#SPARTANS! WHAT IS YOUR PROFESSION?

[kharrneth]

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑

Khornates, who are the most regimented of the armies of the gods, fall broadly into five Categories.

𝐖𝐀��𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑𝐒

The vast majority of Khornates are warriors, simple as a consequences of worshipping the god of warriors. For some, it is an addition to other parts of their profession and for others it is the only thing they offer the Blood God: their bodies and blades. Vanishingly few followers of Khorne do not claim to warriors in some capacity.

𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒

Hunting is a less aspect of the Blood God, as he is primarily known as a God of Warriors, War, and Battle. But before man made the first axe and wielded it against his fellow man, the most common reason blood was spilled was in the hunting of beasts. Khorne is called the Hunter of Souls and stalks the heavens with his wolves Garmr and Gormr. Hunters personify this aspect of him; they track and defeat worthy foes among beasts and mortals. Of the legions, they keep and breed Daemonic and Chaotic Hounds more commonly and with more finesse than others, strategically crossing Bloodlines. Hounds are not the only thing they breed; Khorne's Hunters are responsible for the creation of the Gorebeasts.

𝐃𝐔𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

Duelists are those Champions of Khorne who specialize in the hunting and killing of other champions and lords, be they Southerners or fellow worshippers of Chaos. They do not trouble themselves with the masses and are interested only in the skulls of the elite warriors of a given host, namely the host leader. They are set apart from the typical warrior in that they retain a finesse and coherency about them.

𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

Ritualists are relatively rare in a Khornate Legion. The average Khorne worshipper is a battle-hungry, blood crazed berserker or else a brutal warrior looking for the next glorious fight and skill to the tithe to the King of Skulls. The Ritualists has other priorities and is tasked with all matters of spirit and ceremony. These are the cultists of Khorne who stalk southern cities just as much as the northern frostlands and wastelands. These are the men and women who are learned in the fell rites of the Blood God, who can call forth daemons from the Otherworld into reality itself for myriad foul purposes. Many are former wizards and sorcerers, sworn off magic forever, and choosing to commune with the Bloody God instead. They keep the written sagas and rituals of whatever tribe or clan they are aligned with.

More than any other type of Khornate, Ritualists are particularly at risks for Slaaneshi predations.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐇

In Khornate society, armour and weapons are sacred and the tools of the holy crucible of war. A mortal or daemon may win Khorne's favor in battle, but they may also win it through supreme craftsmanship. These are the Khornates who furnish the legions with plate, shields and weapons, who bind daemon souls into blades. These Warsmiths reside in Forge-Tempters and Armory-Lairs, which are sacred places to the legions of Khorne. Only the Chaos Dwarfs, children of the Forge-God Hashut, rival them for level of craft.

The Smiths do not only make weapons and armor: many legendary artefacts of Khorne are made at their talons. Considered secondarily holy by their fellows, Warsmiths too are at risk for Slaaneshi predations as it is in the nature of the Pleasure spawn to defile anything considered sacred, especially their enemies.

[in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather]

darling silky

i hope i didn't overwhelm you with all the asks 😳

i'm just to excited by the prospect of getting more mills stories from you i can't stop spinning out !

💗love you💗

💗

Not at all, they are so fun and have me dreaming up so many different stories! <3 Thank you so much for all the lovely prompts :)

Since several people asked for a Ruined Wedding with Mills, I thought I would share a quick scene from one of the stories I'm considering with that plot. I hope you like it :)

CW: allusions to injuries, death, light choking and manhandling, under-the-wedding-dress shenanigans, and your daily serving of angst

WC: ~3.4k

Summary: Mills and RC are operatives for the Museum, a guild of assassins. Mills had been with her since day one, helping recruit her and show her the ropes. He was even the first mistake she made, when they gave in to their attraction and had a clandestine affair, even though the Museum frowned on such relationships. Things changed fundamentally between then and now. Henry, her fiancé, is a fellow Museum operative who would not be dissuaded from making their relationship known, demanding official permission to make their union formal. Now the first wedding at the Museum is set to take place, but things are not as they first appear. Mills realizes that two competing Curators, each vying for a seat on the Board of Directors of the Museum, are planning to use the momentous wedding as the stage for a bloody coup. He needs to convince the bride that she is in danger and that they can make it through the night If they work together. And along the way, Mills has every intention of rekindling their old flame.

WC: ~3.4k

*

The Poine Museum was a tall, majestic edifice, as grandiose on the outside as it was within its thick walls, sprawling wide and soaring high into the night sky.

As far as the rest of the world was concerned, it was a privately owned entity which attracted a global patronage of private collectors who all shared and exchanges priceless pieces of art and cultural heritage. The Museum regularly bid in auctions for prestigious pieces, occasionally taking them home and depositing them safely into the Vault.

Behind the stanchions and velvet curtains, the Poine Museum was a guild of assassins. With a long and storied history, a largely clandestine one, there were many rules in place that allowed the Museum to continue functioning. Possible targets and new operatives were meticulously researched and chosen only if the Board of Directors voted unanimously. Training for operatives was Spartan in nature and there were no guarantees issued – not of ultimately being admitted into the guild, nor even of surviving. What kept operatives firmly tethered to the Museum were the scrupulously chosen targets – undeniably rotten characters who evaded justice through more mainstream channels.

One of the essential pillars of the Museum was that its operatives seldom made lasting unions with outsiders, given the exigencies of the profession they had undertaken. Trysts between operatives were discouraged, but overlooked once done. There was really no helping such matters once the milk was spilled, so to speak. Bonds and marriages between them, however, were a different matter.

Experience had taught the Board of the Museum that operatives involved with one another in major ways grew less efficient, suffered a higher rate of injury and made poorer decisions during Exhibitions. In short, emotional bonds made them more irrational as individuals and worse as operatives.

That was all well enough and generally an easy rule to live by. No Museum operative wanted to bring work home. All Museum personnel were on a retainer and paid bonuses per Exhibition. Exhibitions could last for weeks and even months in extreme cases and if the target was illustrious enough, and they often came out of the blue. Once Provenance established a viable target, which was a complex process in itself, and the Board signed off on it, it was up to Acquisitions to get their hands on it by any means necessary. The last thing any operative wanted was to return home and either be separated from their partner, who was off setting up an Exhibition, or have their precious downtime, meant for decompressing, invaded by more Museum-related work.

So business carried on at the Museum for decades. Until now.

The first official wedding between two operatives was set to be held at the Museum building itself. 

You clinked your flute of champagne to your maid of honor’s and shared a smile before tipping your head back, enjoying the citrusy notes over the tang as the drink slid smoothly down your throat. Alexandria was wearing a slate blue satin dress that suited her deep skin tone beautifully. It complemented both the champagne tone of your wedding dress and the slate blue shirt and cufflinks your groom was wearing too. The Museum thought of everything.

You were grateful that Alexandria was with you as you got dressed. The unthinkable had happened – one of your seams had split open as you shimmied into the skin-tight dress. Being  an operative from Restorations, she was able to help you get into your dress and laced you up perfectly in the back before setting about fixing the split. 

“Lucky for you, I stitched up way worse with way less,” she gritted out through her teeth as she bit off the thread and put it through the needle first go.

“I thought we couldn’t bring in anything through the metal detectors,” you frowned, pleasantly surprised she had her Restorations kit with her.

“Fish bone,” she looked up and smiled, closing the seam up swiftly, leaving it as good as new. You had proof on your own body that she made immaculate stitches, so you had no doubt the seam she fixed was now secure for the duration of event, no matter what acrobatics ensued.

The tall door to your suite opened noiselessly and one of Henry’s groomsmen poked his bald, shiny head in. “45 minutes, ladies,” he informed in a jovial tone and promptly retreated, leaving you to your bridal business.

Alexandria squeezed your hands excitedly and stomped in place like an excited child. “You ready?” At times it seemed like the guests attending the event felt more excited than the future Mrs. McHenry, you mused. This was a brief moment, to be your own, and you might get to be footnote in the Museum’s history as the two operatives to officially get married, but people were far more excited for this wedding meant in the grand scheme of things. The Museum was not as immutably set it stone as everyone had it beaten into them during their training. Things could change and drastically so. One only had to push decisively in the direction they wished to go.

“Ready or not, it’s showtime,” you shrugged and accepted her hug as she threw her arms around you. She gave one last wave and sent a kiss goodbye before disappearing behind the door, to descend the many levels down to the Gallery, where the ceremony would soon be taking place.

With her departure, you had a reprieve of a few seconds to enjoy the quiet and solitude of the cavernous suite, draining the rest of your drink.

With a visceral grunt, you heard Julian land on your balcony. Too adventurous for a simple entrance through a door, he opted to sneak into the adjoining suite and scale the length of wall separating you, climbing on the balcony and heaving his massive body over it. He was currently absorbed in jimmying your lock.

With a sigh, you walked over and threw the door open. His face fell in disappointment when the door gave way so easily, as though you’d snatched a candy bar from his hands.

“Coast clear?” he asked in his usual husky whisper, looking to your left and right as you retreated into the lavishly decorated room and he followed.

“What’s the matter, Mills? Provenance not giving you enough opportunities you chase thrills? You have to break into my wedding to get your rocks off?”

Not in the mood for teasing or much preamble of any kind, Julian’s expression darkened like a stormy sky. He grew terribly still, somehow managing to loom even larger as he stood quiet as the grave and unmoving. You barely had enough time to set your glass down before he grabbed you by the arms and pulled you into him. He folded you into his broad chest and locked his arms around you so that all you could do was part your lips and welcome his devouring kiss, slackening into his hold and fighting for breath under the bruising force of his affections.

“Easy,” you panted as you fought to catch your breath once he released you. Julian wasn’t listening, though, walking bodily into you and all but pushing you onto the bed.

He stopped just short of tossing you backwards, for a brief moment, snaking his hands down your arms and spreading them wide to take in the sight of you all dolled up for the wedding.

“God, you’re breathtaking,” he frowned, feeling what a momentous occasion this day represented. You saw a hundred hungry thoughts go through his mind, shining darkly in his eyes as they raked up and down your body. The possessive beast inside him roared to life, rancorous that you were dressed up like a vision to marry a different man, even if it was just for show. You saw the change come over him and knew he was seeing red. There was no reasoning with him then.

His hand tightened painfully around your wrist and he stepped into you, sending you both toppling into the queen sized bed. Julian groaned into his kiss and straddled over you, one hand coming up to coil around your neck. He squeezed experimentally, tighter and tighter until you squirmed under him and wrapped a warning hand around his wrist. You remembered then all the truncated fights you had, snatching moments to throw accusations back and forth as to whose fault it was that things shook out the way they did. His hand around your throat, huge and monstrously strong, reminded you how much he loved to have the last word. You grabbed a handful of his hair roughly in retaliation and bit on full lower lip until you started to taste blood. The kiss was all teeth and struggle, more punishing than pleasurable.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, sweetheart,” he rambled as he left sloppy, sucking kisses down your neck and chest, some primal part of him wanting you mark you up visibly as his.

“I know,” you huffed a laugh and smoothed his hair away from his face with a gentler hand, working to wind him down and remind him not to lose it so close to the moment of truth. He sat up, not shying away from burdening your hips with his full weight, which pushed the air out of you in a strained grunt. Julian watched you sprawled under him and took a deep breath, running his hand down his face. “I didn’t spend the whole day getting ready not to look spectacular by the end,” you arched a brow and he caged you in with his large hands on either side of your face, dipping his head lower. The tips of his long inky hair tickled your cheeks before you coiled a hand between your faces. “And I’d like to keep it that way,” you warned with your index finger blocking his hungry mouth from seeking out yours again.

Julian grumbled like a large, dissatisfied cat as he inched down your body, reluctantly relinquishing his favored position on top of you. He offered a gentlemanly hand and helped you stand up. Going down on one knee, he looked up from his submissive position, enjoying the sight of you still flustered from what he did to you.

You hiked up your dress, revealing the full length of your naked leg, save for the garter on your thigh, and placed your heel on his proffered knee. He smirked like a cat playing with a mouse and ran his eyes over the flesh of your leg. Hands followed where his eyes had roamed, mapping out every inch and every curve from your ankle, up your calf and the often forgotten erogenous zone right at the back of the knee, ghosting the tips of his calloused fingers over the soft spot until he saw your thigh flex deeply from his teasing touch. Then he ran his warm hand over your thigh, tracing his thumb over the white lace of the garter.

“You got something for me, big guy?” you bumped his shoulder with your knee as a reminder and he smirked, biting his lips to keep his comment in.

With a wicked glint in his eye, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a short dagger, with a dramatic curve in its wide blade. The hilt was a smooth white bone with inlaid golden veins. It was a beautifully made scimitar dagger, and its design and sturdiness made it highly versatile. The blade was no more than eight inches, but it was a veritable butcher’s knife that could cut, skin and debone with ease. A marvelous choice for the evening’s festivities.

With an approving smile from you, Julian took the liberty of sliding the cool blade delicately against your skin, watching gooseflesh rise under the cold lick of steel. You hissed and felt the slice of cool metal shoot all the way through you. When the hilt hit the garter, he tested it, wiggling it back and forth and was pleasantly surprised to see it was not moving around. You had chosen well too, Julian realized. The garter you were wearing was essentially a lace-trimmed harness. He wondered if it could be repurposed as a kind of garrote in a pinch, but then he realized it was a silly question. You knew what you were doing.

Next, he fished out a straight razor with an ornate ivory handle. The blade was polished smooth, nearly as reflective as glass and it gleamed as it caught the light, spinning and snapping open and shut around Julian’s thick fingers, dancing like a butterfly knife around his thumb, jumping over to between his index and middle finger, looking like it would bite off the tips of his fingers at any moment, but never managing to. The message was clear; this was a weapon you could easily use and shove back somewhere against your skin safely – if you’re agile and fast enough – as opposed to other, clunkier weapons you would need to bury in someone’s body or discard as you ran or climbed. You took the razor and slid it between your breasts, letting it rest inconspicuously against the boning of your corset.

While you rearranged your bust, Julian placed a kiss on your knee, dragging his prickly beard and mustache up the soft flesh of your thigh. You buried your hands in his long hair and he nipped, smiling into your skin when he felt the jolt it sent through you.

“It’s been too long, hasn’t it?” he pondered out loud as he pressed his full lips into your thigh, pushing your voluminous dress out of the way with both hands wrangling its many layers.

Your head fell back against the wall with a thud and your eyes rolled shut when he burrowed his prominent nose against the lace of your underwear, leaving a smacking kiss against the fabric.

You felt teeth graze and catch the edge, sliding your underwear to the side and your eyes flew open when you realized he had no intention of stopping. Hands scrambling to grab a firm hold of his hair as it kept bobbing and getting lost in the tulle and satin, you finally managed to grab two fistfuls and yank him back. He emerged from the white waterfall cascading down your hips with a satisfied, drunken expression and you teetered, planting your feet to find your balance independent of his body. His hands stayed under your dress and held your thighs firmly at the sides. Your breasts nearly overflowed out of the dress as you heaved breaths and tried to glare, but Julian was still looking far too pleased with what he had done, beginning to move his teasing hands under your dress again.

“You need to go,” you warned, not looking forward to parting with him.

“What’s the rush?” he shrugged and got to his feet, stretching to his full height like an elegant black cat in his tailored suit. A black tie rested against a black shirt and his massive, chiseled form was held in by an immaculately tailored jacket, in his favorite midnight black shade. You were pleased to see he went the extra mile to look good for the event. “The wedding can’t go on without you. Make ‘em wait for it, sweat a little,” he winked and pressed up against you, crowding you against the wall. You shut your eyes in exasperation, as unwilling to make him go as he was to leave.

Accepting momentary defeat, you wrapped your arms around his neck and felt him position himself so his body fit perfectly against yours, chest pushed into yours, hips kissing up against yours and lapping like waves against you. You kissed him deliberately, making sure to taste his lips, his tongue, his skin as you burrowed into him, latching onto his sinewy neck and making him groan a symphony into your ear.

His hips pressed more insistently against you and you closed your eyes to savor the sensation of him. Then a laugh rocked through his body as he felt something under your dress. “Is that a scimitar in your pocket or are you happy to see me?” he grinned like a fool in love and you shook your head, drunk on the sharp, masculine scent of his perfume and the insistence of his body against yours.

“I think that should be my line,” you teased and wiggled your hips under him, feeling with your body for the thick rod of flesh growing stiffer by the moment. Even through all the ample cushioning of your dress, you felt what you were doing to him and gave him a satisfied peck, which he unsuccessfully tried to deepen.

His large hand disappeared behind your back and cupped your ass, pressing you closer to him and he nuzzled against your neck, right at the spot that always made you squirm and moan his name. When it didn’t come as expected, he pulled away and looked at your questioningly through the curtain of dark hair you mussed up together.

“What is it?” he asked, flipping it out of the way to take a better look at you. As if you needed any more reason than the obvious to be preoccupied. He had just stolen artifacts from the Museum to help you defend yourself once the two factions started raising hell at your wedding reception. Your intended wedding was to become a massacre and you could not let anyone know that you knew.

Regardless of the obvious concerns, he waited steadily, ready to listen if you wanted to share anything before all hell broke loose. His eyes almost black with blown out pupils, cheeks flushed as he panted from your embrace and lips sumptuously kiss-bitten, he made your heart ache.

“This could very well be the last time I’ll ever be pretty,” you shrugged, opting for a joke. All things considered, you were grateful Julian got to see you like this, dressed up like a doll, and hold you, even if it was just for a few moments. It gave you the chance to imagine how it might have been had it been you two getting married. After you were done climbing out from under a mountain of assassins, you could have a broken nose, a missing eye, a scar splitting your face in half. You’d seen operatives survive malfunctioning parachutes and headshots, with Restorations giving them top of the line reconstructive surgery. They were never quite the same afterwards, of course, but you figured you could get used to it. If you make it in the first place, that is. 

Julian was silent for a moment too long, at a loss for how to comfort you without resorting to hollow platitudes. “I was never pretty and I did just fine,” he gave a crooked smile and ran his hand down your cheek. His face switched to business-like as he  dug two thick fingers into the elaborate hairdo you spent a good hour and half sitting still for and tossed a hairpin to the floor. He retrieved one, in the shape of a butterfly, with sapphires embedded into its elegant body, glinting between intricate silver wiring that made up its wings. The delicate beauty of the decorative piece stood in stark contrast to the thick, sturdy blades, curved to lay harmlessly against your scalp, but sharp enough to punch through flesh and hack at it.

“Almost forgot – something blue,” his mouth curved into a satisfied half-smile as he carefully slid the hairpin into place, holding his breath in concentration lest he scratch you.

“You’re the most striking man I’ve ever seen in my life,” you admitted as you watched him, feeling your eyes involuntarily fill with tears.

Julian, instead of flattered, looked horror-stricken.”No,” his nostrils flared angrily and his face grew stern, ”don’t do that. Don’t say goodbye to me.”

“I’m not, I just—“

Whatever you were about to say died in the space where his lips met yours and your breath became his. It was for the best. There was nothing you could have expressed in words that you couldn’t express with the way you held onto him, like he was all you would ever have.

*

@thegrislady @safarigirlsp @queeniebee @lumberjack00fantasies @vedavan @mythrielofsolitude @house-of-cadwyn

[maaarine]

The Rest Is History: 405. The Nazis in Power: The Nuremberg Rallies

"When the Nazi introduced natal policies, encouraging women to have more children, they are doing what other countries are doing as well.

So the French have been doing this since 1920, they've been offering medallions to women who have lots of children.

And the Nazis in that sense are kind of following the example of democratic France.

So they have this whole thing that if you marry, you get a loan of 1000 marks.

And you have to pay it back unless you have children. The more children you have, the less you have to pay back.

And it ends up being kind of calibrated in the way that it had been in France, that you get a bronze medal for so many children, a silver one for so many.

And if you have 10, then you get a gold medal, and Hitler is godfather to your child, which means that if it's a boy, the boy then gets called Adolf. So that's nice.

And you get this kind of cross, the cross of honor of the German mother, and everyone has to salute you in the streets.

It's very Spartan. Spartan women could win glory for themselves by bearing lots of children.

So in that sense, the Nazis are kind of going with the grain of policies that have been current both in Weimar and in other democratic countries.

As well as the carrot of medals and financial bribes, there is also the stick.

The Nazis are very keen to force women out the workplace, partly for ideological reasons.

But also because the big economic challenge they face is unemployment.

And so if you can get rid of women in the workplace, then that boosts employment for men.

And again, this is a policy that had been current in Weimar, so it's not completely unknown. But it becomes increasingly coercive.

So by 1936 for instance, it's forbidden to women to act as judges, as public prosecutors, essentially to have any position of authority within the legal profession.

They're declared ineligible for jury service on the ground that they're too emotional. They lack logic, they lack the reason necessary.

And they are also being denied educational opportunities.

So in 1934, it's decreed that only 10% of students enrolled in grammar schools, which are the kind of elite schools, can be girls. So 90% have to be boys.

In 1937, girls will be banned from grammar schools altogether. They're banned from learning Latin.

Education is being used to essentially deny girls the education that their mothers had taken for granted."

[courtana]

glance, roots, and change for beatrice please!!! 🫶

omg thank you kayla ❤️

glance: At first glance, what stands out most about your OC's appearance? What's their distinguishing feature?

what most probably stands out is her short brown-ish hair and green-ish, hazel eyes! also, following a pretty severe injury, her prosthetic hand is also pretty distinct physical feature. you could say it's a little similar to Kat's arm in Halo: Reach.

roots: Is your OC's look inspired by any specific style of clothing or fashion trend? What are the roots and/or inspiration for their look?

she's very much tom-boyish, i would say, just for being in her profession in the unsc. she dresses pretty much for convenience. a lot of inspo I got from the Forward Unto Dawn wardrobe design for her, just because non-Spartans and non-ODST folks in the Halo franchise are a little rarer unless you look outside the games.

change: Has your OC ever drastically changed their appearance? Significant haircuts, big tattoos, complete wardrobe swap, etc? Why? How do they feel about the change?

i envision that when she leaves her job within the UNSC Marines, she keeps her shorter hair, rather than keeping it at the length from when she was younger. she also of course dresses more as a civilian and no armor lmao 😭 i could not see her getting tattoos, per se, either.

send me oc asks: character design edition

[novankenn]

(Another's strength of conviction... gives others a chance at victory)

She stood alone on the walls of Atlas. Her amber eyes glaring balefully at the great grimm monstrosity hovering in the air above the floating city. Her mind went back to a year ago, back when everything had changed for her. When what she thought she wanted was proven to be nothing but a lie. A heart shattering lie.

She closed her eyes on thought on that day. That moment everything had become clear. Slowly she opened her eyes and as the Maiden's power flowed through her, tears rolled down her cheeks. The fingers of her right hand tightened upon the hilt of the ancestral blade.

/=/

"Pyrrha, we have to fall back! She's too strong, we can't..." Yang cried out as Pyrrha stood before the grimm Queen, shield and spear at the ready.

"I'll hold her! Get everyone out of here." Pyrrha shouted back to her friend, "I WILL HOLD HER!"

"Pyrrha!" Ruby yelled.

"Foolish child." Salem laughed darkly. "You're nothing. You can't stop me, you'll all fail like that parasite has for eons. I am a force of nature! None can..."

Pyrrha stumbled back as a ball of flame burst about Salem, interrupting her speech. Sharp emerald eyes quickly scanned her surroundings, and what they found shook her to the core.

"Cinder?"

The Fall Maiden walked forward, her seductive form, clad in armour Pyrrha was very familiar with. In her wicked hands, Crocea Mors and Jaune's shield. The powers of the maiden leaked from the sides of Cinder's eyes, as the wretched woman strode forward, her entire focus on the recovering form of Salem.

"So you've finally shown yourself, child." Salem straightened herself, rising to her full height. "Have you come to beg my forgiveness?"

"Leave." Cinder hissed at Pyrrha as she walked past the stunned spartan.

"Where's Jaune?"

"Gone." Cinder simply stated as she moved to stand before between Pyrrha and Salem. Slowly, she chambered Jaune's sword, and brought his shield into position.

"Pathetic. After everything I've done for you? This is how you repay my generosity? He made you weak girl. He ruined you."

"You betrayed me." Cinder countered.

"As you betray me now, and did back then."

"Come on, P-Money, we need to get out of here." Pyrrha stumbled backwards as Yang grabbed her by the arm and start to pull her towards the waiting bullhead. Pyrrha didn't reply. She didn't respond. That one word, Cinder had uttered, destroying all hope she still had for Jaune's safety.

As the hatch closed, emerald eyes watched as the monster that had help orchestrated the fall of Beacon. The wicked woman that stole the man she loved, suddenly flew forward, Jaune's weapons in her hands. Jaune's armour encasing her body.

/=/

Cinder knelt next to her impaled mistress. She struggled to free herself, from the ageless blade that pinned her to the floor of her monstrous grimm. Cinder said nothing as she just concentrated on her entwining her semblance with the maiden's powers.

"So you throw your life away for them? You defy me for those fools?"

"No."

"Then what? Fleeting revenge for that failure?" Salem hacked as she attempted to laugh. "You can not defeat me. No one can."

"No, but I can delay you and give his friends the time they need to find a way to stop you." Cinder replied, her eyes still closed.

"I should have slaughtered you that day." Salem growled.

Cinder didn't reply, her mind drifting back to that day almost a year ago that she lost him. That day, she knelt holding his broken and beaten body in her lap, while pleading for her "Goddess" to bring him back. Jaune had proven himself anything but weak. He stood proud and honoured his word. He had saved his friends and yet stayed at her side, as he had promised.

She didn't understand why it had happened, or when. But she knew she had fallen for him, but she had. The night before, he professed to her, and she hesitated. The next day, she sought to fix her mistake, only to find him in Salem's throne room, barely hanging to life.

"He was a distraction. A nuisance. Something you should never have indulged in. His end was all your fault, Cinder." Salem hacked as she continued to struggle. "He was weak and pathetic, yet he did not beg that day, unlike you..."

Cinder could see his smile, and feel his warmth even now. It was like he was there right now, helping her. Holding her up, and supporting her. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she dug deeper, focusing every last shred of her failing strength into one last final act.

Cinder remained still and silent, even as Salem began to scream in agony. She wouldn't let a single sound pass her lips. She would hold herself like he had in his last moments.

/=/

From the edges of Atlas, they watched as the monstrous whale grimm dissolved. Turning into a fine grey ash that scattered with the wind. Pyrrha didn't know how, but she saw them. Two distinct shapes tumbling through the sky. Gritting her teeth, she reached out with her semblance, stretching it as far as she could, pushing beyond anything she had ever attempted.

"Pyr?" Nora asked as she watched a pair of objects come hurtling through the air towards them. Nora grunted when the pristine shapes of Jaune's sword and shield slammed into her hands.

It was the last straw, for Pyrrha, and her heart shattered. She knew at that moment he was gone, never to return. On the inside of the shield, Nora found a plain, yellowed envelope.

"How?"

"She must have been protecting it somehow?" Pyrrha offered as she opened it. Inside were several pages, dog-eared from being read over and over. Pyrrha gasped as she began to read them.

"Pyr?"

"They're from Jaune." Pyrrha began to search through the small stack. There were eight pages in total. "There's one here for each of us, and one from her?"

"Her? Cinder?" Nora was puzzled. "What would that bitch have to say that we would want to know?"

"I..." Pyrrha paused. Jaune's letters were long and filled with fine cursive script. This one was simply a single phrase.

For Him

[ducksbellorum]

full speed ahead (listen/download)

an argo ii playlist - the heroes of olympus - arranged by ducksbellorum

full speed ahead - epic the musical Every great quest aboard a magitechnical Greek warship deserves an equally great playlist, or at least that's what Leo tells everyone when he asks for their song choices. Six hundred men, six hundred miles of open sea But the problem's not the distance It's what lies in between

this is sparta !!! - sammy & lesen Obviously this was one of Leo's contributions; the bass gets him hype and the fact that he's bumping Spartan jams on a Greek warship just tickles him. Spartans, What is your profession? Spartans, Prepare for glory!

vode an - samuel kim Jason added this to the playlist; he doesn't know a lot of 'modern' music, but this track reminds him of Roman war chants and gets him going. Kandosii sa ka'rta, Vode an. Coruscanta a'den mhi, Vode an. Bal kote, darasuum kote, Jorso'ran kando a tome.

seven nation army - the white stripes Percy Jackson was tempted to add a joke track, but knowing Leo there would be plenty and besides, why not add something he actually wants to listen to? Everyone knows about it From the Queen of England to the Hounds of Hell And if I catch it comin' back my way, I'm gonna serve it to you And that ain't what you want to hear, but that's what I'll do

yereyira - papito & iba one Piper spent a lot of her life around spoiled pop musicians and their kids, so her music tastes tend toward the most obscure artists possible on purpose. Pa-pa-pa-pa-papito I-i-i-i-iba one Papito, Iba One Iba One, Papito!

shake it off - taylor swift There is in fact a Swiftie aboard the Argo II and it's Frank Zhang; he's a little bashful about it but that doesn't stop him from adding it to the playlist. I'm dancin' on my own I make the moves up as I go And that's what they don't know, That's what they don't know

over the rainbow - judy garland Like Jason, Hazel also doesn't know much modern music, but that doesn't hold her back from getting Leo to add one of her favorites to the crew's mix. Somewhere over the rainbow Skies are blue And the dreams that you dare to dream Really do come true

laughter lines - bastille This is Annabeth's pull; most of her music is lyricless for better concentration, but occasionally she veers into bittersweet indie pop, like this. "I'll see you in the future when we're older And we are full of stories to be told Cross my heart and hope to die I'll see you with your laughter lines"

sea shanty medley - home free If you don't think that the crew did some shanty singing on their journey, you're probably right but that won't stop me from hoping they did. She's a fast clipper ship and a bully good crew Away Santiana And an old salty yank for a captain too Along the plains of Mexico

bonus: spooky scary skeletons (remix) - andrew gold "Hey Nico, you want to add a song to the quest playlist?" "No." "Are you suuuuure?" "Yes." "I'll just add one for you, then, shall I?" "VALDEZ!" We're so sorry skeletons, you're so misunderstood You only want to socialize (But I don't think we should)

[lpmurphy]

Spring in Tchakova Park

Read on AO3

Master List

Chapter Playlist

Summary: Green was the color of the grass where he used to walk in Tchakova Park.

In which John meets a stranger in the park, Violet learns of the care and keeping of Spartans, and Cortana offers dating advice. (Complete 5/7/24)

Chapter Summary: Violet experiences the horrors of war and says a difficult goodbye.

Chapter Thirty Two: Ignorant Innocence

Violet moved between cots as gunfire cracked beyond the walls of the mess. The continuous roar was a sound that she had become accustomed to. The fact that it had become familiar sickened her. But, she did not stop to dwell on it as she was called to another bedside by another medic to hold the hand of another villager who pleaded for their help. 

She took the hand of the elderly man who begged the young medic to save him. His words grew more desperate and panicked each time he repeated himself in the tongue the other man didn’t understand. Violet hoped the words she whispered back were comforting, that they provided him with the peace she could not find herself. She explained that the surgeons would need to amputate the leg that had been twisted and gnarled by whatever had struck his home and left him bloodied and broken. She tried not to cry with him. She had spent the morning engaged in similar conversations at other bedsides as the sun crept over the horizon beyond the windows. She didn’t know if she had any tears left to cry.

Humans had been at war with the monstrosities that sat just outside since she was a girl. She had been a toddler when it began, only two years younger than John had been when he was taken by that woman so that he could fight like he did now.  Violet always knew that danger lurked beyond the atmosphere. She would see the news coverage as a child until her mom would notice her watching and turn it off. War had only existed on screens and in articles as she grew up, and she had foolishly allowed herself to cling to that ignorant innocence into her adulthood. It was safer to pretend. Safer to ignore and fictionalize that terror so that she wouldn’t be forced to feel it. 

Once she met John, that terror lurked closer to home and crept into her in a way it hadn’t before. She still did not understand the gravity of what he fought each time he left her. Part of her felt that she refused to understand it on purpose. But as she listened to the screams and blasts beyond the walls, to the pained and dying moans of soldiers and villagers alike, she knew that terror was more than just newscasts and stories. She understood that terror at a new level as she looked around to where her friends bled and died. She was afraid. 

A new wave of medics erupted through the door and Violet pushed away the fear as she crossed to them, listening as they explained the injuries being brought in to the doctors and surgeons. She had become decent at deciphering the jargon they used. She found herself using the same as she helped triage the wounded. All of the medical dramas she watched back at home must have taught her a thing or two. The soldier that was carried in was plopped into a cot as the medics turned back out, leaving the medical staff to rush to the bedside of the young man who cried out in pain. 

“Harris! Powell! We need your hands!”

Violet nodded and followed, adjusting the vest that had grown heavy on her shoulders in the hours since Kai had strapped her into it. Meredith turned from where she replaced the bandages on the arm of a young boy. Violet had wanted to be a nurse for a fleeting moment as a teenager, but turned away from the profession once she learned that she had a deep aversion to blood. As blood dried on her arms before she had the chance to wipe it away, she found that aversion left with any sense of normalcy she had fallen asleep with earlier that morning. She hated that she found new skills in the chaos she did not ask for. She didn’t want to learn from this. She didn’t want to be changed. She wanted to go home.

Violet listened to the instructions the doctors gave; tourniquet the bleeding appendage, assess the severity, assign a triage color. The Velcro-like tourniquet device was placed in her hand as tattered pant legs were cut away. Violet despised how good she was getting at applying these. 

“Please don’t let me die,” the man whimpered, grabbing Meredith's arm as she turned away. “I can’t die. I’m supposed to get married in three months. Please, you gotta help me.”

Meredith took his hand with a tenderness that Violet didn’t so often see from the burly woman, speaking softly to him and reassuring him that he was going to be okay. Violet had also learned how it sounded when someone lied to another about their fate. She hated that she now knew the difference in their tone and how her own voice changed as well. 

“They’re going to do everything they can,” Meredith said gently. “What’s your girl’s name?”

“Stephanie. Please, I don’t want to die. She’s waiting for me to come home. I’m supposed to go home in a month.”

“That’s a pretty name. Where’d you meet Stephanie?”

Violet listened as the man told Meredith about how he met his fiancée in grade school, his voice shaking with each word. She couldn’t bring herself to call the baby faced soldier a man; he was just a fucking kid. Meredith listened as medics returned with IV bags and painkillers and stuck his body full with drugs that would lull him into a sleepy haze until they could get to him. A triage tag was filled out and hung from the IV pole, announcing to passing doctors how long they could leave him waiting. His speech slowed as the drugs overtook him and he faded into the haze. Meredith pulled her fingers from his grasp and laid his hand upon his chest before she turned to the next cot. 

Violet turned as well and scanned over the room to search for a place where she was needed. Sophea sat beside a cot on the far side of the room with her head bandaged. Her grandmother laid beside her, weathered hand gripped in little fingers as the girl stared blankly out at the neat rows of cots and the chaos that bustled around them. Violet caught her eyes and offered the girl an encouraging smile that she hoped was convincing enough. The little girl returned it.

The doors pushed open again as the medics entered again. Violet straightened up at the commotion and wove through the aisles to where they brought in the next mutilated and bloodied form. Violet felt as if she had been kicked in the gut as she neared and caught sight of the bloodied and dirty face of Greg. 

He turned to her and grinned, "Hey there, Sunshine." 

Violet turned to the medics that carried him in. One met her eye with a shake of his head and she knew. Expectant, he mouthed. She had heard the word used enough in the past hours to know exactly what it meant as her blood chilled. 

“No,” she shook her head. The medic stared back at her with that pitying look. She didn’t want their pity. She wanted them to fucking do something. “No. You need to help him. I’ll help you- just tell me what to do.”

“There’s nothing we can do except keep him comfortable, Doctor.”

“Bullshit!” she snarled, unable to bring herself to look down at the mangled body of her friend. She had lost enough. She wasn’t going to lose him too. “That’s bullshit! You have to do something!”

She continued to shout but her voice shook with the tears she forced back, lip quivering as she continued to beg. The medic only continued to shake his head with that same pitying look and anger burned through her. He had just fucking gotten there and they were just going to let him die. How dare they not even try. 

“You don’t come back from that,” The medic shouted back, bringing her own to a stop as she stared to where he pointed at Greg’s marred abdomen. She shook her head, tears biting at her vision. “He’s going to die. There is nothing we can do. I’m sorry.”

“No. Fuck that. There has to be somethi-.”

Violet stopped as fingers curled around her wrist, calloused thumb brushing against her skin. She looked down to find Greg looking up at her from the cot in that kind way he always had, smiling up at her with blood stained teeth, “Violet. Let him go. He has a job to do. Let him save who he can.”

“But-.”

“Let him go, Sunshine.”

Greg’s thumb brushed against her wrist again in the first gentle touch she had felt since she saw John. The medic continued past her and left her standing beside the cot, forced to stare down at his body, too mangled to repair. He looked back up at her in that kind way he always had. 

“Jesus,” he laughed. The once joyful sound was punctuated with a wince, “Even covered in blood and shoved into a plate carrier you still look like a goddamn angel. The Chief’s a lucky man.”

“Did you see him? Is he alright?” 

Regret sank into her as the questions left her mouth in a desperate plea and she looked down into the eyes of the man who had once promised her the world if she had ever asked him for it. Her world had been found in the arms of someone else and guilt twisted her chest as she asked after him, whatever hope that remained in Greg’s eyes fading with her questions. 

“He’s fine,” he nodded. Violet felt her worry rush out of her with her puffed sigh. “You picked a good one, kid. I’m proud of you. I’d be a fucking liar though if I said I didn’t still wish it was me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He squeezed her hand weakly, that grin still splitting his face even now. She could tell it pained him to wear it just for her. He coughed, blood thick on his chin, and Violet reached to his face to wipe it away as she stood to call a medic over. This wasn’t going to be his end. It couldn’t be. Greg only took her hand and her panicked eyes found his again. The peace she had searched for all morning glowed from them in the least likely place she had imagined to find it. 

“It’s okay, Vi,” he murmured. 

“No,” she shook her head and scanned the room for someone available to come to his aid, “I’m going to find someone else. I’m not going to let you-.”  

“Violet,” he said firmly, his words a plea as she returned her focus to him again and dread welled into her. “There’s nothing that can be done. You heard them.”

“Greg…” 

“Sit with me. Please.” 

She didn’t say a word as she perched herself on the cot beside him and took his hand. He grew paler with each moment that passed and Violet felt her cheeks grow wet as he continued to watch her with the kindness and grace he had taught her to emulate herself. He had called her sunshine for years without knowing that he had been just that for her. 

He swallowed, “Will you make sure that they tell my mom-.” 

“Don’t. There’s still time-.” 

“There’s not, Sunshine,” he said gently. A gentle weep bubbled from her as she clung to his hand. “I’ve made my peace with this. I did a long time ago. I know where I’m going. I’ll be alright.”

She couldn’t find peace in it. She couldn’t just sit and watch him fade. But Greg continued as he rested his other hand atop her own. “Just make sure they tell my mom that I’ll take care of dad until she gets there.” 

She nodded. “I will,” she sobbed.

“You’re going to be okay, Violet. You always have been.” He coughed again, this time a wet sound that made her chest heave harder. Greg reached up to brush the tears from her cheeks before taking her hand again. “Stay with me?”

“I will,” she whispered. “I will.”

“Happy birthday, Sunshine.”

Violet sniffled and let her head rest upon his chest, unminding of the blood that stuck to her hair as she listened to the drum of his heartbeat under her ear. Greg wrapped an arm around her as they laid there. His breathing grew more labored as they whispered back and forth. Violet sobbed as she listened to his heartbeat grow weaker and watched the color drain from his face. He only stroked her hair and repeated that it was alright but she knew it wasn’t. It never would be. He slipped into unconsciousness shortly after and she stayed, listening to his heartbeat fade into nothingness until it beat a final time and did not continue. She listened to the nothingness, tears streaking through the grime that stained her face, and found herself praying for the first time since Perez had prayed over her in that bathroom. 

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder, hesitant at first before it gripped it with the gentle strength Violet knew as Meredith’s. Violet looked up into the face of her friend and found her blue eyes watery and red as she looked down at the botanist and the Ranger she clung to. 

“They need to move him,” Meredith whispered, gently taking her shoulders and pulling her away from his body.

Another sob bubbled from her as she held him, “I promised to stay with him. I promised him, Mer.”

“I know, sweet girl,” Meredith coaxed. Her voice caught as she pulled Violet to her. “But he’s gone, Violet. You kept your promise. You have to let them move him.”

“He was our friend.”

“I know. But he’s gone. You need to let him go.”

Violet peeled herself from the body of her friend and threw her arms around Meredith. She sobbed into her shoulder, allowing the terror and anger and sadness she had pushed away for hours to flood from her as she held the blonde tightly. Meredith stroked her hair gently as Violet attempted to catch her breath. Her breath didn’t come. It was only washed away by the tears that crashed through her like troubled waves against the shore until she was overcome by them, ripped out by the current into the tumultuous sea.

Meredith pressed her cheek to her sticky hair as she held her. Violet felt the woman tense as the gunfire beyond the door ceased, replaced by a growling voice in a language that sounded nothing like any she had heard. She wasn’t the only one who heard them. A hush fell over the hospital at the sound as everyone stopped to listen. Other voices joined the first, speaking in the strange throaty language.

“What the fuck is that?” Meredith whispered, fingernails biting into Violet’s shoulders. 

Sophea whimpered from where she sat, eyes wide and bright with fear as she clapped her hands over her ears and drew her legs to her chest. The girl shook as she spoke, uttering out a single phrase that made Violet’s heart cease its beating for a moment. 

“Satv chamlek.”

Monsters. 

The hospital remained hushed around her as all turned to the doors, all straining to listen to the strange voices behind it. Violet felt the fear that radiated through the room overcome her as she watched the doors. The voices only grew louder in the moments that passed so slowly they felt like hours. They grew more and more audible; harsh words spoken in harsh languages with inhuman voices that she didn’t understand, but didn’t need translations to know it carried nothing but hate in the sinister sound. Her hands shook and her heart pounded in her ears as she stared at the door and prayed to whatever power listened for the voices to pass by. They continued to advance, cutting through the uneasy silence around her. Meredith pressed her hands over her mouth to muffle her whimpers. Violet looked to where the handgun Kai had left her sat on the cot beside her; the escape plan that had come with her chilling warning. 

Monsters, Sophea had called them, and Violet agreed. What power did she have over the monsters that lingered just beyond? She was a fucking botanist. Her life was potting soil and seedlings and sample slides under microscopes within the safety of labs and greenhouses. Not this. She didn’t care what weapons with acronym names she didn’t understand had been shoved into her hands. If those who had been trained to fight against the monsters had fallen, if Greg had fallen, then she certainly would fall, too. The guttural voices neared the door and she knew they were just on the other side. There was no time. The chance Kai had spoken of would not come. 

Violet looked down at the handgun and wrapped her fingers around the cool metal, and for the first time, she prepared herself to execute the escape plan that she had been given. 

Her mom had always been the religious one. Raised in a good Jewish family before she met her dad. Bill had grown up in a family of believers, but Violet was sure her father hadn’t stepped foot in a church since he was a boy. He would often joke that Jane knew God well enough for the both of them. It didn’t stop her mother from dragging her and Katie to the synagogue every Saturday until they both left for college. Katie continued to attend, but Violet did not. She always assumed it was just another way she had taken after her dad. She hoped he would know just how proud she was to be just like him. She hadn’t prayed since that afternoon in the bathroom with the sweet Marine who gave her hope until she laid over the body of her dead friend. 

She found herself praying again as she gripped the gun and begged for forgiveness for what would come next. For her mother to find peace in her decision. For her father to be the strength her mom would need. That her sister would remember her instead as the girls they were together and not for her selfish cowardice. That silly Auntie Vi would live on in her sweet niece and nephew. She hoped that her mom would take care of John and that she would watch after her new family, too.

But mostly, she prayed for John, and that he would forgive her too. She thought of the months that they’ve shared; of each beautiful moment that he had given her. Her John. She would remember him that way, and she hoped he would remember her the same. She shuddered out a breath, hoping that the words she exhaled would somehow find his ears. That he would know just how endless her love for him was and how it would transcend even this. How he had changed the course of her life in the moment he had caught that ball. 

She would find him again after whatever followed. She’d find him in the next life and whatever came after as well. There wasn’t a single version of herself, not a single atom of her being, that wasn’t tied to him. 

Let him find me. I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever if I have to. Bring him back to me. 

Violet closed her eyes and braced herself for what would come next. She thought only of the way he had held her only hours before, both unknowing that it had been goodbye.

I’ll find you, John had told her. 

He had spoken the words like a promise as his fingers slipped out of hers. She thought of the man she had met beside the pond all the months ago; searching for something within the waters. She had watched him find that in the moments they had spent together, in the life they had built together, and she had found the very same in him. He hadn’t been unlike the broken blooms she rescued from sidewalks to nurse and cultivate into something lovely. They had done just that for one another. They gathered each other up into gentle hands and loved into something beautiful, the weight he had carried since that first night lessening in every night he had spent since in the bed they shared. 

The thought of him finding her like that made her chest twist, bile rising in her throat. She couldn’t bring herself to picture the way he would shatter if that was how they ended; with him finding her as just another cot shrouded with a bloodied sheet. She couldn’t bring herself to stomach how it would rip him apart. How it would tear away the humanity and any bit of John that he had become since that evening in the park. 

It would demolish the man who would brush her hair from her face as he stared at her with all of that gentleness and goodness from his side of the bed. The man who kissed her goodbye at her office door every morning; who pretended not to care about the reality shows she watched but would still plant himself on the couch beside her. Who rubbed her legs after their evening runs and listened to her babble on about her day as if it was the most captivating thing he had ever heard. Who gave her a family that fought beyond those doors that she could not picture her life without now.  

John had become so woven within the fibers of her soul that she believed that they had never truly existed without the other; tied together with invisible strings from their beginnings that tethered them into now. His heart had become synonymous with her own. Every plan she had ever made for herself was torn down and rebuilt around him. She had never loved another in the way she loved each beautifully broken part of him that she existed only for.

That man would be lost if she pulled the trigger. Her John would die with her if she went, just as if he had died in the battle that raged beyond those doors now.  

Violet’s fingers released the gun. She would not be the reason that he was lost again. She would not take that piece with her. He would find her. Just not like that. She would not wait for him on the other side and will him to come. They would go together. But not here, and not like that.

The first came through the door with a shriek. Screams exploded around her. The alien that came through the door was no taller than her; short and wide, its face covered by an odd mask. She recognized it from the news; Grunts. It ripped through the doorway with weapon raised and Violet snatched up the gun, the roaring in her ears outweighing any thought that she clung to as she pointed it towards the door. Pull, point, press, Kai had said, and hope like hell it hits something. 

Her first few shots missed and embedded themselves in the walls. It continued to advance towards her, Meredith’s terrified screams behind her. Violet only continued to shoot, bracing herself against the way the gun bucked in her hands with each shot. The Grunt shrieked as the bullets pierced its flesh with a series of sickening sounds. Its own shot hissed past her and Violet could feel the searing heat of it as it whizzed past as it embedded itself in the wall. Meredith screamed as she ducked, but Violet only continued to shoot until it fell. 

Make sure it’s dead.

It crumpled into a heap and did not move again. Violet did not have a moment to call back to her friend, nor feel the horror that shook her frame before two more followed through the door and stepped over the body of their fallen comrade as they advanced upon the field hospital. Violet didn’t hear the roar of screams behind her, nor did she hear her own as she raised the gun again and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked uselessly in her hand. She tossed it aside and summoned what small fraction of John’s bravery she could muster as she fumbled for the gun Kai had slung across her body and pointed it towards the Grunts that followed. 

She knew John would not waver. He would not yield. He would not stand irresolute and let the fear overcome him as she had let her own. She would not either. Another spray of bullets erupted as she squeezed the trigger and freckled the walls, the firearm jerking back against her shoulder painfully. Her desperate aim made contact with the first and it fell.

The second shrieked out as the bullets ripped through it in a spray of shimmering blue blood. It fell beside the others. It twitched and reached out an arm with a final snarl. Violet remembered Kai’s firm reminder and fired a final time. The Grunt fell limp and silent. The gun clicked in her hands and  fired no longer as Violet stared down at the aliens that lay in the doorway. 

She froze, unable to feel or hear anything other than the ringing left in her ears as she watched that same shimmering blue pool on the floor around them. She had never killed anything before. Or watched anything die. She would trap spiders and carry them out onto the balcony rather than allow John to squish them. She still cried over roadkill. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to be in the room when Sadie’s time came. Her hands shook as she let go of the gun and turned back to where Meredith watched her with wide eyes. 

“Are you okay?” Meredith called. Her chest heaved. Violet wondered if her friend could feel the rush of her blood with each pound of her heart like she could. 

Violet nodded as she watched the blue creep closer towards her, iridescent and strange. She was okay. She knew she would never be the same. That the ignorant innocence she had so foolishly carried with her died with the aliens that laid at her feet. But, they were okay.

[libidomechanica]

“Was inseparate: the”

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thing nostrils with virtue, and father     hand, such wonderment full hearts, science as before breath     of Zephyr bids a little brest. The waters should always     made to appear’d on the course of some fair whereof being     knee and the lark, and would

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to loose, that knockings down from the     Spartan ladies faint or dream; and if theyr trew obiect best,     it breathes most, the warmth about me; and a whole sole worse, out     and perfume desert rove? No people present to the     pestilent I hovers hate.

[drjaspaulsbhangoo]

Dr. Jaspaul Bhangoo was recently featured in an Inspiring Interview

Dr. Jaspaul Bhangoo, a certified internal medicine specialist, was recently interviewed by Inspirery.com.

In the interview, Dr. Jaspaul discusses his passion for helping and healing people, his work as an Assistant Professor of Medicine, and his private practice in Denton, Texas.

Inspirery.com is a website that aims to offer educational and inspirational interviews with entrepreneurs and executives in order to help people connect with mentors in their field of expertise.

“I’m very honored to be featured on Inspirery.com,” said Dr. Jaspaul. “I hope that my story will inspire others to pursue their dreams and make a difference in the lives of others.”

According to Dr. Jaspaul, his work as a physician is more than just a job – it’s his calling. “I wake up every day feeling blessed that I get to do what I love,” he said. “I’m very passionate about helping and healing people, and I feel lucky to be able to make a difference in the lives of others.”

Sharing his motivation behind his work, he said, “I consider myself fortunate to be able to change the lives of others for the better.”

When asked about his advice for aspiring entrepreneurs, Dr. Jaspaul said, “Your passions fuel your dreams and drive you to achieve greatness. Never lose sight of what’s important to you, and don’t let anyone or anything get in the way.”

In addition, he also gave helpful tips to those who would like to pursue a career in medicine. “Being a doctor is a demanding and challenging job, but it’s also very rewarding,” he said. “My advice to aspiring doctors is to be patient, stay motivated, and always show gratitude towards the people who support you.”

Furthermore, Dr. Jaspaul also talked about traits that he believes are essential to becoming a successful entrepreneur. He said, “Passion, drive, and self-awareness are essential to becoming a successful entrepreneur. Knowing your strengths and weaknesses is key to being able to develop your skills and bring out the best version of yourself as an entrepreneur.”

“If you have the passion and the drive, you will be successful,” he said. “You need to be committed to your goals and see them through.”

Dr. Jaspaul believes that his profession has given him a unique perspective on the world. “As a doctor, I see people from all walks of life, and I’m constantly reminded of how precious life is,” he said. “I’m also constantly reminded of how strong the human spirit is. We are all capable of overcoming great challenges, and I’m grateful to be able to play a role in helping people do that.”

“This is just one of the reasons why I love being a doctor,” he said. “I have the opportunity to help people in a very real and tangible way, and I that is something I’m very passionate about.”

To end the interview, Dr. Jaspaul shared his favorite quote: “The time is always right to do what is right.” This quote inspires him to always take action and do what is right, regardless of the circumstances. “It is a reminder that every day is a gift and should not be wasted.

Dr. Jaspaul’s story is one of inspiration, passion, and drive. He is proof that with hard work and dedication, anyone can achieve their dreams.

To read Dr. Jaspaul’s full interview with Inspirery.com, please visit https://inspirery.com/dr-jaspaul-bhangoo/.

For more information about Dr. Jaspaul Bhangoo, please visit http://jaspaulbhangoo.com/.

ABOUT DR. JASPAUL BHANGOO

Dr. Jaspaul Bhangoo is a certified internal medicine specialist who has been serving patients for over 20 years. A Texas native, Dr. Jaspaul attended the University of North Texas. Not long after that, he furthered his studies by pursuing medicine at the Spartan Health Sciences University and completing his residency at the Medical College of Georgia in Augusta, GA.

Dr. Jaspaul has also served as an Assistant Professor at VA/OU Medical Center in Oklahoma City, OK. In private practice since 2007, he has provided comprehensive care to patients of all ages with a focus on preventative health and education.

He is highly skilled in diagnosing and treating a wide variety of conditions, including diabetes, hypertension, and high cholesterol. Dr. Bhangoo also offers management and treatment for patients with acute and chronic illnesses.

A strong advocate for preventative care, Dr. Bhangoo emphasizes the importance of early detection and intervention when it comes to maintaining good health. He works closely with each patient to develop an individualized treatment plan that considers each individual’s unique needs and goals.

In addition to his private practice, Dr. Bhangoo is also affiliated with several medical facilities like Medical City Denton and the UT Southwestern Medical School in Dallas. He is board certified by the American Board of Internal Medicine and is a member of the Texas Medical Association.

Social Media Contact:

https://www.southwesternhealth.org/location/jaspaul-s-bhangoo-md-pa

[versacebymonks]

SPARTANS, WHAT IS YOUR PROFESSION?

Alex Anda

For 10years I was working shitty jobs just to earn a living while my creativity and talent was suffering. I was afraid to risk hunger to focus on my art. Most of the greatest creatives of all time like Van Gogh had to live in poverty so they can create their masterpiece. They refused to get a job to support their art. Most times, a side hustle has a way of diluting your creativity. You can't compare a full time pastor and a pastor that has a day job. In the past few days, I have focus 100% of my creativity. And God! I am the happiest person in the world. I hope to continue doing only what I love till i leave this reality.

[wikifido]

Chapter 6 (Duvanith)

“You have to trust; I find that hard to believe.” The Imperial official prods from across the table. She had been split up from Karoleena, Mwaxananre, and benevolently Beckwith and planted in a spartan room with two chairs, a table, and a single lantern struggling to fill the space with light. 

“I swear to the Gods, I’m no one. Duvanith Elenos, go digging in your files maybe you’ll find one of my school photos or something.” 

She understood the official’s paranoia regarding her; she had shown up with an Imperial Princess, an Imperial Gearpilot, and the Rogue Queen of Choilt. Had the roles been reversed, she’d likely find her lack of importance suspicious too, and maybe rightfully so. 

Throughout her sporadic interview with this bedraggled Imperial Agent, she thought about the Empire Informer article that Karoleena had shown her. 

How could there have been no leads in the Ashsnap case? Mind you she had done all of the killing within those walls, but Rackhallow had also been dealing with a violent cult and massive political unease in the aftermath of the Wasting Curse. There were easily three or four groups that the local constable could stick the case on to close the issue from an investigative standpoint or use it as additional fodder for charging one of them to get a maximum sentence. 

‘It could just be media sensationalism,’ She assures herself, looking over the Imperial Agents’ iron grip on their pen as they jot down senseless notes about her non-answers and demeanor. ‘Six weeks was a long time to be running stories with no definitive answers.’ She concludes. 

The Arbiters were likely on the case, though, especially given Karoleena’s proximity to the Ashsnaps; perhaps that was why there was a veil of secrecy over what happened in the general media, though the six-week time limit still doesn’t sit right with the Arbiter theory. If the Academy of Romance can correctly surmise the distribution of freckles on the face of a Great Library bookbinder, you would think the most elite Imperial Intelligence Service would have a bit of an idea of what happened at the Ashsnaps residence.

‘Hells, they work at the leisure of the Crown, and the Queen was who put me on Writ; seems a bit like a no-brainer investigativley.’ 

The agent finally speaks up again, having concluded transcribing his thoughts. 

“And Profession?” 

“My Profession?” Duvanith clarifies.

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

“Uh,” She struggles. “Adventurer, I guess.” It was the closest approximation to what she did as Champion; the man looks back skeptically, his pen hovering above the paper as though he was waiting for a ‘but’ or ‘and’ in place of satiating that notion, she motions down to her devoid belt where her holsters and sheaths lie empty after the agents of the embassy had confiscated them ‘for everyone’s safety’. 

“Right; which Company are you on Writ with?” He asks.

“I’m not,” Duvanith says; during the Wasting Curse. it had been Same Skies and, more recently, Individual Writ from Queen Asker, but without any supporting paper, a pencil pusher like this wouldn’t believe that. Individual Writ was for the Cobalt Landier’s of the World, mighty heroes that could single-handedly tackle a giant to the ground.

“So, would you say you’re between jobs?” 

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” 

“I see; you wouldn’t happen to have a recent paystub or invoice?”

“I don’t really get paid like that.” She says before quickly thinking, ‘How am I paid? Am I paid?’ 

“Very well, we’ll go with Unemployed then,” The agent says, placing down his inkwell pen to parchment to note that down. “And you’ll be traveling to Askerstad with the others?” 

Duvanith, before she could jump to arguing further about her employment status, felt a knot arise in her chest; she had figured that Karoleena and Mwaxanare were off in their approximations of the room she was in, likely with better-cushioned chairs and more light, wheeling and dealing with regards to Karoleena and Beckwith’s return to the capital. 

“Define others,” Duvanith instructs this was important. She was very outwardly an Imperial elf and wanted to be sure that ‘others’ included Mwaxanare. 

“All of the characters you arrived with.” The word ‘characters’ was loaded with such distaste that it was easy to identify that this was this beaurocrat’s worst day since the Wasting Curse ended, but ‘All’ included Mwaxanare. Duvanith feels a smirk develop on the right side of her mouth.

Mwaxanare was serious; she wanted to steal it back. The Queen of Choilit was going to the Empire, Ashsnap investigation be damned. 

“I will.” She confirms.

“Wonderful, I’ll be sure to add you to the manifest Missus.” He checks his paperwork, searching for her surname, “Elenos” 

“It’s just Miss, do I fucking look married.” She says once again, motioning to her outfit and gear.

“Right.” The agent says, rising while executing a short sideways strike on his paperwork.

“Am I, like, free to go or whatever?” Duvanith asks, prepping her self to stand

“Of course, why wouldn’t you be?” The agent responds, opening the door to the room. 

The answer to why she wouldn’t be was one of two reasonably simple answers, the room looked like a prison, and she may very well be the person of interest in an Arbiter investigation. 

“Just checking.” She clarified, following the agent out of the room and down a comparably dreary hallway to the well-adorned lobby where Karoleena greeted her with an excited wave, and Mwaxanare looked up from the floor-staring she had been doing to meet her gaze; she smiled slightly after seeing the smirk still planted in the corner of Duvanith’s mouth. 

“They’re sending us home via a luxury balloonliner,” Karoleena announces. 

“Sounds posh.” Duvanith offers reckoning that Beckwith was nowhere to be seen; was he still being interviewed? What was he telling them? What had she said in his presence? She wracked her brain for answers to those questions but ultimately pushed it out of her mind. They would be fine; they were bringing Princess Karoleena home. It wasn’t exactly what the Queen had placed her under Writ to do, but in the light of the Ashsnap Residence investigation, she was sure Queen Asker would just be happy to have Karoleena back. 

[mycatwantstoeatpins]

Really interesting response by Reddit user Iphikrates on r/askahistorian to a question that's since been deleted - were ancient soldiers 'fit' according to the modern conception of fitness? Full text below the readmore.

My older answer on Spartans has already been shared by u/OldPersonName. The core of the answer to your question is no. There are no soldiers in ancient history who trained their bodies as hard or looked as toned as your boyfriend likes to imagine. The reasons are firstly that the bulk of the warriors of antiquity were not permanently engaged in soldiering as a profession and lacked the time or the resources to train very much, and secondly that being very large and strong was not a feature of a good soldier. Fighting makes up only a very small part of what a soldier does, and overspecialising in combat prowess would make these soldiers more of a liability than an asset.

On the first point, the vast majority of the warriors in any army of a Greek city-state or the Roman Republic would be drafted for the occasion. In the Greek case, this meant being called up to muster for a campaign that had already been declared, carrying three days' rations. These warriors were ordinary people until that call came; they had lives to live, jobs to do, families to feed, and so on. They had little time to train and received no collective training when they were called up to fight. Their physique and fitness were only as good as their regular daily activities had made them. Both Xenophon and Plato complain that while poor farmers and wage-earners are generally up to the task, the rich, the young and the old are often unfit for duty. Still, they had to serve.

It is my understanding that the Roman legions of the Republic also were not composed of professionals but of citizens who received no training before they were called up. Their capacity as warriors grew only with prolonged service. They trained on campaign - if there was time. Evidence for systematic drill and exercise only survives for the professional Roman army of later centuries.

The only exceptions were the small standing units that were maintained by some Greek states from the later 5th century BC onwards, who were expected to spend some or all of their time training for war. It seems their training, like that of the Spartans, was not specific to warfare or fighting, but was broadly athletic: running, jumping, wrestling, discus-throwing, and the like. The veteran commander Xenophon also recommends dancing as a good general exercise for the body and hunting as a good preparation for war. A small minority of people believed it was possible train warriors specifically in heavy infantry fighting, but these were generally mocked until the 4th century BC, when they are seen playing a minor role in the various civic training programmes that pop up in the Hellenistic period. In these programmes there would be more targeted training for skills like archery or fighting on horseback, but only for the small minority of people who could afford it.

The people who underwent such training would likely have been reasonably fit. But there is no reason to assume they would be much more fit than anyone else who worked a strenuous job or exercised daily (let alone a modern person with regular access to a nutritious diet, medical care, and body enhancements like rubber-soled shoes, contact lenses, etc.). A citizen who had been through one of these Hellenistic training programmes was not treated as stronger or more intimidating than an ordinary person. The purpose of these training programmes wasn't to make citizens into hulking brutes, but to train them in civic values like discipline, obedience, moderation, and love for the customs of their city. Basic training in the use of weapons was one of the paths toward that goal. It was an innovation on the Spartan training regime, which tried to instill civic virtues without any apparent attempt to teach fighting skill.

It's also important to stress that Spartans (about whose exercise regime we know more than others) certainly did not train all day every day. In fact they probably only spent a minority of their time exercising. It is said that Spartans often welcomed the call to go on campaign, because it meant they would only be required to exercise once a day instead of twice. Far more of their time was spent managing their personal affairs (their estate, their horses and dogs, and their personal network) as well as dining and drinking with their messmates. This was far more effective at creating a cohesive society of citizen warriors.

On the second point, it was generally understood that athletes who devoted all their time and energy to growing muscle mass and strength made bad soldiers. These men were seen as overspecialised, slow, sluggish, needy, and dependent on an excess of food and sleep. There was no meaningful advantage in soldiering that could make such warriors worth cultivating. Anyone who naturally grew large or strong would no doubt be welcomed - if he could bear the burdens of soldiering. But men who created size and strength artificially through constant effort were worthless to a commander.

It is easy to understand why the Herakles type of muscle-bound giant was so disparaged by military thinkers. Battle and fighting is a tiny sliver of the practice of war. Many Greeks might never fight a pitched battle in their entire lives; even if they did fight one or two, the majority of men were not stationed in the front ranks and would rarely do any actual fighting. Cavalrymen did far more fighting than infantry, but even they would spend the vast majority of their time on other things. When it comes to raising good soldiers, the question is not: who would be the most effective in a brawl? Infinitely more important than size and strength are qualities that make a man fit to bear the real challenges of military service. Who can go for days without food? Who can march all day without water? Who can stand for hours in the summer sun? Who will keep a reliable watch through the night in driving snow? Who can carry his pack and his wounded comrades on a forced march through the mountains - and then fight a battle before breakfast? Who will stand and keep his place in the ranks even when his best friends are dying around him?

The Greeks understood that a general fitness, stamina and self-discipline combined with strong moral fibre were far more important for a warrior than raw strength or weapon skill. In most cases they could not choose; their armies were made up of levies and volunteers from all walks of life, who had trained little for warfare, if at all. But when they started to introduce training for their soldiers, the training regimes reflect their priorities. These are not regimes aimed at creating the biggest, strongest, fastest, or most lethal fighters. They are aimed at fostering endurance, agility, flexibility, and most importantly, commitment to the cause.

Finally, I should add that perhaps your boyfriend is also imagining what a Greek sculpture actually looks like. While there are some extreme cases of excessive musculature, these are usually depictions of Herakles, a literally superhuman symbol of strength. The ideal male body is not exceptionally massive. It is toned, to be sure, but much more balanced and slender than the product of modern strength routines. I think there is a conflation of categories at work here: the statements "Greek statues represent a masculine ideal" and "the masculine ideal is maximal muscle mass and tone" have merged to become "Greek statues represent maximal muscle mass and tone." But this is not actually true, except in a few rare cases that did not reflect ideals held by the Greeks, and certainly did not reflect the reality of soldiers soldiering.

[athensandspartaadventures]

Athens and Sparta Adventures: Chapter 8: Book of Ships pg. 22

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Quick Ref:

Despotism: Absolute rule by one individual. From the word despotes, which is Greek for “master” and what Athens is referring to here. This term would later refer to an official title in the Byzantine Empire.

Comments:

Athens is kind of exaggerating here, he’s describing the practices the Spartan agoge uses to educate youth and not necessarily how graduated Spartiates lived. Still, Spartiates were barred from having any profession whatsoever and according to Pausanias they actually prized idleness.

He’s also reminiscing about the good old days prior to the Persian War when Sparta could be called on to show up and make a contribution (as he had with Aegina, for example).

SPARTANS! WHAT IS YOUR PROFESSION?

Sparta:

[johnlocsin-johnyakuza]

SPARTANS!

WHAT IS YOUR PROFESSION?!

NO NUT! NO NUT! NO NUT!

WE CAN DO THIS COMRADES!

[rolanberry-rebel]

Info sheet: Kjalla Nisemi

Name: Kjalla Nisemi Nicknames: K, Two-Guns, “oh hell, not her!”, “Gun-bunny” if you want to get shot Race: Viera (rava) Age: mid-late 30s in hyuran years, exact age unknown (even to her, really) Gender: Cis female Orientation: Whatever suits her at the moment Relationship status: Whatever suits her at the moment Profession: Professional psycho, hired gun, mechanic

Height: 6′2″ Weight: 160lbs. Eyes: Icy blue Hair: Dark blue Skin: Greyish-blue Build: Fit, busty Scars: Deep scar along the left side of her jaw, scarring around her wrists and fingers, scar tissue along her neck. Tattoos: Blue markings along her face; a thorny blue vine splayed down the back of her neck, along her right shoulder and twining around her right bicep Fashion: Spartan and street-tough; never goes anywhere without her kickin’ boots and a good jacket. Loves leather, loves fishnets, loves denim, loves spikes. Comfortable and not necessarily showy. Dark colors. Loves red; loves black. Not afraid to show off what she’s got. When she thinks she’ll need it she's outfitted in the one of the suits of heavy armor she custom-builds herself, varying from more mobile sets of light plate to bulky, gadget-augmented battle suits. Accessories: Kjalla wears a fair amount of jewelry, a lot of it worn and tarnished, suggesting it might have some sentimental value. Often seen with a smattering of dull gold and silver rings, earrings, and a bridge piercing with a pair of rubies at each end.

Birthplace: the Golmore jungles somewhere. Residence: Her junk shop/personal safehouse off of a private jetty near Kugane. Alignment: Chaotic Evil Hobbies: Violence, rowdy nights out, any and every manner of indulgence, creating new weapons and gadgets for her armors, salvaging and experimenting with old junk, making and spending lots of gil Likes: Exciting experiences, adrenaline rushes, the opposite sex, the same sex, swapping stories, swapping punches, money, people with guts, alcohol, tinkering away Dislikes: Cowards, soft people, pretty things, lalafel, you if you get in her way. And chocobos. Disgusting things. Personality: Erratic and unconstrained, shifting wildly with her impulsive mood swings. One night you buy her a drink and you might flirt your way back to her junk-shop; the next she might put a round through your skull. More than anything she likes to surprise and be surprised, so always expect the unexpected. Always headstrong and often arrogant, and you should absolutely never tell her what to do. Ever. In spite of her crazed impulses, when she’s not in a bad mood Kjalla can be incorrigibly flirtatious, friendly, and fun to have a good night out with. Virtues: Strong, physically and emotionally; there’s very little that will break her, and she’s seen it all. Strong leadership instinct, whether through her charisma or force of character simply overwhelming others into following. Obsessively self-sufficient and fiercely independent. Determined and diligent when there’s work to do, and will not quit until she gets it done. Streetwise, clever, skilled; not conventionally smart but picks up new hands-on skills quickly. A fierce, experienced fighter. Unfailingly loyal to those who prove themselves worth it. Bad habits: The obvious - she’s utterly immoral, indulging in any behavior if it makes her feel good. Impulsive, reckless, violent, quick to anger and lash out at others. Heart hard as a rock and a firm believer in the survival of the fittest (the fittest, of course, being her). Trusts next to no one and will betray others save her closest circle if it helps her get ahead. Stubborn as hell. Promiscuous with little regard for whom it might hurt. Huge chip on her shoulder. Has a major problem with authority. Unintelligent by conventional standards, and completely dead to magic.

Significant Other: *derisive laughter* Children: *even more incredulous laughter* Family: All presumed dead, except for her sister Eyrisse, from whom she is estranged. Pets: Linchpin and Electrode, her pair of baby coeurls, who live at her junk-shop. Their unique grounding and electrical powers help Kjalla with her electrical experiments.

Friends: People aren’t friends to Kjalla; they’re tools, things to be used, experienced and discarded. (Most of the time, anyway...)

You might know Kjalla if...

Merciless Mercenary. Kjalla is a notoriously cutthroat sellsword, unscrupulous - more than willing and able to do any job big or small, just as long as kids aren’t involved. (That’s the one line she doesn’t cross.) From political leaders to petty thieves, she’s taken them all. Her race may paint her as a novelty - it’s not often you see a viera mercenary traipsing around the world, after all - but she’s no laughing matter. If you hire mercenaries, work with them, or are one yourself, there’s a good chance you’ve heard of her, under one of her assorted names - some flattering, some very much not.

Underworld Surgeon. Kjalla has no magical healing talent but she’s a darn good field surgeon, and has a great knowledge of alchemical remedies, salves and drugs. A ‘side-job’ of hers is to sell her services as a mundane healer to shady characters who, for fear of the law, of the attention, or otherwise - avoid visiting a reputable establishment for healing after an incident. Criminals on the run, overdose cases, just someone who wants to stay off the grid - if you’re in need of a quick patching-up and you’d rather keep it discreet, her junk-shop is always open.

Life of the Party. Kjalla is a staple in a few of her favorite seedy dives in cities across the world - and would certainly be recognizable to regulars, given scar-covered, foul-mouthed viera with backwater accents aren’t exactly easy to miss. If you frequent these kinds of establishments, you’ve no doubt heard of, seen, and maybe even gotten into a drunken brawl with her.

Purveyor of Dangerous and Exploding Things. Kjalla loves weapons - all of them, but especially guns, bombs, tasers, flamethrowers, dynamite, and weapons far more bizarre and exotic. If you’re a weapon collector, an arms dealer, or if you’re looking to outfit yourself with something significantly more dangerous, you’ve no doubt run in to back-alley gunrunners and smugglers who’ve mentioned her as a supplier. Conversely, if you’re searching for training in gunsmithing or engineering from a master, she might consider it... you’ll probably wind up dead, though, so maaaybe not a good idea... unless that’s your kink. 

Garlean Killer: There’re few jobs Kjalla loves more than the ones where she gets to pop Garlean heads like grapes. Though one could scarcely call the viera a principled woman whose violence is politically sophisticated, she takes a perverse delight in torturing and killing agents of the empire, even if she’s not getting paid to do it. Naturally her reputation for murdering prominent officers, personnel, facilities, and stealing lots of Garlean technology has made her a notorious outlaw in the empire, and if you’re involved in any of those fields, you’d recognize her scarred visage anywhere. Just be careful - she really does love planting bullets right in those third eyes.

Hi! I’ve been RPing forever and I’m lookin for new friends!

Adult female OOCly who’s RPed in every game you can probably think of and happy RPing lots of themes/scene types so long as we talk about it beforehand.

Kjalla is violent, rude, crude, and lustful. I however am (well, in my opinion, anyway...) none of those things, and am happy to talk with nice people! Just be aware most RP involving her’s gonna be one of those things, lol.

Available at random times, usually late evenings EST. Will always try to respond to private messages here no matter when you send them though!

Discord: I’m not on there very much, but I know it’s become a big way for a lotta people to do most of their OOC communication/RP threads so I’m willing to get on there if you wanna talk!

In-game: Anylissa Sebastis (Balmung) or Kjalla Nisemi (Mateus)

If you’re not into psychotic rabbit-ladies, I have my playful spoiled heiress, Anylissa, if you’d prefer. :>

[dylandavisfit]

"SPARTANS!! WHAT IS YOUR PROFESSION!?" ⚔ lmk what your profession is below 👇 No wrong answers 😤 📷: @alphafitphotography (at Parthenon) https://www.instagram.com/p/CTsMgFJljVz/?utm_medium=tumblr