#The Pillar

[poppystheories]

Do y'all see this painting????

This single goddamn painting pretty much tells us the whole story of everything.

We see a jester, led along by a chain around his wrist, trudging along the great spiral of life, carrying with him an enormous coffin and cross.

Yeah, that's Allen, creating his path as he walks, carrying the dead Mana and Nea with him, following the chain leading to something he can't see.

And of course, that's also the Millennium Earl.

[jurakan]

The Friday Pillar Post highlights how today is the 100-year anniversary of the Carnegie Riots, when thousands from the KKK tried to terrorize the Irish Catholics of Carnegie, Pennsylvania, and the Irish population beat the ever-loving snot out of the klansmen.

We should talk about this more.

[wild-karrde]

The Blitz Series

blitz (noun): a sudden, energetic, and concerted effort, typically on a specific task.

Mechanic Bolts (f!Reader) navigates her relationship with a commando she hates and her friends of the 28th Combat Wing.

Rating: E, 18+ ABSOLUTELY NO MINORS ALLOWED

Warnings: language, fingering, PiV sex, voyeurism, oral sex, cum eating, multiple partners (no cl*necest), anal sex, dom/sub dynamics, rough sex, impact play, rough sex, sex toy use, orgasm denial, spitting, double penetration... (this series is essentially just pure filth)

Pairings: Gregor x f!Reader, OC Crater x f!Reader, OC Chuckles x f!Reader

Part 1: The Antagonist

Part 2: The Pillar

Part 3: The Jester

Part 4: The Blitz

[muybridgeshorse]

Stephen Gill

[unluckyepiphany]

back from my vacation in The Pillar^ :) :) XD time to start silly posting again :3

[twoq24]

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1809 – Opening of Nelson’s Pillar in the middle of O’Connell Street (formerly Sackville Street) in Dublin.

It was built in 1808–1809, and was among the first and grandest monuments erected in memory of Nelson in the ‘THEN’ United Kingdom. It surprisingly survived until March 1966, when it was destroyed by a bomb planted by Irish republicans. Today the Spire of Dublin stands on its former ground. It was opened to the public on Trafalgar Day, 21 October 1809, the fourth anniversary of the battle. It…

[wordsyettocome]

The Pillar

The restaurant’s tables were inside remodeled cars, with the doors removed and lined around the edges of the circular room. As the diners sipped champagne and ate caviar, the whole restaurants slowly revolved around a stationary bar, giving everyone panoramic views of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

On this particular night, however, a storm had turned the usually scenic view into a featureless blur. Wanting to make the best of the evening, the diners in one of the cars had a bet on who could tell the best story over dinner, with the listeners as judges. The winner got to choose who would pay.

This prompted a series of funny and often scandalous stories, growing louder and louder until some of the other guests started to leave early.

The last storyteller was a young banker, and his mostly drunk audience kept trying to sabotage his story, laughing at nothing in particular and attempting to refill his glass, spilling wine onto the pristine white tablecloth.

The young man hesitantly began to tell a tale of his childhood, but as he spoke, his story took on a life of its own, like it was telling itself. Maybe it was the wine, but his listeners began to feel as if they were really all trapped in a car in a rainy city, watching the story’s action unfold.

 Two women, one of the women’s brothers, and a little boy were driving slowly and carefully, because hardly anything could be seen through the windshield.

The women were quietly grumbling and the man was shaking his head in disbelief. Only the little boy in the backseat was unfazed, making revving noises while dragging his toy truck along the backs of the seats and the door.

A flash of lightning lit up the landscape around them, buildings and cars and a telephone pole. The little boy looked up with interest.

“We’re going to be late,” said the driver.

“With weather like this, everyone else will probably be late too,” said her wife comfortingly.

They drove on in silence for a minute.

Then the woman in the passenger seat suddenly said, “That’s odd. A telephone pole shouldn’t be here.”

“What?”

“I thought I saw a telephone pole just now.”

“It was a street light,” said her brother in the backseat.

“It was too tall to be a street light.”

Another flash of lightning caught them by surprise, but this one was so bright, for a second it was as bright as daytime.

The driver was so shocked, she almost swerved, and her wife had to reach across and steady the steering wheel for her.

“I saw it again!” she said. “But it’s too thick to be a telephone pole.”

“It can’t be the same one,” her brother pointed out.

“You’re right. What is it, then?”

“Scaffolding for construction, maybe?”

The cars in front stopped, probably for a red light. The driver tapped her thumb on the wheel impatiently.

Then the man gave a cry of alarm. A black pillar was standing directly outside the car.

The driver swore, then clapped her hand over her mouth.

“What’s that?” said the boy, speaking for the first time.

“Don’t look, honey,” said the woman in the passenger seat.

“It’s a trick of the light,” said the young man, hopefulness in his voice.

The boy kept staring through the window, and slowly all sounds faded away, and he knew the black thing was a creature, though he couldn’t say what.

Although the boy couldn’t see its head – if it had a head – he felt like he was somehow staring into its soul. It was like a silent understanding of something the boy was too young to articulate.

The car lurched forward, and the boy twisted in his seat, straining to see the creature as they left it behind, but his uncle gently pushed him back down.

 “I don’t remember this building being here,” said one of the women listening to the story.

The young banker, still in a trance, turned to the window where she was pointing.

A tall, black pillar was standing near the window of the restaurant. It had no windows and didn’t seem to be made of metal.

For a moment, the banker thought it was part of his story. But as the diner’s chatter and lounge music crept back into his senses, he realized what was happening and his eyes widened.

Something crashed into the restaurant’s ceiling, and chunks of plaster and pieces of chandeliers came down on the restaurant.

Then icy rain came in, immediately forming huge puddles on the floor. Tables were overturned by the wind, and food went flying. In a panic, diners ran into the hallway.

It took the story’s listeners a couple of seconds to snap back to reality and stumble out of the car.

But the young banker took cover in the bar and lingered behind. He tried to see what had crashed into the restaurant, but there was nothing. He could only see the tall black creature, disappearing into the rainclouds.

“What are you?” the young man shouted.

As soon as he said it, he realized he knew. He had no words for this knowledge, could not form a picture of it, but he knew. And it had somehow emerged during this dinner, on a similarly rainy evening as the car ride years ago.

Wanting to return to reality, the banker sprinted out of the restaurant.

All the elevators were occupied taking other diners downstairs. It was more than 40 stories to the ground, making even those not afraid of heights desperate to get off the roof.

 When the poor young man got to the foyer, the other diners, their hair wild and clothes soaked through, were phoning their chauffeurs to bring their cars around. Staff were handing out towels and bathrobes.

The young banker joined the other people he had been eating with, who all looked at him strangely.

“What was the point of that story anyway?” one of his listeners, an old and grumpy man, demanded.

“I’m sorry,” said the young banker. “I was going to talk about the magic show we were going to see. I guess I got … carried away.”

The others began to discuss whose story had been the best, and the young banker stepped out the front door, wringing out his wet jacket.

“It’s like he put a spell on us,” he heard another of the women say.

The young banker was still deep in thought, and when his friends came to tell him that he had earned the “privilege” of paying for them all, he barely reacted.

He could feel something unfurling in his chest, something long-dormant that had been awoken. He bore an untold story inside him, and the more times he told it, the more the knowledge he had held for so long would make sense.

Inspired by this prompt by @love-me-a-good-prompt​

[blaacknoir]

Angel Type: Pillar

There are angels among us.

Here is one, rising above the flatlands with its comrades. It is a Pillar, and it works tirelessly alongside others like it to support its Messenger kin. It is an ungainly creature, tall and skeletal, and each of its three wings is the length of its body. Like the others, it is tethered in place by the Custodians, a specialized branch of the Messenger priests. Unlike its Guardian cousins, the Pillar is blind. Were the Custodians not there to guide it, it would destroy its surroundings, its followers, and its own kind if left to roam free. Even the simple act of swiveling their great heads together, driven as one by a Holy force they cannot see, would be enough to cause devastation.

The Custodians speak to the townsfolk on behalf of the Angels: Do not be afraid. They are strange, unlike us, but they are gentle and kind; they only wish to help. The townsfolk nod and accept this, and begin to worship the Pillars as well.

The townsfolk look upon the Guardians and their servants and say: The Angels chose our land because it is safe. Our angels speak softly, and do not stare angrily with a single Eye. We are not driven to deafness and blindness and madness by their Holiness. The townsfolk look upon the Messengers and their priests and say: Our Angels are gentle, and their Voice is quiet. Our Angels do not speak with a constant droning sound, and will not kill you with a touch. They proudly proclaim: When our Angels die, their bodies become a haven for the children of our town.

And the Angels rise above the plains and the mist, and beat their wings against the sun, and whisper in their True Voices. The townsfolk speak of headaches and of sleeplessness. They do not realize that the Angels brought these things. They say: Our angels are safe. They would not harm us.

They do not know that last year, a Custodian was thrown from atop an injured Pillar while he was attending to its damaged wing. They did not stand there, helpless, knowing that all they could do was watch him fall. They did not see the Pillar who, stupid with fear and pain, smote a Custodian who had tended to it for over a decade. They did not see her arm, flesh seared away by its untempered Glory. The Custodians quietly mourn their siblings and return to their duties the next day.

They speak the townsfolk: Our angels are kind; they only wish to help. The townsfolk speak to others: Our angels are safe; they would not hurt us.

And the Angels rise above the mists and the plains, and whisper in their True Voices, and beat their wings against the sun.

[indynerdgirl]

The Vatican finance trial was marked last week by two very different days of testimony. One centered on fiscal data about Vatican investment projects, and the other was more like the stuff of soap operas – testimony focused on personality conflicts, conspiracy theories, and an emotional statement from Cardinal Angelo Becciu, who stood in the courtroom to accuse a witness of pursuing a vendetta against him. While the court considered the ins-and-outs of complicated financial agreements which cost the Holy See hundreds of millions of euros, it also heard a series of often-outlandish accusations leveled between some of the figures involved in the trial. In short, hearings on Jan. 12 and 13 were two very different days in the courtroom. And The Pillar knows that some readers prefer the facts about the money, while others want a Bravo-style showdown – Watch what happens! So we've decided to let you choose your own Vatican trial coverage. Whether you chose the high drama of Friday, or the financial testimony from Thursday – or even both – the Vatican financial trial remains ongoing.

[poppystheories]

So, are the stigmata, like, the Pillar burned into their flesh? That's pretty cool.

Honestly, this whole scene hits way harder following the reveal of the Pillar. You can clearly tell that's what Skin's seeing in this moment: the Pillar scorching the sky of their previous world, seemingly burning away all life with it.

Skin's transformation into a Noah is also marked with the black crescent moon, which pretty much confirms to me that it symbolizes evolution through despair.

The Noah awakening is very intriguing. Its fair to assume the panel of the devil skeleton skin pile thing is symbolic, not an actual depiction of what happened in the Noah's memory, but what it actually represents...is it just meant to be a scary image, or does the writhing mass of flesh and scales collapsing out of (or into?) the darkness of a skeletal figure actually hint at anything? I've got nothing right now.

The Earl is also brought to tears by the "truth", or rather the memory of the previous world and what happened to it. I don't think its even been established whether the Millennium Earl mentioned in the prophecy to have been "defeated" and the Millennium Earl that became Mana and Nea were the same entity, just that the Millennium Earl has existed for the 7,000 years since this new world's establishment. I think they must have been separate entities, and the Earl we know only became so after the previous' defeat. Possibly as some kind of punishment/atonement.

All the Noah experience extreme fury at the thought of the Pillar, it seems, but considering how deep that grudge burns, its no surprise the Wrath of Noah is so overwhelming a Memory.

What is surprising is that Kanda was actually able to kill Skin, honestly. It seems the strength of the memory doesn't translate to strength in combat?

[jurakan]

This week, the international legal team for Jimmy Lai — the jailed newspaper publisher, pro-democracy campaigner, and devout Catholic — filed an urgent appeal with the UN’s Special Rapporteur on torture.  For those who need a refresher on the man and what he has been through, he was one of seven pro-democracy advocates arrested, convicted, and then cleared of organizing a demonstration following the 2019 bid by the Hong Kong government to pass legislation that would have allowed political detainees to be deported to mainland China to face trial. When his conviction was voided last year, he stayed in jail though.  Now he’s on trial for alleged national security crimes — “conspiracy to produce seditious publications and to collude with foreign powers.” Basically, he’s accused of publishing a newspaper which rightly called out the crackdown on basic civil liberties in Hong Kong for what it is — “the death knell” of the rule of law. Lai has been in jail since December of 2020, and the 76-year old is losing weight and visibly deteriorating.  For all of that time he has been in solitary confinement, often in his cell for 23 hours and 10 minutes a day.  He does not see the sun on a regular basis. He is diabetic, but denied access to specialist medical care. The place where he is being held has a long and established track record of subjecting prisoners in solitary confinement to bright 24-hour lighting, and extreme temperatures. If he is convicted following his current trial (just the most recent of several vexatious prosecutions against him over recent years) he faces life in prison. Lai’s UK based lawyers argue his conditions amount to torture, and they seem to me to have a self-evident case.  I would add to the list that the reason he has an international legal team at all is because the Hong Kong government has blocked him from appointing his own preferred (and very qualified) lawyer to act in his defense there. I would further add that he has repeatedly cited his Catholic faith as the force sustaining him during his imprisonment — which he has called the “pinnacle of his life” — and has been living his solitary confinement as a kind of monasticism.  Yet, I’ve been told by people close to his situation, as part of his jailing, while he has been allowed to receive occasional visits from priests, they have been banned from bringing him Communion — an act of pure vindictiveness by his jailers. Indeed, from what I have been told, he has been held without access to the sacrament at least since his most recent trial began last December. So, in Jimmy Lai, we have a journalist who has been jailed for advocating for democratic freedoms (enshrined in Hong Kong’s own law), denied legal due process, access to needed medical care, and even to the sacraments of his Catholic faith. His is, at this point, a one-man human rights abuse bingo card.  We will, of course, continue to report on his trial as it progresses, though I’m under no illusions that international pressure or appeals to the UN are likely to secure his release, or even his transition to a more humane regime of imprisonment, any time soon.  But it is important that his witness is marked, his suffering recorded, and his name remembered. Both for his own sake, and for the sake of all those being slowly ground under the wheel in Hong Kong, we cannot forget Jimmy Lai.

-Ed Condon, The Pillar, "Goldenmouth, remember his name, and no winning"

[kedreeva]

Following the author of The Last Unicorn on Facebook is the only thing that makes being on that site worthwhile.

(source)

[tonreihe]

How wonderful!

[savaralyn2]

Ryoko Kui - RPG Elves