#Society of Wood Engravers

[uwmspeccoll]

Wood Engraving Wednesday

PETER HOLLAND

This engraving of Magnolias by English artist Peter Holland (1915-2004), printed from the original block, is from 2020 Vision: Nineteen Wood Engravers, One Collector, and the Artists Who Inspired Them, compiled and introduced by collector Nigel Hamway, edited by English wood engraver Peter Lawrence, and printed in 2020 by Patrick Randle’s Nomad Letterpress at the Whittington Press in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, in an edition of 340 copies for the 100th anniversary of the Society of Wood Engravers. 

Holland himself never exhibited or sold a wood engraving in his life. He was an architect by profession who worked for the Ministry of Works. He taught himself wood engraving in his spare time, producing over 80 finely executed, closely observed images, mainly of the natural world. He was deeply inspired by his friendships with master engravers John Farleigh and Monica Poole. Holland was also the father of the editor of 2020 Vision Nigel Hamway's oldest friend, and inspired Hamway to begin his collection of wood engravings. Hamway included this print in the book as an homage to his mentor and because it is Holland's own homage to the work of Farleigh and Poole. Peter Holland's son Paul writes:

My father continued to engrave until late in his life and loved going to the shop of T N Lawrence in Bleeding Heart Yard to buy blocks. He was a prolific sketcher and sought inspiration for his engravings from his drawings, as well as the cottage and its beautiful garden where he and his wife Mavis lived for over fifty years.

View other posts from 2020 Vision.

View more posts with wood engravings!

[fab-bladesmith]

Claidheamh dà làimh dhubh

A Black Claymore, in the West Highland style, second half of the XVIth century.

Inspired by a variety of surviving examples, this one shows the classic features of the type, with quadrifoils at the end of the downturned quillions of strong rhombic section, fileworked central langets, hollow pommel and top finial. The swelling on the grip is inspired by the sword kept at the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasgow and is leather over wood - most grips visible in such swords nowadays are modern replacements.

Fittings are mild steel, oil-blacked.

The engraved blade is spring steel, made after the various examples of German productions.

See Tony Willis, "the Scottish Two-Handed Sword", Bulletin of the American Society of Arms Collectors 120, pp. 35-69.

Overall length is 1405 mm, blade is 1020 mm long and 45 mm wide, and shy of 5.4 mm thick at its base.

Cross span is 145 mm.

Weight is 1809 grams, point of balance 17 cm from the cross.

Again, sharing from here will only share this picture, so if you want to share the intire set of photos, do it from my Dr Fabrice Cognot, Phd, Bladesmith Page

Thanks

[mybeingthere]

Lettice Sandford, British printmaker, draughtsman, watercolourist, publisher and craft worker. 1902 - 1993.

Born 1902 in St Albans, Hertfordshire. Studied at the Byam Shaw and Vicat Cole School of Art, then at Chelsea School of Art, 1926-9, working under Percy Jowett (1882-1955). She was taught to engrave on wood by Robert Day and etching by Graham Sutherland (q.v.). She married Christopher Sandford in 1929. Their son was the playwrite Jeremy Sandford (1930-2003). With her husband ran the Boar's Head Press, whose books were printed at the Chiswick Press. In 1933 they bought the Golden Cockerel Press from Robert Gibbings (q.v.). She illustrated many of their books: engraving on wood, copper and zinc and published two of her own children's books. After WWII she illustrated 4 books for the Folio Society. After the Press was sold in 1959 she and her husband created a small museum at their home in Eye Manor nr. Leominster. She became an expert in corn dollies, reviving the craft and writing a practical leaflet and 'Decorative Straw Work and Corn Dollies' 1964.

The British Museum

[kafkasapartment]

Rockwell Kent (1882-1971) WORKERS OF THE WORLD, UNITE! (BURNE JONES 111) Wood engraving, 1937, on cream wove paper, signed in pencil, from the edition of 150, published by the American College Society of Print

[frierengf]

i can see us dying — choso x reader

— it absolutely terrifies you. the complexity and countlessness of the emotions his existance makes you feel. he terrifies you, disgusts you, and he probably hates you. that should be it, but for some reason it isnt.

wc : 2626 | ao3 [tags & notes]

It’s awfully cold in the cramped little storage shack. Your eyes have not yet adjusted to the darkness of the room, but you remember the words, the orders you’d been told. Absolutely no flashlights, absolutely no fighting and /absolutely/ no taking more than what you came for.

The shack is filled with weapons of all shapes and sizes, training dummies and ropes, shelves upon shelves packed with cursed objects. Eventually you find the small glass containers.

Ten of them, lined up in a neat little row.

”One, two and three. No more and no less.”

You squint as you lean closer, checking for any labelling of the objects. You don’t want to touch anything you don’t need to, even though you’re wearing gloves. Getting on the bad side of the Jujutsu society higher ups would mean the end of your life.

Finally you spot it, tiny engraved kanji on the metal bases of the containers. You grab one, two and three, carefully placing them in the bag you’d been supplied with. Padded and small, pockets custom fit to the little cylinders, made to look like any normal purse.

As soon as the bag snaps shut you hurry out, hoping to god no one has noticed the unconcious attendants outside the building. You make your way through the campus, moving carefully through the shadows. The suit you’d put on is just a bit too big and untailored to really fool anyone looking closely enough, but if you really need an excuse, it should work. You hope it works.

The mask covering your face is suffocating and the tie around your neck is nearly choking you. For as long as you’ve done this, you don’t know if you’ll ever get used to it. The espionage is one thing, but the fear of getting caught is an entirely other thing. A thing that shakes you to your core, a thing you only do when there is no way you’d live if you didn’t.

When you finally exit the gates you carefully look back and take a few steps down the stairs, just enough to be out of sight. As soon as you are, you speed into a sprint, moving quickly through the woods, down to the road where you’d parked your battered old motorcycle.

The trip is not particularly far, but the wind and anxiety whistling in your ears makes it feel like hours. Your eyes flicker between the empty streets and the road you drive on.

You stop outside a dilapidated alleyway, cramped between a rundown love hotel and a shabby old bar. The alleyway is filled with old boxes and trash bags, and you do your best to manouver between them towards the stairs leading down to your meeting spot. Quickly pressing the code into the tiny keypad on the door, you move forwards just slightly as the door pops open.

As you step into the room, ready to dump the bag and get your money before leaving, you instead stop in your tracks, eyes widening at the sight of the bodies behind the monk.

You swallow down your questions and your nausea.

Get the money and get out.

”Here,” you force out as you place the bag down on the table. The monk hums, smiling at you with closed eyes.

”All three are in there I presume?”

”Yes.”

Three. Three cursed objects. Three bodies slumped against the wall in front of you. Your brain makes the connection, entirely against your will. The nausea you swallowed down grows, bubbling in your gut.

You’re broken from your discomforting haze by the sound of a wad of cash being put down next to the bag.

”Sorry to do this the analouge way, but you know how it is,” the monk says with a snide smile. You bite your tounge.

”Yep.”

The words are tense. You reach down to take your money, but the second you wrap your fingers around the stack a hand rests upon yours and a shiver runs down your spine.

”Thank you very much for doing business with us.”

You stare at him for just a second before your eyes start jumping between the bodies behind him, his hand on top of yours, the bag on the table.

You can’t say no problem and you definetly can’t say my pleasure.

”You’re welcome.”

——————

You spot him in the grocery store one day. You almost can’t process it. You’re sure you look insane, the way your eyes widen and your knees crumble down. The way your hand slaps over your mouth and you nearly begin to cry.

You feel disgusted. You are disgusted. With that awful monk, with yourself. Not with him, not really. It’s not his fault. He isn’t here anymore after all. Replaced by some monster wearing his skin. It’s your fault.

The thing wearing that innocent mans body is disgusting and it’s all your fault. You get up, shaky and dryheaving, and stumble out of the store. You pass him and he only throws a questioning glance your way. You glare at him and you think you see some form of realization spread across his face as you leave.

——————

The two of you bump in to oneanother one evening. The midnight streets of Tokyo are packed with people, but when you feel a shoulder bump against yours, your eyes snap to the perpetrator, only to widen in astonishment. His eyes only narrow when they meet yours.

He knows who you are this time, and that fact terrifies you. Your steps speed up, you elbow your way through the crowds, muttered apologies leaving your lips. He can’t catch you. You can’t let him catch you.

You don’t even know if he’s following you, yet you still move quickly through the crowds, pulling up your hood and putting on your mask. You don’t want to see him, and you don’t want him to see you.

——————

He walks up to you in the street one night, pulling you into an alleyway. You instantly rip your arm out of his grasp and he turns around to face you, crowding you against the wall, intimidating you. Or at least trying to. You’re too disgusted to be scared anymore.

”It’s all your fucking fault.” His voice is raspy and hurt. You clench your jaw.

”I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about man.” The rain beats down around the two of you. You shrink down into your jacket.

”It’s your fault my brothers are dead. You ruined our lives. They didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for this.”

You let out a shaky breath as you step closer to him. You don’t know his name. You don’t know if he even has a name. You don’t think you want to know it, even if he has one.

He used to have one, that’s all you know.

”Newsflash man, I didn’t ask for it either. Do you think I wanted to take that job? Do you think I want a connection to those people? Everyone has to be selfish sometimes. If you think I knew it would end up like this you’re dead wrong.”

Your finger presses against his chest and his face is inches from yours. You hear his heartbeat and feel his breath. It unnerves you down to your core.

”Don’t go around blaming people when you could’ve got up and left if you wanted. My life would’ve been ruined if I didn’t take that job. Judge me all you want but do not act as if I’m the only one to blame.”

——————

You hate that you keep seeing him. Alone on the streets, in stores and cafes with the rest of that offputting group. You always hope that it’s the guilt and shame that pulls your eyes towards him, but you know that isn’t the only reason.

Maybe if the circumstances were different. If you had a normal job and he hadn’t been possessed by a cursed object you’d stolen. If you were just a normal girl and he was just a normal boy. If you hadn’t been the cause for what took his normal life away.

You don’t like how you feel when you see him. You try to pretend the hatred and disgust is just directed outwards, at him, but you know you’re lying to yourself. It’s not his fault, not at all really. He’s not the one who walked in and asked to join the pretend group of villians and he’s not the one who stole cursed objects from a heavily guarded storage room.

——————

You can’t sleep. It haunts you. He haunts you. You see him in your dreams. You wouldn’t really call them dreams, but you’re not sure how else to describe them. Vivid hallucinations that feel so real that you don’t even realize they’re fake. You can always tell when you’re dreaming, usually.

You see his body, slumped against the wall. You see the monk, forcing his mouth open and pushing the cursed object down his throat, like helping a cat swallow medicine. His body begins to twitch, cracking and snapping in unnatural ways. You feel nauseous. You try to scream, try to cry, but nothing comes out.

Even in your silence, the monk turns to you with a disgusted sneer on his face. He says something, but you can’t hear him. Tears build in your eyes, burning and stinging.

Memories that have never existed begin to infiltrate the visions. A weird alternate reality, that never could’ve been true in this universe. Summery school days. A girl and a boy. Your skirt fluttering in the wind and him carrying both of your bags, even though you’d insisted he didn’t need to. He comes to your club performance, and you smile at him while you sing. You’re good he mouths. Thank you you mouth back when your part is over.

You feel like the whiplash nearly kills you. The white static nausea of the first scenario compared to the radio love song warmth of the second one.

As much as you resent it, a love song like that is one thing you’ve longed for longer than you can remember.

——————

Some days, an overwhelming feeling that you don’t belong takes over your entire being. Not in a lonely way, like when you’re left out by your peers, or not in on the joke. In a way that makes you feel like something is fundamentally wrong with you, a way that makes you feel that you’re not made for this world.

This world isn’t made for you, your father would’ve said. He isn’t here anymore, and your only empty comfort is the broken casette tape of his voice that you’ve buried deep into your brain.

Another little voice, buried even deeper, one that you fight to repress every time it comes back, speaks up as well.

What if he feels the same way?

——————

You get a job offer. The notice is short term, and so is the job, but the amount of money offered is big, and in your account as soon as you accept. It’s not like you had any actual halloween plans anyways.

A mere hour or two into the job and you begin to regret it. You don’t like working with other people and you don’t like getting more than you bargained for. You’re not good at communicating with people, you’re just good at following orders. Unfortunately for you, a veil that you can’t seem to leave is cutting off contact from the very people giving you orders.

You sit, cramped up in a bathroom stall with your legs pulled up to your chest, without knowing what or who you’re waiting for.

Eventually you move. Most of the screams have died down and all the violent slams and shakes seem far away enough that you should be safe.

After a few minutes of walking around, trying to think of where to go or who to contact, you stop.

You’re not surprised that he’s here. You are surprised at the fact that he’s sitting curled up in a tiny alcove in the station wall. He doesn’t seem to notice your approach. You step closer, ever so carefully, and poke at his leg with your shoe.

”Hey.”

He doesn’t react.

You bump your shoe against his chest this time, just like you had with your finger that time that feels like years ago by now. ”Hello.”

He startles, and you back away quickly. His gaze snaps up to yours.

”You.”

”Me.”

Silence festers in the tunnels beneath the earth.

”I need to go,” he says. ”I need to help.”

You blink at him. ”Okay.”

”Come with,” he continues. You almost laugh.

”Are you joking?” He frowns.

”No.”

Silence festers between tense bodies, poised for fight or flight.

”I’m leaving,” you say.

He stares at you for a while and you begin to falter under his heavy gaze.

”You always run.”

You scoff. ”Does it look like I have any obligation to stay here? I was hired for recon, not to fight. I’m getting all my savings and getting out of Japan, so yeah, I guess I am running. Do you, out of everyone, have a problem with that?”

He frowns at your words, and you can’t, for the love of everything that is holy, think of any reason why he would be upset that you’re leaving.

He doesn’t deign to give you a reply, instead beginning to move, upwards and outwards. You stand still for just a moment, before making off in the opposite direction.

——————

You leave Japan. Your savings get you a flight to Taipei and a passable little hotel room. Most of your days consist of nothing more than going to your part-time waitress job followed by hours and hours of watching the news and scrolling through japanese sorcerer forums for any updates you can find.

On Christmas Eve you’re called in to work as one of the few employees without any particular holiday plans. You don’t mind, not really. It’ll mostly be to-go orders and loners like you coming in for a quick meal and some beer.

As you’re clearing a few tables, you feel your phone vibrate in your back pocket. You throw a glance to your boss. His eyes meet yours, and you look towards to break room door before looking back at him, the question going unspoken. He gives you a short nod.

You pull out your phone as soon as you sit down on the dingy old couch. The notification is from one of the largest sorcerer forums out there.

A livestream?

The title of the stream claims that you are watching the battle between Gojo Satoru and Ryoumen Sukuna, but it looks more like a cheap action movie filled with quick blurs and massive explosions.

You grimace slightly and shove your phone into your pocket.

Not worth watching.

When you come back home from your shift, you pull up the livestream again. The title has changed, however. It now claims that Gojo Satoru is dead, and the fight is currently between Ryoumen Sukuna and the stragglers of Japans Jujutsu Society.

There are fewer explosions this time, but the blurs of movement remain the same speed, maybe even quicker. Your eyes flick across the screen to take in as many details as possible.

Fallen buildings, large indents in the ground from Domains and powerful clashes. Something on the ground blurs, and suddenly theres a camera switch.

You see his corpse.

You never even got to learn his name.

You think back to that one dream you had with him. A warm summer, just like a love song.

You never even got to learn his name.

Life goes on.

Maybe in the next one, we can have our love song.

[skullsandp0tions]

short blurb for now. Brainrot if you will. (Charles x AFAB!Reader

Charles never liked ‘modern society’. He had no problem with people and could talk about almost anything, but he didn’t find his people. People who agreed with him or even wanted to look at him despite the color of his skin. Instead he was met with judging or even disgusted glares, women forcing their children away from him to make sure they didn’t get infected, as if skin color travels through touch.

His parents were both treated the same way all throughout his childhood, his mom being a native and his father african american helped little. His father struggled getting jobs and his mother struggled with the smallest tasks like going to the store and buying groceries without being harrassed. This made Charles, even as a child, very quiet. He strayed away from conversation for the longest time, and then his mother was captured by soldiers a couple years later and was never seen again. At that time Charles was only around 13, and since his father turned to alcohol and other addictions, he decided to leave.

He’d wandered the country for quite a while before finally falling in with the gang. Remaining as quiet as before. He had no reason to talk to many of them other than to reply shortly or ask questions. Arthur was one, if not the only, person he could have a genuine conversation with. Micah had, well, the opposite effect. The gang was becoming his home, his family. Sure he didn’t like or agree with some of them but he respected all of them. Apart from Micah.

And then there was you.

He didn’t pay you any mind the first months but he grew accustomed to your presence following him around or watching him work. It made him calm, it felt like the weight on his shoulders from his past and concern for the future lifted, allowing him to breathe properly without his chest restricting him.

You were warm, like the sun in human form. So beautiful and warm yet the fear of being burnt if he got too close remained in his head, which was why he didn’t let himself think like that. Every time you laughed he engraved it in his head, he could hear it wherever he went, always being able to recognize specifically that laugh. How you laughed when mocking someone or when you found something genuinely funny were two different sounds. He knew them by heart.

He knew all of your scars on your hands and how they felt against his skin every time you’d help him patch up despite his attempts at shutting the idea down, you didn’t know it, but the only reason he didn’t want you to patch him up was due to the fear of falling deeper. He was worried that if he felt your hands on his skin, that he’d slip up and tumble down further into his brain that was already filled about you, and he did. Now that’s all he thinks about; about the scars, and how you got them, the soft skin of your palm but also the almost angelic softness of your fingertips when they ghosted over his hands. He had you in his head 24/7.

Charles never liked people. Always straying towards the woods where the animals roamed and his ethnicity burnt the strongest. Yet after meeting you, he stayed around camp 7 times out of 10. From joining you and the others at the campfire and listening to Javier play, to dragging you out to the woods to teach you how to properly hunt. Of course he needed you to know how to hunt, but being able to guide the posture of your soft body was an added bonus. It became something he looked forward to every week.

He had no reason to pretend not to be excited, not when he saw how happy it made you to see him enjoy your company. It made his heart jump up to his throat and all he could do was give a slightly dopey smile every time, and then you’d laugh at him with that warm laugh, the laugh that he wouldn’t forget for years to come.

You were his purpose.

[thebeautifulbook]

DAPHNE by Alfred de Vigny. (Paris: F-L Schmied, 1924) Designed and illustrated with 50 wood engravings by François-Louis Schmied. Art binding by Devauchelle .

Written in 1837 but not published until 1912, this novel is the most philosophical of the French Romantic poet’s work. It examines the role of the artist in society.

Midnight blue crushed Morocco inlaid and gilt in an Art Deco design inspired by Schmied. Covers have gold and silver geometric tooling, with metallic and tan morocco inlays. The engravings are enhanced with silver and gold.

source

[meekmedea]

cui prodest scelus is fecit - epilogue

An AU where Coriolanus becomes President and Clemensia is his unofficial poisoner amongst many other roles.

AO3

Spoilers below (this takes place months after the last chapter)

~~~~~

“Congratulations, Madam President,” says a familiar voice. “You know, Felix always did say you’d look better on the currency than any of us might.”

“Festus?” Turning around, Clemensia’s smile widened as she saw her old friend standing there. He was by her side in a couple of steps and she let him sweep her into a bone crushing hug. “It’s good to see you again,” she murmured. 

“Agreed.”

`

Even though Coriolanus’ death had freed Festus from all that secrecy, it’d have been too suspicious if he immediately recovered from his condition, so it’d been quite some time since she’s been able to officially see her old friend. 

Society calls it a miraculous recovery. They whisper about how lucky her friend is, to have all his wits about him, considering the two years he’s spent in a coma. 

`

“I suspect you didn’t come all this way just for this though?”

“Alright. You got me.” He pulled out a small box from his coat pockets and placed it on top of the desk. “I was digging through some of Felix’s things recently and found this in a hidden compartment in his desk.”

It was a small wooden box and engraved upon the top was the phrase, ‘why is a raven like a writing desk?’ Considering the roughness of the engraving, Clemensia thought that Felix might have done it himself. “Stars… Felix and his ridiculous riddles. Speaking of which, did you ever manage to weasel the answer out of him?”

`

Festus made a face. “Nope. You’d think he’d give me a little leeway, but all he said was that the answer lay in the woods. I’ve dug through everything that might fit and though I know I could force it open, I feel a bit bad doing so. Besides, I have a sneaking suspicion that the key might be with you.”

“With me? What makes you think that?”

`

“You, Felix and Iphigenia always had those matching necklaces. Those keys were made to be matching, right? I can’t find Felix’s copy, and I’m hoping you could indulge me by trying yours.”

“But those were decorative pieces, we never– well neither Nia nor I ever made something. But I’m willing to try it if you’d like.” 

“Please.”

~~~~

They’re very lucky that Clemensia still has that necklace and knows exactly where it is – after Felix and Iphigenia’s respective deaths, it became one of the few possessions that she held on tightly to. 

And Festus’ hunch had been correct. The key on her necklace did unlock the box, allowing them to lift the lid. Curiously, they found a yellowed folded piece of paper inside. On the slip, in Felix’s distinctive handwriting, he writes, ‘At rest, both the desk and the raven are still.’

`

Clemensia could almost imagine Felix’s smugness as he wrote out the line. She fought the urge to sigh. 

Festus, however, had no such qualms and let out a heavy sigh. “Of course he’d write that.”

`

“He’s probably laughing at us, wherever he is.”

“He probably is,” agreed Festus. “You know, I’m due for a visit. Would you like to come with me? We can even complain together to him about his horrific answer to the riddle.”

Clemensia laughed. “I’d like that.”

[emvidal]

*What to Look For in Autumn* (1960) 🦢🍂

*Ladybird Books*

~Charles Frederick Tunnicliffe~ English~ Artist/Illustrator~ b. in Langley, England, he spent his early years on a farm, bought by his parents in Sutton where he observed an abundance of wildlife. He earned a scholarship to the 'Royal College of Art' in London. After his marriage in 1929, in Manchester he remained there for several years as Assistant Art Master at 'Manchester Grammar School.' He later moved to Malltraeth, Anglesey and lived there for the remainder of his life.

Tunnicliffe was a master of all... oils, watercolours, etching, wood engraving and more. Much of his work depicted birds in their natural setting although, he painted numerous other forms of wildlife. Throughout the 1950's - 1960's he illustrated the 'Lady Bird' books. He painted numerous illustrations for the 'Royal Society for the Protection of Birds' and many books and postcards. He received an O.B.E. (Order of the British Empire) and numerous other honours. His work is world renowned and he was the subject of a television documentary in the U.K.~

1901 - 1979

[uwmspeccoll]

Wood Engraving Wednesday

SARAH VAN NIEKERK

English artist Sarah Van Niekerk (1934 - 2018) was an award-winning Illustrator and wood engraver, a member of the Society of Wood Engravers (SWE), and the Society's chair, 1995-1998. This print, Rams, was printed from the original block in 2020 Vision: Nineteen Wood Engravers, One Collector, and the Artists Who Inspired Them, printed in 2020 by Patrick Randle’s Nomad Letterpress at the Whittington Press in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, in an edition of 340 copies for the 100th anniversary of the Society of Wood Engravers. Unfortunately, Van Niekerk died during the planning of the book and her daughter Jess wrote the text for mother's entry and helped select the block to be printed.

Sarah Van Niekerk attended the Central School of Arts and Crafts (1951-1954) where she studied with wood engraver and sculptor Gertrude Hermes who greatly influenced her work. She continued her education at the Slade School (1955-1956) and much later taught wood engraving at the Royal Academy of Art (1976-1986) and the City and Guilds Art School (1979-1998), and for many years was a tutor at West Dean College. Besides being a member of SWE, she was also a Fellow of the Royal Society of Painter-Printmakers and a Royal West of England Academician.

View another post with work by Sarah Van Niekerk.

View a post with work by Van Niekerk's mentor Gertrude Hermes.

View other posts from 2020 Vision.

View more posts with women wood engravers.

View more posts with wood engravings!

[acaciusbride]

What’s In A Name [ Din Djarin x OC ]

[ Post season 3 / no smut (but allusion to it?) / fluff / established relationship ]

Contents: Din Djarin’s wife finds out that naming conventions on Aq Vetina aren’t the same as Mandalore.

Notes: based almost entirely on the works & verse established between myself & the incredible @joelsgirl . Couldn’t ask for a better writing buddy & friend 💜

——

Nyssa has lost count of how long exactly she’s been with him. Long enough that she knows beyond a doubt that he’s her person. That anyone else in the galaxy could want her and she’d be blind to them, because for her, there’s nobody else.

Originally she had meant to be nothing more than a bounty, a quick way to make some credits. A mouthy droid mechanic that he’d picked up on Tatooine but gotten inexplicably attached to.

They could have gone their separate ways, but she had chosen him, just as much as he had chosen her. She would always choose him.

The day he put the beskar choker around her throat - engraved with the symbol of his clan, the Mandalorian equivalent of a wedding ring - she felt like she could finally breathe. Like she could exhale a breath she didn’t know she had been holding, finally secure in knowing that she meant as much to him as he did to her.

She hasn’t taken it off since. While she’s an outsider, unbound by the Creed, the necklace marks her as one of them. Part of his clan. His family.

Him, her, and the kid. She knows Grogu won’t be their only child, knows this like she knows the sound of his boots approaching, knows her own name, knows the sound of their hearts pounding together late at night.

Which is why she currently feels like an absolute bonehead.

It’s been eating away at her for a few days now, since they settled into the house on Nevarro. The way the Armourer named her, named Grogu. Not as Vanyssa and Grogu Djarin, but as Din Vanyssa, Din Grogu.

The absolute shame when she realised that all this time, she’s been his wife, and she hasn’t even been using his name right.

“Why didn’t you tell me I was using your family name?” She peers down at him; he’s sitting on the bench on the porch, had been considering whittling a piece of wood into a flute before she came out to speak to him.

It’s nice to see him without his helmet on, though it’s sitting beside him in case they have unexpected company. By the laws of his religion, only her and his children can see his face.

He turns his head slightly to look at her, expression blank.

“What do you mean?”

“All this time, I’ve been calling you Din, but that’s your family name, right?” Nyssa turns red, ashamed that she didn’t ever realise.

He gives her a half shrug, gets to his feet. He doesn’t want her upset over it, it really isn’t that big of a deal to him.

“Does it matter? Everyone gets it round the wrong way. Mandalorians - born Mandalorians - go first name then last name.”

“But your birth culture doesn’t.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“No. On Aq Vetina, the family name goes first. Even though in every sense of the word I adopted the Mandalorian culture, values and Creed, I kept the naming convention of my home world.”

“I feel like an ass.”

“Why? I never bothered to correct you. Few enough people know my name as it is. What’s it matter if they get the order wrong?”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

He shrugs again. “A name is a name.”

Nyssa crosses her arms.

“I’m your wife. I’m supposed to know these things.” As she says it, though, she’s starting to get the idea that maybe he’s not as bothered by this as she is.

He’s used to living in societies where the naming convention goes first name then last name, not the other way round. That without him bothering to correct her, how would she know?

He looks at her with that same unreadable expression for a moment before the faintest hint of a smirk crosses his face, hands rubbing her shoulders in a comforting gesture.

“Frankly, I don’t care which of my names you use. Half the time, you call me daddy anyway, so…”

Nyssa sputters, cheeks going red. He watches her, amused by her embarrassment.

“Truly, though, love. It doesn’t matter. You know now.”

Wrapping his arms around her, he pulls her nice and close, leans down to kiss her.

Immediately she loops her arms around his shoulders, one hand settling in his hair as she leans into the kiss.

“You know… about that daddy thing…”

He freezes, stares at her in complete shock.

“Are you-?”

She gives him the smallest, shyest smile that is so unlike her usual confidence that it almost melts him.

“I hope the house is big enough for a clan of four…”

He says nothing, leans down to kiss her again, soft and gentle and loving. Damn, guess the work on the house can’t wait after all.

[themuseumwithoutwalls]

MWW Artwork of the Day (10/13/24) Félix Vallotton (Swiss, 1865-1925) La paresse (Laziness)(1896) Woodcut, 30.5 x 24 cm. The Houston Museum of Fine Arts

Vallotton rejuvenated the woodcut medium as a creative technique. His boldly cut designs, conceived as arrangements in black and white, depict Parisian society with wit and intelligence. During the years 1891-98 he worked primarily in the technique of wood engraving. His psychologically expressive portraits of writers (the woodcut "Dostoevsky," 1895) and the spiritually revealing scenes from Parisian life (the series "Story of a Certain Crime and Intimacy"), constructed by means of a tense combination of white and deep black spots, are extremely laconic.

[mybeingthere]

Gertrude Anna Bertha Hermes (1901 – 1983) was a British wood-engraver and sculptor. Hermes was a member of the English Wood Engraving Society (1925–31) and exhibited with the Society of Wood Engravers, the Royal Academy and The London Group during the 1930s.

"Hermes was an understated rebel – she never wanted to be commercial or sell works for large amounts of money – in fact, many of her pieces were simply given as gifts to friends and family. Yet, her most empowering act was a critical turning point in both art and equality, was when she demanded that the Royal Academy, of which she was a member, to allow women to attend the dinner after the Annual General Meeting of Academicians. The following year, Hermes and Barbara Hepworth both sat pride of place." https://www.anothermag.com/.../wild-girl-the-artistic...

[hornystorage]

The Society

[Originally posted by rubberpupthoughts. Re-posted for archival purposes.]

Like a fog lifted, memories come back to you from the night before. The mansion, The Society. You sit up in bed and look down at your cock. It defiantly stands up, throbbing. A strange light glimmers around the base of your shaft. You groan.

Last night had every marking of a dream. But it was real. If you concentrate, you can picture it. Feel it, even. You shift nervously as you stand nearly naked in Sir’s living room. The chain link leash clipped to your collar jingles.

“What a good boy. You look absolutely stunning in your costume.”

Despite the compliment, you’re not sure you’re ready for the evening. You’ve always fantasized about wearing gear just like this, but never around strangers. The thought of going to a Halloween party so exposed makes your heart race. Mixed in with that fear is excitement. Your cock throbs in its tiny locked chastity cage.

Hands run over your chest and bottom. They give you goosebumps. They put you at ease. One hand rests on your locked cock. Sir keeps you locked from time to time, even though you’re an alpha. He likes to build up your sexual energy and release you on more submissive boys.

“We won’t be needing this tonight,” Sir says.

As the man reaches into his pocket for a key, you can’t help but shake your bottom. Sir smiles at your first demonstration of wagging.

“Good boy. You are going to enjoy tonight, I’m sure.”

Later, Sir leads you to the passenger seat of his car. That renews your racing heart. You were to ride to the party without covering up. Were you not wearing the pup hood, everyone could see your red face as easily as your exposed cock.

Sir smiles. “You have a question?”

You ask where he is taking you. He chuckles.

“They go by many names. But tonight, we will call them ‘The Society.’”

Sir pulls onto a winding road into the woods. You relax now that the streets busy with staring people are behind you. The drive is long. You watch the full moon and lose track of time.

The car pulls up to a gated brick house. A mansion. You take a deep breath as Sir opens your door and clips a leash to your collar. He leads you to an ornate wooden door, bound with iron, and engraved with a paw mark.

“Tonight’s rules are simple,” Sir says as he knocks an iron clapper. “Whoever holds this leash owns you. Obey their every command.”

Your Sir smiles. He notices your hesitation. Was it how your eyes glanced down?

“Do not worry, pup. No one here will harm you or cause you discomfort. In fact, I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

The ornate door opens, and Sir leads you into a mansion of sights that make your unlocked cock throb. Several rooms hold beefy men in rubber and leather. You see gas masks, flogs, fuck-benches and more. Like you, several smooth, naked boys wear pup gear. Their leashes jingle as they are lead around—some on two feet, some on four. At the center of the entry room, you see a bronze statue of a hound.

You have barely taken in the sight when the leash tugs you off to a room. This by itself would not be alarming. You are excited to see what wonders the house holds. But you realise the man holding your leash is not the man you came here with.

The thick man holding your leash smells like cigars and is dressed in a leather vest and chaps. The latter reveal a dingy, bulging jockstrap.

The man stops at the bar surrounded other bear-like men. He gives one more tug on the leash and says “Sit.”

The command strikes you like a bell. You fall to your knees without thinking. Your muzzle lines up with the man’s jockstrap.

“Good boy,” he says as he rubs your head with his heavy hand. The strong grasp and chuckle of the men around you fill you with pleasure. Your body wiggles as if to betray your excitement.

Despite the man’s strength and dominance, he gently nudges your head to his bulge. You pick up on the unspoken command and rub your muzzle against his jockstrap. The strong smell of musk penetrates your neoprene pup hood. It makes you dizzy with lust.

You nuzzle deeply. You can feel the man’s thick, sweaty cock swelling beneath the jockstrap. Any moment, that cock will spring out. You can’t wait to suck it.

A tug on the leash snaps you back to attention. The men around you laugh and the bear holding your leash helps you to your feet. He pats you on the head again.

“Good boy. That’ll do.”

You want to say something. You want to apologize for how you lost control. You want to thank him for how he made you feel: owned. How your rock hard cock feels like it’s buzzing with arousal. You want to say anything.

Instead, all that you manage is a whimper.

The bear chuckles again. He hands the leash to another man and you are paraded off. This new man, your temporary owner, glistens in a black rubber catsuit. It accentuates his tall, lean build. He leads you to a bedroom. On the bed, you see a boy with his ankles tied over his head. His smooth, bare ass is exposed to the dimly lit room.

The rubber man guides you onto the bed, and hope you are ordered to fuck the bound boy.

“Lick.”

This command jolts you like the one from the leather bear. Your mouth drips with saliva, and you go to town on the boy’s tender hole. You’ve never given a rimjob before. But judging by the slurping sound of your maw, and the moans from the boy, you are a natural.

“Please!” The boy moans. “Please let me cum!”

The smell of drool and the boy’s smooth taint intoxicates you, and you shove your tongue deeper.

“I’m gonna cum!” He shouts, but you don’t hear it.

Instead, the leash tugs you away. You snap back to your senses and stare at the boy’s wet hole. The boy thrashes against his bonds and begs you to continue.

Dimly, you realise the boy is not holding your leash. The man in rubber is, and he tugs you off the bed.

You look down at your hard cock and notice something strange. The room is dark, and you swear you see a faint glow around the base of your cock. The light tickles you with an electric sensation.

A tug on the leash turns your thoughts away from your cock. You try to stand, but find you can only follow on all fours.

There’s no time to process this new change either. The man in rubber passes the leash, like a baton, to a man in the hallway. Your new owner is a ripped frat boy. He is shirtless and wears a backwards hat and booty shorts. He takes you to a lounge room filled with other fraternity men.

The man leads you to a weight bench and tells you to climb up. The men in the room all come over to pet and tease you, and you love every moment of it.

When the man holding your leash says “Roll over,” you eagerly flip over and lift your legs. Hands spread lube on your ass and the boys praise you with “Good boy.” More hands play with your nipples and cock.

When the first cock presses against your hole, a part of you comes to your senses. You think about rolling off the bench, but the man holding your leash looks into your eyes.

“Stay. Good boy.”

The first frat boy fucks you. Slow and strong at first. Then with pounding fury. The guys around hoot and cheer. You are too embarrassed to enjoy it.

By the time the third man start pounding you, you begin to enjoy it. No, you crave it. You clench and thrust yourself on their dicks. You feel your own cock pulsing, and desperately want to reach for it. But the look from the man holding the leash has you paralyzed.

“Good boy. Stay,” he repeats. You lose yourself in the rhythm of thrusting hips.

This time, you’re not sure how long you lost yourself. A tug of the leash brings you back. Where? You’re back in the grand foyer. The bronze statue of the hound stoically gazes over you.

“Gentleman, sirs, boys and pups,” your Sir grandly addresses the room. “Thank you for gathering here on All Hallow’s Eve, where we may witness a rare transformation.”

All eyes fall on you. You are still seated on your haunches, and don’t have the courage to speak. That is, if you could even speak.

“My boy has obediently undergone the Rite of the Hound. It is nearly complete, as is evident by the Binding Ring.”

Sir’s words remind you of the faint light around your cock. You look down to see the light blazing. You look up at your Sir and whine.

“Do you want to stroke your cock, pup?”

You bark. Bark? You find this as strange as your sir calling you pup. He always called you boy before.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Paw.”

You wrap your hand around your cock, hesitant at first. Every stroke brings you closer to the edge. Soon you are panting and blushing as the whole room watches.

But you cannot push yourself over the edge. You consider giving up, but the buzzing ring of light fills your body with pleasure. After minutes, you begin whimpering and howling for mercy.

“As you can see, the Binding Ring has complete control over his cock. He still feels lust, but cannot achieve release without my command.”

Your Sir turns back to you. “And now, with the last thoughts of a boy still in your head, I offer you a choice. I will let you cum here and now, and the ritual will be complete. Henceforth, on nights of the full moon, you will lose your human ability to speak and walk on two legs. You will serve The Society obediently, like you did tonight. What do you say, pup?”

The question sends a shiver down your back, and a new wave of pleasure through your cock. There were still human thoughts in your heads: the same mix of fear and excitement. But they were faint compared to the overwhelming urgency of lust.

Eagerly, you bark.

“Good boy. Now cum.”

Without any coaxing from your hand, your cock shoots its load all over the floor. You howl in bliss. The room cheers. Time slows.

In the afterglow of your orgasm, your Sir rests a hand on your head.

“Good boy. There’s one more thing. The Binding Ring will remain—full moon or not. Its effects will be more… subtle. But you will not be able to cum without my command. Some pups learn to cherish this condition. It binds them to their master better than any chastity device.”

Back in your bed, you reach for your phone and see a message from your Sir. He asks how you are doing. You start to type a response, but hesitate.

“You want to ask me how long these changes last?” your Sir replies.

You type that last night was fun, but you don’t know how long you can go without masturbating. You had never spent more than a week in chastity, and that was torture.

“You made your choice,” Sir replies. “And on All Hallow’s Eve in one year’s time, you will be given that choice again.”

One year! Your mind begins to race as you stare at the message.

“Don’t worry, pup. You’ll have many full moons to think about it.

[creatureshrieks]

So, a lot of Hannibal, both as a show and as a character devotes a lot of itself to symbolism. Even the dining room in which Hannibal serves and consumes his meals is rich of symbolism and iconography. the dining room is incredibly moody with deep, rich indigo walls with curving molding meant to look akin to paneling. The walls of the dining room and meant to invoke a night sky. On one wall is a fireplace adorned with horns, paintings with golden frames. On the opposite rests a "living wall", a neatly curated herb garden that rests in front of a wall wallpapered with Landscape: Woods Reflected in a Pond by Oscar Grosch, a wood engraver who became both an etcher and painter. The herbs are well-tended to for even their positions on the herb shelving is purposeful. The shelves get smaller as they rise upwards as the plants on the bottom require light to survive. Hannibal's dining room is a theater, a stage for him to perform. This is where he sees to his guests, impresses them, and puts on the air of someone intelligent, confident, and well-adjusted. He has quite the ego for he sees himself above much of society. While they hide from their true nature or are incapable of seeing the truth of themselves, he has known who and what he was from the moment his eyes opened. He is a predator that stalks the shadows of polite society. A man akin to a god, he who is above the limitations another may place upon him. The dining room is where he allows himself to showcase this confidence, though hidden under the veneer of a man who simply enjoys boundless praise. The dining room is in contrast to the kitchen, bright whites and steel, strictly maintained, organized. If the dining room is the "stage", the kitchen is the "backstage". This is where things are prepared, prepped. This is where he performs at some of his most gruesome points, carving human flesh into edible dishes. Knives, kept sharp, easy to penetrate flesh and carve bone. It is orderly, like much of his life for even the nature he allows into his home is maintained to what he desires.

The herb boxes are never allowed to overgrow, kept in order. The animals that decorate his walls are posed and poised, their pieces repurposed into art of his liking. Hannibal Lecter is a man of control, of a need to exert his will over his surroundings. Even nature is made to bow to him, to be remade in a design of his choosing.

[planet4546b]

i would like to hear about decade!!! i dont have any specific questions i just think it is such a fun concept.

decade my friend decade!!!! some fun facts about decade:

the computer's machinery is all engraved on glass. i dont know or care enough about the specifics of computer workings to give specifics on this (the urge to do research on it will strike me eventually and ill figure it out) but its very different from the early, early forms of computers out of primary (massive logic switch systems using physical switches that can do simple math atm) or lariat (literally just jacquard machines because i LOVEEEE jacquard machines and lariat's a textile town anyways) but its difficult to even realize that glass fragments with engravings too fine to even be seen are part of a COMPUTER when you barely even know what a computer is and thats not how the computers that Do exist work even a LITTLE bit. the few bits ive written that are first person accounts of visiting decade the computer while it was functional are very fun becuase you walk thorugh these massive hanging chains of glass reflecting light. its fun!!

information about decade most often comes from numbers system esque radio stations on unused frequencies, which samira has painstakingly decoded via a cryptography method that i will eventually figure out. its on a radio frequencey thats a lower frequencey than most west faraday radio (decade uses something like slf, i think)

samira's favorite bugbear about decade is that they've found evidence of the ruins of the city itself but theres very little evidence of the rest of the footprint that a city would leave. quarries, dams, forests that had been clearcut and are newer growth, soil that is nutrient depleted from farming....etc etc. given the EXTENT of the growth of the city and the fact that its not built out of any particularly novel materials, its wood and stone so Where Did They Get The Wood And Stone. heres what samira has to say on the matter !

writing decade is remarkably fun. computer that is solely focused on an impossible project in a society that is crumbling around it and it knows it will eventually be drawing plans that no one will see...my strange animal