumb to his vices and eventually her mother would return. this was a cycle that kicked in like clockwork so it was one that was far too played out.

she got her first job at thirteen because she wanted money for herself so she could leave without any hesitation. they didn’t check up on her school work so it was a good job that she was self-motivated. her parents were getting worse as the years went on and the little sympathy that she had for them slowly vanished; they were making life so much harder for her. she wasn’t supposed to be their counsel or support, they were meant to be hers.

veronica adopted a harsh exterior, one that was always on the defensive side to make sure she stayed on top of things and grabbed opportunites. when she was seventeen, her father passed away and the company stocks and all his savings went to her. her mother had been m.i.a. for quite some time and it wasn’t like she was written in his will to begin with. automatically made a billionnaire overnight, she would be quick to sell her shares of the company for a hefty sum to distance herself from it all.

the girl was upset that he was gone and that he’d never be able to make it up to her. veronica had always felt that he would snap out of spiralling constantly and try his best to step into his fatherly role but that was never going to happen now. she did try to reach out to her mother but the woman rarely responded and when she did, she wanted money from her. that was shut down immediately. some would call that heartless but the woman didn’t deserve her help; she had helped her enough throughout her short life time.

she had always had an aptitude for languages; she was near fluent in spanish and french by fourteen. veronica would go on to major in spanish and minor in arabic at berkeley. she never had any intention of becoming a translator but she believed that she had a lot of transferrable skills for jobs in business. although she was abrasive, she could be charasmatic if she wanted to.

veronica met father demontfort at the time she was at berkeley and for her to say that it was love at first sight was a lie. almost a romantic comedy, she didn’t like the entitled rich boy that thought he had one up on her. veronica was intelligent and would reject him until he was willing to accept him as an equal. her interest peaked when he’d mention the family business and she did want to be involved. she was ready to take on responsibility that she had dodged in the past by selling her shares and she had more than enough money to finance developments and expansions they talked about.

she had never been in love with father demontfort and hadn’t been in love with anyone before that. she would be the type to sleep with people and not get attached but she became attached when they’d plan together; ‘world domination’ was what they called it. an onlooker would tell you that they were a toxic pair and would have compared them to the macbeth’s. veronica was described as having ‘masculine’ traits as she was forceful in her own right and did curse more than a ‘lady’ should but she didn’t care about that. abrasive moments could be fixed by a smile.

it was a shock to her when she found out she was pregnant for the first time. veronica had never dreamed of having a family; she was too focused on work and it wasn’t like she had any good role models for parenting. she wasn’t going to go through with it but father demontfort found out she was pregnant and was insistent that it helped with the image purpose and that they’d be great parents. veronica was extremely worried about it but she felt like she couldn’t voice her concerns; father demontfort and the business was all she had and she wasn’t willing to part with it.

she did love madeline when she was born, that was no question. while veronica didn’t dismiss her doubts completely, she did want to give her the absolute world. however, she quickly became overwhelmed when the two others came along. it was too much for her and she felt herself crumbling. it was foreign territory for her because she was meant to be a winner and that wasn’t happening with her being a mother. that was when the revolving door of nannies came into play.

veronica wouldn’t be able to pin point when the scheming came into full force but it was caused by them being so competitive with each other. the woman wasn’t clean herself as her resourcefulness came into play and covering up the illegal activity was her idea. she hadn’t been aware that the company was operating by those means but took it upon herself to clean everything up. it leaded her to start to resent her husband and the bickering began.

the two of them tried to keep it away from the children but they couldn’t help but take little digs at each other. it was concerning when their tensions was picked up by one of their acquaintenance at a gala and noting in monterey stayed a secret - people loved to start rumours and their marriage seemed to be a hot topic.

being pragmatic, veronica suggested the publicity stunts such as the family meals out with cameras, a spread in a magazine about ‘having it all and maintaining happiness’. it was a bunch of bullshit but at this point, bullshit was veronica’s middle name. she didn’t care about charity but would find herself organising many charity galas to clear rumours of dirty money; veronica was good at cleaning up messes she helped to create. she definitely had an issue with control and always assumed responsibility to fix things and then proceeded to be angry that no one else had volunteered to do it.

the woman wasn’t happy but she was putting on a stellar act. she doesn’t feel like a person anymore and what she has can’t be considered a family. her children dislike each other and she feels partly responsible for that. she did push them hard because she never had anyone do that for her but perhaps she had gone in too hard. she has started drinking a little more these days and is scared of becoming her father. veronica also feels like she can’t express her concerns to anyone, not even her husband. monterey gossip travels too fast and she doesn’t trust any of the women in her circle.

christopher matthew was a threat to everything, especially when he was trying to discredit everything they had ever done. there were some underlying issues but that didn’t mean she hadn’t achieved anything. it made veronica paranoid about where he was getting this information as every time she would sue, the case would be dropped because something else would be threatened to uncover. this was something she couldn’t control and that was difficult for her to accept. her worry was making her physically ill. she didn’t want this. she thought about moving her money into another bank account and leaving monterey but that would have made her just like her mother and she wasn’t to know what would be said in her absence.

veronica was constantly defensive as she was so worried and it caused her to snap at her family. she was supposed to be very successful but her ambition has landed her in a mess that she doesn’t know how to clean up.

she would be lying if she said she didn’t feel relieved to hear of christopher’s death. it left a weight off her but some problems still remained. veronica still wants out, of the family and the business but doesn’t feel like she can handle the fall out.

[kuningannasansa]

A musketeers rewatch (that nobody asked for) 1x02

(very anti annamis, so if that bothers you steer clear :)

We open with Dartagnan preparing for a duel and declaring “I was raised to fight like a gentleman”. I thought he was a farmboy? I’m so confused.

“Every man for himself!” – lol! But also, is that what you were thinking when you decided to screw up everyone’s life with your dick Aramis?

Now Dartagnan has been arrested for illegal duelling. Which is fair and exactly what should happen. I mean, they should arrest that red guard too, ofc. But for all that the musketeers whine about their toys being banned by the nanny state, I think we can agree that laws banning duels were actually progressive and good?

Treville is MAAAAD!! Good!

“I’ve never been unpopular before” HA HA HAAA HAAAAA! You just wait a few seasons, honey.

Why do the extra background musketeers have period accurate clothing and ‘our heroes’ don’t? I mean, I get these leather getups are supposed to be sexy, but they don’t do it for me at all. I’d like realistic clothing more

Oh hey! It was all an act! I had legit forgotten! I am glad I’m doing this rewatch lol, there’s so much good stuff I’m experiencing again as if for the first time! Also, Treville is clearly a suppressed thespian!

Now Athos says Dartagnan is a farmboy again?????? I guess he’s a farmboy who was taught to fight like a gentleman for some reason

Aramis tells Porthos that he’s a terrible judge of character and he does like Aramis, so maybe that’s true…

Treville thinks Dartagnan’s life is worth the risk if he can uncover what the villain of the week is planning. I love my pragmatic dad!

Aramis says he loves violence in a woman. Well, I’m free to beat the shit out of him any time...

I was about to comment on the good old days when Anne had political acumen and cultivated a good public image by giving alms and grantign clemency to some prisoners. But then she told the governor of the prison that she would like to free all his charges and his face turned sour so maybe she always sucked at diplomacy? I’ll reserve judgement thou, I remember her as very clever and capable in season one.    

Prison Break: 1630 is looking good

Athos doesn’t have faith in Dartagnan to manage the mission. From his perspective it makes sense, but it still upsets me. 

Richelieu and Treville are working together on this one! Oh goodie!

Now this is the worst bit! Milady tells Richelieu she can get Dartagnan back by lying that she stabbed the guy in the last episode in self defence. And well… that does give people a valid reason to think that she lied about Thomas trying to rape her as well. For the record, I still believe her, her story remains constant throughout and she sticks by it even when she has absolutely no reason to lie. But this scene does give the haters a semi valid reason to doubt her and I hate that. And most importantly, this ambiguity in the text should not exist. The writers should have told us on screen one way or the other to avoid all this nasty discourse. Sometimes ambiguity is a wonderful device (cough*black sails final/*cough) but rape is not a topic that should be treated like that.    

Richelieu is turned on by her act thou. And slightly repulsed. By how turned on he is.

Milady is looking for Vadim on Richelieu’s orders! She’s on the same side as the musketeers, doing the same job (probably more successfully)! Watch them judge her anyway.

RICHELIEU WANTS FLOWERS!!

Oh no, Anne, don’t show Aramis affection! He’ll be stalking you for the rest of your life!

Porthos does not approve and neither do I.

Porthos reminds Aramis of Adelle lol. WRECK HIM PORTHOS!!

SUZETTE!!

Bonacieux is so very dumb, it’s delightful!

Milady just shot two of Richelieu’s red guards. Either she had his authorisation to do it when necessary or she just doesn’t give a fuck. I suspect the later.

Milady is promising Dartagnan riches and to introduce him to her “powerful patron” if he takes her to Vadim. Why? If Treville and Richelieu are cooperating on this why are their respective agents in the dark? Or perhaps RIchelieu is trying to catch Vadim on his own behind Treville’s back and get all the credit? Hehee

Athos is threatening to have Suzette whipped. And she tells him that it’s usually the other way around with musketeers, “but if the money’s right”. LMAO WRECK HIM!!

They are planning to use decoys at Easter mass to lure out Vadim and Anne says “the people know their King and Queen too well”. Do they, thou? They had wood cuttings back then not the fucking People Magazine. But I guess the plot hinges on the real royals going so whatever.

Louis: “My father never shirked public obligation” Richelieu: “Your father was assassinated”

“Common sense is for commoners” oh Louis! Listen to Richelieu!!

Richelieu says he may have misjudged, but I still think he’s right. I mean, politically speaking, it is good for people to see their King, not have him cowering behind castle walls while they are put in danger. But I still maintain those peasants would not be any wiser if they just sent decoys.

I like Vadim’s greed for money under a disguise of not entirely fake anti monarchism as a motivation. His plan is really clever too! Season 1 really had very good villains!

Richelieu in proper red cardinal’s robes! Me likey!

“Surrender or die!” lmao, as if they’re not going to hang him if he surrenders. I’d rather be shot, personally.

Milady kills Suzette. Okay, she was part of a conspiracy to rob the royal treasury so she would have been executed anyway, but I still don’t like it. Can we not kill all the cool female characters please?

Vadim’s death is beautifully shot, with him dropping treasure everywhere as he walks through the smoke. Cinematically very good!

Constance does not miss the quiet life! Bless!

So Milady lied to Richelieu and kept the Queen’s pendant she got from Suzette? But then that plot never went anywhere, as far as I remember. I know there were some cut Milady scenes in episodes 4 – 6 so I guess they decided to drop it, but I would have loved to see her have more agency independent of Richelieu as she pursues her own agenda.

Red Guards killed in the line of duty: 2 (let’s pour one out for them!) 

Women fridged: Suzette RIP!

Best Dressed: Louis and Anne (not an easy choice cause Constance and Milady also had some very nice dresses in this episode, but in the end I’m a trashy bitch who loves bling)  

[oscopelabs]

The Murder Artist: Alfred Hitchcock At The End Of His Rope by Alice Stoehr

“Rope was an interesting technical experiment that I was lucky and happy to be a part of, but I don’t think it was one of Hitchcock’s better films.” So wrote Farley Granger, one of its two stars, in his memoir Include Me Out. The actor was in his early twenties when the Master of Suspense plucked him from Samuel Goldwyn’s roster. He’d star in the first production from the director’s new Transatlantic Pictures as Phillip Morgan, a pianist and co-conspirator in murder. John Dall would play his partner, homicidal mastermind Brandon Shaw. Granger had the stiff pout to Dall’s trembling smirk.

The “interesting technical experiment” was Hitchcock’s decision to shoot the film, adapted from a twenty-year-old English play, as a series of 10-minute shots stitched together into a simulated feature-length take. This allowed him to retain the stage’s spatial and temporal unities while guiding the audience with the camera’s eye. In the process, he’d embed a host of meta-textual and erotic nuances within the sinister mise-en-scène. Screenwriter Arthur Laurents (Granger’s boyfriend, for a time) updated the play’s fictionalized account of Chicagoan thrill killers Leopold and Loeb to a penthouse in late ‘40s Manhattan. There, Phillip strangles the duo’s friend David—his scream behind a curtain opens the film—immediately prior to a dinner party where they’ll serve pâté atop the box that serves as his coffin. It’s a morbid premise for a comedy of manners, and Brandon taunts his guests throughout the evening. (Asked if it’s someone’s birthday, he coyly replies, “It’s, uh, really almost the opposite.”)

Granger deemed the film lesser Hitchcock due to two limitations. One was the sheer repetition and exact blocking demanded by its formal conceit, the other the Production Code’s blanket ban on “sex perversion,” which meant tiptoeing around the fact that Brandon and Phillip—like their real-life inspirations and, to some degree, Rope’s leading men—were gay. That stringent homophobia forced Hitchcock and Laurents to convey their sexuality through ambiguity and implication; the director would use similar tactics to adapt queer writers like Daphne du Maurier and Patricia Highsmith. (“Hitchcock confessed that he actually enjoyed his negotiations with [Code honcho Joseph] Breen,” notes Thomas Doherty in the book Hollywood’s Censor. “The spirited give-and-take, said Hitchcock, possessed all the thrill of competitive horse trading.”) The nature of the characters’ relationship is hardly subtext: Rope starts with their orgasmic shudder over David’s death, then labored panting after which Brandon pulls out a cigarette and lets in some light. A few minutes later, Brandon strokes the neck of a champagne bottle; Phillip asks how he felt during the act, and he gasps “tremendously exhilarated.”

Like Brandon’s hints about the murder, the homosexuality on display is surprisingly explicit if an audience can decode it. The whole film pivots around their partnership, both criminal and domestic. In an impish bit of conflation, their scheme even stands in for “the love that dare not speak its name,” with David’s body acting as a fetish object in a sexual game no one else can perceive. The guests, as Brandon puts it, are “a dull crew,” “those idiots” who include David’s father and aunt, played by London theater veterans Cedric Hardwicke and Constance Collier. Joan Chandler and Douglas Dick, both a couple years into what would be modest careers, play David’s fiancée Janet and her ex Kenneth. Character actress Edith Evanson appears as housekeeper Mrs. Wilson, a prototype for Thelma Ritter’s Stella in Rear Window, and a top-billed James Stewart is Rupert Cadell, who once mentored the murderers in arcane philosophy.

This was the first of Stewart’s four collaborations with Hitchcock. It cast the actor against type not as a romantic hero but as an observer and provocateur, his gaze shrewd, his dialogue heavy with irony. The role presaged his work in the ‘50s, with Mann rather than Capra, emphasizing psychology over ideology. Rupert, like L.B. Jeffries or Scottie Ferguson, is rooting out a crime, and in so doing comes to seem more loathsome than the villains themselves. “Murder is—or should be—an art,” he lectures midway through Rope, eyebrow arched, martini glass in hand. “Not one of the seven lively perhaps, but an art nevertheless.” Half an hour in real time later, having seen David’s body, he flies into a moralizing monologue: “You’ve given my words a meaning that I never dreamed of!” It takes up the last several minutes of the film, with Rupert snarling from deep in his righteous indignation, “Did you think you were God, Brandon?”

Stewart was a master of sputtering, impassioned oratory, and his facility for it renders Rupert’s hypocrisy especially stark. He taught these murderers; he can’t just shrug off his culpability. The Code decreed that “the sympathy of the audience shall never be thrown to the side of crime, wrongdoing, or sin.” Every transgression reaps a punishment. The ending of Rope abides by the letter of this law, as Rupert fires several shots into the night, drawing a police siren toward the building. He sits, deflated, while Phillip plays piano and Brandon has one last drink. But none of David’s loved ones get to excoriate his killers. The one man here with no integrity, no moral authority, is the one who gets the final, self-flagellating word.

The Code forbade throwing sympathy to the side of sin, but if Hitchcock meant any character in Rope as his stand-in, it was Brandon, not Rupert. The top to Phillip’s bottom, he’s the director of the play within a film. He’s storyboarded it to perfection. Janet, realizing he’s toying with her, cries that he’s incapable of just throwing a party. “No, you’d have to add something that appealed to your warped sense of humor!” Hitchcock, who’d built a corpus of corpses, must have gotten a chuckle from that line. Whereas Phillip fears discovery, Brandon puts symbolism above pragmatism, prioritizing what Phillip dubs his “neat little touches.” He needs to have dinner on the chest, the murder weapon tied around antique books, and his surrogate father Rupert in attendance, much as the film’s director needed to shoot in long takes—not because it’s pragmatic, but because it’s beautiful. He went to great lengths for verisimilar beauty here, as Steven Jacobs details in The Wrong House: The Architecture of Alfred Hitchcock. Miniatures in the three-dimensional cyclorama seen through the broad penthouse window were wired and connected to a ‘light organ’ that allowed for the gradual activation of the skyline’s thousands of lights and hundreds of neon signs. Meanwhile, spun-glass clouds were shifted by technicians from right to left during moments when the camera turned away from the window.

Jacobs notes as well that a painting by Fidelio Ponce de León hanging on Brandon and Phillip’s wall actually belonged to the director and had previously hung in his own home. Rope is avant-garde art wrapped in a bourgeois thriller, about avant-garde art wrapped in a dinner party, pushing moral and aesthetic boundaries while collapsing any distinction between the two. In this nested construction, Brandon the murder artist becomes a figure of auto-critique or perhaps apologia. Did you think you were God, Alfred? By 1948, he’d already made dozens of films, often obliquely about sex and violence, across decades and continents. He’d become the world champion sick joke raconteur. Rope is a reckoning with the ethics of his genre.

By 1948, the world had changed. A few years earlier, Hitchcock’s friend (and Rope co-producer) Sidney Bernstein had asked him to advise on a film about Germany’s newly liberated concentration camps. As Kay Gladstone writes in Holocaust and the Moving Image, Hitchcock worried that “tricky editing” would let skeptics read its footage as fraudulent and asked the editors “to use as far as possible long shots and panning shots with no cuts.” The director took his own counsel to heart.

Rope was also his first color film, the start of his fascination with dull palettes. (A quarter-century later he’d limn Frenzy’s London with every shade of beige.) Genteel browns and grays dominate the penthouse, the hues of men’s suits. Only after nightfall does the apartment glow with, in Jacobs’ phrasing, “the expressive possibilities of urban neon light.” The dinner party takes place at the crest of postwar modernity, a world away from the camps. Here, among the East Coast intelligentsia, murder’s merely a thought experiment. When David’s father mentions Hitler, Brandon dismisses him as “a paranoiac savage.” Yet even in polite society, the evening can begin with a secret killing and end with that iniquity brought to light. “Perhaps what is called civilization is hypocrisy,” says Brandon. “Perhaps,” David’s father concedes.

In 1948, the world was changing. That year saw the publication of Gore Vidal’s landmark gay novel The City and the Pillar and the first of the Kinsey Reports. Antonioni was a documentarian about to make his first feature; Truffaut was a delinquent catching Hitchcock movies at the Cinémathèque. Rope’s amorality and pitch-black humor augur a world and a cinema that were yet to come. It’s thorny gay art through a straight auteur. The film’s last thirty seconds show Rupert’s back to the camera while Brandon sips his cocktail and Phillip plays a tune, the trio lit by flashing neon. In this denouement lie decadence and damnation, art and death, the Code-closeted past and a disaffected future.

[pamphletstoinspire]

Why Our Hearts Burn for the Eucharist

Are you longing for the Holy Eucharist? You are not alone. Countless members of the Mystical Body across the world feel keenly the separation from Christ’s Real Presence. The joy of the Easter season this year is tinged with sorrow at the separation. We are living one of the great paradoxes of our faith, which is that joy and sorrow are often mingled together in this life. We trust, despite this sorrow, that this period of separation from Him in Holy Communion is an opportunity for us to grow in profound love for Him and the Church.

First, the disregard and guilting of those who miss the public celebration of the Mass and reception of Holy Communion needs to stop. The idea that telling our brothers and sisters in Christ to “suck it up” (pardon an expression from my military days) because people are dying is not only uncharitable it is to miss the fact that not being able to receive Our Lord in Holy Communion should cause us some level of pain and discomfort, not necessarily emotionally, but at least spiritually.

This is not an either/or situation. We can express our sorrow at being separated from the Mass while also being concerned about those who are sick and dying. Discussing that sorrow also does not mean a lack of resignation to God’s will. It is simply an expression that this period of exile is difficult, even if we know we must endure it and embrace it as a time of greater perfection in love. The example we can follow is that of Our Lady and St. John who endured the agony and sorrow of the Cross, but trusted in God’s ultimate plan. They still suffered tremendously, but they also surrendered in faith.

The Holy Eucharist is the very center of our Faith, which is why it is a great blow to the People of God in every age when they are barred from the public celebration of the Mass and the Sacraments. This does not mean these periods of suspension have not been necessary at times, but they are always a trial for the members of the Mystical Body. This makes perfect sense given the centrality of the Holy Eucharist in the life of the Church. St. John Paul II in the opening to his encyclical Ecclesia de Eucharistia states:

The Church draws her life from the Eucharist. This truth does not simply express a daily experience of faith, but recapitulates the heart of the mystery of the Church. In a variety of ways she joyfully experiences the constant fulfillment of the promise: “Lo, I am with you always, to the close of the age” (Mt 28:20), but in the Holy Eucharist, through the changing of bread and wine into the body and blood of the Lord, she rejoices in this presence with unique intensity. Ever since Pentecost, when the Church, the People of the New Covenant, began her pilgrim journey toward her heavenly homeland, the Divine Sacrament has continued to mark the passing of her days, filling them with confident hope.

The celebration of the Mass is the most tangible encounter we have with Christ on this side of eternity. It is why the separation causes immense sorrow. Even so, this period of exile is an opportunity to enter even more into the mystery of the Holy Eucharist through our prayer; to allow Christ to lead us to a greater love of Him through longing for His Real Presence. In order to do so, we cannot avoid this sorrow, nor can we dismiss it with a pragmatic wave of the hand. Instead, we must ask Him how we can love His Eucharistic Face with greater ardor and devotion.

To be sure, this is more difficult in our separation, but through prayer we can turn our gaze to Him in Sacred Scripture, prayer before the Tabernacle, spiritual communion, and studying the Church’s teachings on the Holy Eucharist and the Mass.

For the most holy Eucharist contains the Church’s entire spiritual wealth: Christ himself, our passover and living bread. Through his own flesh, now made living and life-giving by the Holy Spirit, he offers life to men. Consequently the gaze of the Church is constantly turned to her Lord, present in the Sacrament of the Altar, in which she discovers the manifestation of his boundless love.

St. John Paul II, Ecclesia de Eucharistia, 1.

We can join our gaze to the wider Church’s gaze throughout this present isolation and separation. The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass has not ceased. Our public participation has been temporarily suspended. We can still enter spiritually into the Mass as it is celebrated by our priests and bishops “from the rising of the sun to its setting” through our prayer. It is a time when we can seek union with God and the Church at the spiritual level: something that we risk ignoring when we are physically present at Mass.

The temptation to turn our gaze from His simply because the separation causes us periods of sorrow, agony, and tears may be great, but we must persevere. It may be that we experience aridity or no emotional response during this time. Our emotions are not a reliable indicator of our spiritual lives. No matter what we experience during this present exile, we must keep our gaze fixed on Christ’s loving gaze in union with the Church. If we stumble, then we must ask Him to help us get back up and to give us the grace we need to endure during this difficult period.

Throughout this particular Easter season, we are invited to enter into the totality of the paschal mystery from the passion and death of Our Lord to the Resurrection. We sense the presence of the Cross more keenly in this Easter season as countless people suffer in the current pandemic and the encroaching threat of economic turmoil. Seeking greater love of the Holy Eucharist will lead us deeper into the paschal mystery, the suffering the world is experiencing at present, and communion with the Mystical Body.

The Church was born of the paschal mystery. For this very reason the Eucharist, which is an outstanding way the sacrament of the paschal mystery, stands at the center of the Church’s life.

Ibid.

This period of exile is a time to be tried, tested, and purified through the refining fires of God’s love. Let’s seek to make Our Lord’s Real Presence the center of our lives so that when the joyous day comes when we can once more approach Him in Holy Communion, our hearts may be set ablaze with even greater love for Him.

BY: CONSTANCE T. HULL

[animanightmate]

I posted 870 times in 2021

72 posts created (8%)

798 posts reblogged (92%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 11.1 posts.

I added 629 tags in 2021

#the musketeers - 95 posts

#bbc musketeers - 90 posts

#musketeers - 90 posts

#bbc the musketeers - 80 posts

#image description - 59 posts

#aramis - 47 posts

#athos - 45 posts

#porthos - 44 posts

#fanfic - 42 posts

#d'artagnan - 37 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#i adore the female characters in the musketeers but they're right - it's a chore filling in their backstory and motivations as a fic writer

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Guards! Guards?

I wrote this a few years ago now, but then the forum it was originally posted to imploded, so I thought I'd bring it here, dust it off, tinker with a few bits, round out some of my assumptions, and present tumblr with this short thesis (herein be spoilers)...

Ahem

I cannot believe it took me so long to put it together, but I’ve not long (ish... see above) worked out that Guards! Guards! (the first Watch novel by Terry Pratchett) has a large element of parody of The Three Musketeers (not just the book but various adaptations), as well as classic noir. Now, it’s possible I’m obsessed (I am, but shh), but here’s the way I see it:

The Night Watch as The Black Musketeer regiment – a group of armed men charged with keeping The King’s Peace in the nation’s capital, and rivals to another armed body of similar ilk within the city – subverted in that they’re the most despised body of men in the city, considered less an honour than a punishment, their rivals (Day Watch qua The Red Musketeers) have a great deal more power, and they’re determinedly pedestrian (as opposed to equestrian).

Vimes as Athos – in charge, though somewhat reluctantly, functional alcoholic, trailing rumours of him being “brung low by a woman” – subverted in that he’s about as common (and proto-Socialist) as it’s possible to be, plus the woman is just his way of talking about the city herself.

Carrot as d’Artagnan – eager, young newcomer to the city from a place far away, sent by his father’s advice, naturally talented, filled with longing to be the best guard he can be – subverted in that he’s easy-going rather than apt to fly into a temper and challenge people to duels (his arresting of the Head of the Thieves’ Guild was earnest, but not hot-headed), he’s tall, and he’s actually the king he’s sworn allegiance to.

Nobby as Aramis – the romantic, the ladies’ man – subverted in that there's a lot more enthusiasm than “success” in that department, absolutely zero discretion, and I’m fairly certain he’d struggle to spell poetry...

Colon as Porthos – pragmatic and overweight, a little indolent – subverted in that he’s the only one of them actually married rather than a pure hedonist, is about as flash in appearance as a lump of putty, and has a vehement lack of desire for any increase in rank.

Vetinari as Richelieu is so obvious that it’s probably wrong, knowing the man (men) concerned.

Lady Ramkin as Milady – a woman who keeps turning up and shifting people’s understanding, has a strong chemistry with the alcoholic – subverted in that  she’s about as noble-born as you can get, hasn’t a devious bone in her body, is part of Vimes’s future rather than his past, and is demonstrably a virgin

I’m yet to work out exactly the corollaries for Constance, Rochefort, Bonacieux, et al, but Guards! Guards! is, of course, not content with parodying one, or even two literary genres (classic fantasy meets police procedural meets detective noir meets swashbuckling meets conspiracies and secret societies), so not everyone in the book will fall under a Musketeer pattern, and not every element of The Musketeers will turn up parodied.

Anyway, that’s it. I’ve not read Guards! Guards! in years, though it doesn’t take much peering through my blog to see that I’m obsessed with The Musketeers. A bit. Ahem. So I’m very much open to critique from more knowledgeable readers.

Thoughts? Criticisms? Additions? What do you reckon?

61 notes • Posted 2021-09-09 01:06:52 GMT

#4

A fair few of you on my dash are posting about The Mummy (1999) at the moment, and I just want to say: bless you. With all my heart. What a perfect joyscroll.

62 notes • Posted 2021-06-29 07:08:57 GMT

#3

You know what I'd like? More angsty, spur-of the moment roadtrips written by/ for disabled or chronically ill people, because heading off without your meds (and the consequences of that choice or accident), or having to go back for them, or organising getting them on the road? Or what happens if your mobility device or prosthesis breaks? That's a realism that a bunch of us need.

90 notes • Posted 2021-11-02 17:31:12 GMT

#2

Apropos of Something

This is a grammatical infodump that literally nobody asked for, but I am here to talk about... how to indicate possession of the Musketeers. (Or: how one uses apostrophes for names that end in s in English.)

Right. So I’m assuming that most of you know that, to indicate possession by the (proper or otherwise) noun that precedes it, you add an ’s to the end of the word. e.g. “That is Sylvie’s father.” or “That is my father’s pamphlet.”

What most of you probably also know is that, in order to indicate the possession by a plural (proper or otherwise) noun that ends in s, you ditch the final s and just add an apostrophe. e.g. “That is the rebels’ song!” or “Look! The Spaniards’ guns have stopped firing!”

What you might not know is that this latter rule only applies to plural nouns that end in s. It does not apply to singular nouns that end in s. And, in this latter instance, you can remember the rule by how you would say the phrase out loud.

e.g. you wouldn’t say “that is James bag” but you would say “that is Jamesəs bag” (two syllables in the combination talking about James and his possession). And so, in writing, you’d use an apostrophe+s to indicate that James is the owner of the bag: “James’s bag.”

Why am I posting this under a Musketeers tag? Because of the sheer quantity of Musketeers fics I see where at least four characters’ possessions are indicated incorrectly. In other words, it's:

Athos’s wine

Porthos’s hat

Aramis’s handkerchief

Louis’s temper tantrum

So now you know. And no: my own grammar and punctuation are far from pristine, and yes: I’m definitely a subscriber to the “as long as the meaning is clear it doesn’t matter,” philosophy these days but I thought people might like to know, in case it comes up in formal writing that they need to use in future.  

116 notes • Posted 2021-11-30 03:34:09 GMT

#1

I wrote an essay about the importance of rage, kindess (as opposed to niceness), and justice as highlighted in Pratchett's work, and posted it in a group of Pratchett fans on Facebook. It went like this:

This one [is directly relevant to Pratchett and his work] and covers: Anger and Kindness, among other things.

It's taken me a while to work it out, but one of the reasons why I still engage so strongly with Pratchett's work is because of these two themes running through the thoughts and actions of pretty much every main character to whose point of view we get to bear direct witness. That, and the notion of Justice as opposed to Mercy.

Pratchett's main characters are almost all angry, often as a ground state of being - Granny Weatherwax and Commander Vimes springing immediately to mind. Polly Perks (and, to be fair, pretty much everyone except perhaps Lieutenant Blouse in Monstrous Regiment), Archchancellor Ridcully, The Patrician, Susan Sto Helit, Esk, Glenda Sugarbean, Agnes/ Perdita Nitt, Angua von Uberwald, and Tiffany Aching, to name a few more, are people to whom rage comes easily, and is a motivating force. Even those who are seen as generally more easygoing or placid of temperament have illuminating moments of anger which tip them over the edge to somewhere inspired, and that click of fully engaged rage is often a pivotal moment (for a near perfect example: Magrat's core is revealed to be sheer, molten ire when her personality is ablated by the Faerie Queen).

That's not to say that inchoate choler is venerated - the malicious, bubbling spite of Corporal Strappi is vilified as destructive, and the ever-seething, undirected bile of Mister Tulip is likewise outlined as useless because he is unable to focus it himself (hence depending on Mr. Pin's guidance).

Which brings us to kindness. Pratchett's heroes have all realised, at some level or other, that anger is a force that can - and should - be used for good. Weatherwax and Vimes, in particular, are constantly vigilant against the darkness inherent inside themselves which could snap at any moment under the weight of a wicked world and set it alight for a better one to be rebuilt from the ashes. They know that they shouldn't (it's pretty much treating people as things, after all), but that's ever constant. That's not to say, however, that the anger is never shown, utilised openly, or acknowledged by those around them. Vimes and Granny have both owed their survival against powerful, wicked creatures to rage's primal surge, but also to the enormous, almost terrifying love they bear the world.

Granny tells us that kind is not the same as nice. Nice is pretty, petty, and a lie. Nice is slapping an attractive plaster over a wound without cleaning it properly first, or dealing with the thing that caused the injury in the first place. Nice paints a gloss over injustice and asks us all to be quiet for the sake of those for whom the world works just as it should. Nice is self-delusion, and a wilful one at that. Which isn't to say that we should never indulge in a little of that - peel every cover off the world and it's too much, too raw, all at once, and we all need our masks in this world of fake it til you make it - but the Turtle cannot move if it never acknowledges the epic tides against which it must strive, and the Turtle Moves. It must.

Because justice moved Pratchett and, through him, all his finest creations. His villains were remarkable for their ability to subvert justice, to delude - themselves and/ or others - and to take and take for the sake of sometimes strange, but, all too often, all-too relatable motives. Money, power, comfort and, above all: control. And his heroes were glorious for their ability to see past the smoke and mirrors, the age-old inequities held up as a normalcy that must be protected at all costs, and tear through unjust conventions to make the necessary changes for everyone to step that bit closer to being truly free, with all its inherent terrors and responsibilities.

Pratchett wasn't nice, or whimsical - he was angry and (increasingly explicitly) vocal about justice in his works. And none of his heroes - our heroes - are either. They are kind, they serve justice, and they kick arse on behalf of those with less power, but they are neither nice, nor insipid, nor silent. And neither should we be.

Change is uncomfortable. Change feels like a death, which is why, no matter how positive the shift, we all move through the grief cycle of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance and exploration. True bravery is being afraid of the pain of righteous change, of letting go of who we were, of bidding farewell… and doing it anyway.

Be brave, [Pratchett Fans]. Be bold and angry and loud about justice, and strive for true equity.

The Turtle Moves. And so should you.

3947 notes • Posted 2021-04-27 12:12:43 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[jarel-dot-thepoet]

Excuse the typos Character Asks

Character Asks

Choose a character and a question

Characters:

Indy - sorrowful, wealthy writer

Sage - chipper, eccentric barista

Nova - mischievous, astute activist

Charleut - intelligent, sharp lawyer

Claud - sly, wise police officer

Neal - silent,  spontaneous movie director

Lora - sassy, correctional actress

Gray - informational, caring talent agent

Gemini - quirky, strong pet store manager

Havin - easy going, comical interior designer 

Gwen - shy, analytical banker

Patches - innocent, wild real estate agent

Doc - practical, blunt attorney

Harry - self-absorbed, glutton realtor

Loa - logical, stringent automotive engineer

Chief - philosophical, misunderstood politician

Jack - gentle, follower gardener

Deuce - mysterious, leader chemist

Roy - lying, nerdy bandmate 

Olivia - serving, fiery housemaid

Consuela - altruistic  firm casino co-owner

Constance - powerful, creepy casino co-owner

Joy - perky, pragmatic talent agent

Mrs. Feathersby - grandmotherly, assertive cafe owner

Dr. Whyte - optimistic, spiritual surgeon

Jensen - passive, generous nurse

Angeliica - feminist, tactical nurse

Stone - unexpected, remorseless police officer

Atticus - conversationalist, innocent bartender

Admiral - disciplined, sexually busy retired  veteran

Mr. Peru - soundful, pacifist butler

Daz - impervious, 

Fighting urges horned up searching for meaning feeling breathing living God please forgive these flesh feelings keep dealing me a strain in my pants my brain likes to dance I feel afraid sometimes without Lord I pray your Kingdom come evil need be delivered me from i feel bottom of ocean scum always comes with repercussions dumb didally down fiddling these emotions floating to my head crazed dazed in a hazed Hayes estate

Josiah - trustworthy, there landscaper

Doctor Profit - heartless, gassy teacher * Waiting is a new covenant, so wait patiently and you will see the return of Jesus Christ. * The killer of Casanova Hayes * the unexpected english teacher witha bold moustache piercing blue eyes takes brown skin elegant afro hair nice smile a kind voice whispering elegance peaceful harmonies bird talking chest as proud as the cockatoo merciful tattoos of kazoos and coconuts lustful legs that stood high enough to see the tempest shelf in southern creek high water soloist for sure team player and dauntful 

Dawn Delaware fifth sister  the child Karen Delaware was pregnant when she disappeared that hot day in Australia critic to town if Ostrasizer England smokes cigars piercing red eyes devilish tongue fierce brutality of the hands southpaws swearer of Osvits Germany ta I want to thank you for being my son my Lord my savior my grace mercy My Redeemer what treasure my everything my all amen

George Carl Bigsby - judgmental, prejudice grocery store owner

Z'riya Turner - affable, southern comfort Mexican store owner

Ashlee | Hectic - smarter than you, has to be right confidently beautiful curves radio talk show host producer

Lefwhich Greenfield - destined Turner of the turntables championship Dr. Profits twin cousin cornball hornball 

Nessie - grits thrower, angsty photographer

What do you do for a living 

Where's your money go most on

Least on

Where do kids come from 5 year old answer

Topic of the day

Wheres your worst kiss from

Best kiss

Who saw you running naked that one day down the street

Is the cat out if the bag secret bonus

Sandwich ir taco

Spaghetti or hamburger

Waffles or pancakes

Listen to music on low listen on high

Destined to live destined to die

Whi gets to watch what they want you or your spouse nobody who wins the argument

Do stacks stack best left to right or right to left

If I were atop a mountain and u wanted you to hold me would you cry ir ask why

If a donkey had a really bad smell but a really great smile would you hug it

Can you kiss an elephant and remember it

What causes reflections looking within or without

Do stalls needto he further apart or many more single bathrooms

West coast hemisphere easy coast hemisphere

If you could live anywhere and why

 Rigamortus would you prefer the body seen or sunseen

Truth be told what's your worst secret

Truth be told who do you live the most

Marry me yes or no after three years

Do the stanky leg or the waltz

Fishing or bowling 

Dog sitting or cat sitting

Miscues or misshapes

Music or reading

What do you di when you first wake up

Is there anything to wear in here jeams or slacks for gals dresses or pants

Austin texas or Atlanta georgia

Fila or fubu

Red wine or white wine

Questions or answers

Chess or checkers

Pig or cow

People watching or tv watching

Yes person or no person

Balanced or imbalanced

Perfect or flawed

Half full or half empty

Shark or lion

Chicken or egg

Basketball or football

Softball or baseball

Soccer or rugby

Do you stand tall or stand with a hunch

Breathe in breathe out ornbreathe out breathe in

Angry or happy

Sad or content

Joyful or hateful

Peace through war war through peace or peace through peace

Victory or fail

Thumbs up or thumbs down

Do you talk more or listen more

Effortless or thoughtful 

Faithful or hardship

Constipation or diarrhea

Jokester or serious

Golf or nascar

Do you believe in ghosts

Do you believe in werewolves

Do you believe in God

Flying ir driving 

Stay at family's house for the holidays or at a hotel

Do you walk in with confidence or doubt 

Day person or night person

Early to bed early to rise ir stay up late and ahh *stretches* after 12 pm

Wake up with a hangover dude I cant believe we did that or dude I cant believe we did that!

Lefty or righty

Sauce mixed in with the meat or sauce mixed in with the noodles

Bacon cordon bleu or bacon and eggs

Fitzgerald Jones or Fitzgerald Hawkins

What day do you clean your house

Check mail now when you come from home or later

Dinosaurs did they exist

If we could meet a celebrity who would it be

Why them

Where would we go

If we could meet Jesus without dying what would you say to Him

Why

Beach or mountain

Fiasco or calm

Tupac or biggie

Elton John or Michael Bolton

Lois and Clark or lois and clark Kent

venice or Rome

How much would could a woodchuck chuck

If your brothers  dad died and your brother was left alone what would you say

Earthquake or sandstorm

Hurricane or fire 

Get shot or get stabbed

Art or home economics

Understanding or pigheaded

Left alone or social butterfly

Apples or bananas