#aid of the tempest

[annemarieyeretzian]

orym running, skipping over mister, tumbling and rolling under fearne’s legs, holding his shield up and shoving fearne backward, shouting “you’re a little close, fearne! find a safe spot!” (bonus: fearne shouting “teamwork!”) 🥹

[deprecious]

Pate is the star of episode 66

[myntti]

Aid of the Tempest | Critical Role | Campaign 3, Episode 66

[doyourequirefirstaid]

+

[kpop-bbg]

[somacruising]

The room Van had given Sync was on the outskirts of Daath. It was a small room and not well-lit inside, little more than a shed.

Until now, Sync had thought this was fine for keeping out of sight and out of mind. But he couldn’t help thinking about the new Ion’s room that he’d seen that day. Despite the fact that it was a temporary room, there were no cheap items in it that would bring down the dignity of the space. The clothes and hair ornaments must have been custom-made, of course.

“Damn it!” Sync threw the pillow on his hard bed against the wall.

‘What's so different between us? I'm the fifth, he's the seventh... I was born first! Why didn't they choose me?!’

He felt he was becoming mad with jealousy. He hit the bed's wooden frame, kicked the chair, and, lastly, flung off his mask. Trembling with rage, he traced the outline of his face with his fingers.

'We have... the same face... If you don't need me, don't keep me alive!'

As his fingers slid on his cheeks, he couldn’t resist thinking about what he saw in the chapel.

'Arietta protects the Fon Master, and is protected by her monsters...'

Sync believed that people spent their lives creating bonds with others by protecting them and being protected in return.

‘I have no one to protect, and no one will ever protect me. I don't have any bond with anyone.’

He was just alive, completely excluded from this circle called the world. No one truly needed him. He had no place to call his own.

Sync couldn't forgive the ones who created him. They may blame it on the Score, but it is humans who rely on the Score the most.

‘I want revenge, but on whom!?’

Sync cursed his foolish existence, that held no hope for a future, and wept.

—Shiro no Ashita, Volume 2

[twinklestarss]

“I've been struggling with the blood in my eye for a few weeks now. I've never been so fucking angry. But it doesn't matter because it's still what needs to be done. Let my friends prove themselves to you in this. Let me prove myself to you in any way that you need. You've always told me that we're stronger if we stand together. Always.”-Orym/Keyleth

Campaign 3 Episode 66: Aid of the Tempest

Bonus:

[maybe-moonchild]

TEMPEST

°｡⋆˚🕷˚⋆｡⋆｡

Peter Parker and your friendship began with a 'SOLD' sign, a skateboard, and bloody knees.

Somewhere along the way, it turned into painful small talk, avoiding each others gaze, and enough distance that the proximity rivaled being across the universe.

And it ended with a broken arm, too much rain, and a gun to your head.

For days his apartment smells like your shampoo.

And for several nights, Peter can't fall back asleep.

In his dreams, your always there. Eight and in pigtails when you moved in across the street. Twelve and putting Band-Aids on his skinned knees after he falls off his skateboard. Seventeen and tasting like strawberry vodka outside of Flash's party.

Twenty three and in a headlock with the barrel digging into your temple , eyes wide and full of fear.

It takes until it pours again for him to have the courage to climb out his window and brace the rain on the way to your apartment.

CHAPTER 1

2004 - 2009

CHAPTER 2

9/27/2011

CHAPTER 3

11/9/2012

CHAPTER 4

5/29/2014

CHAPTER 5

11/25/2018

CHAPTER 6

CAST:

Peter Parker

Wilson Fisk

Katie Douglas

Ned Leeds

Flash Thompson

[cherriecove]

Cregan Stark x Targ!Reader (Part 3)

Summary: As Rhaeynera Targaryen’s only daughter you always knew that your hand would be given to whomever aided your mother and her cause. It was something that you accepted but naturally you always dreaded the day your mother would send you to your future husband, fearing whoever it would be to be cruel and old. Fortunately your worries were unfounded as your twin brother Jacaerys suggests a potential union with the Lord of the North. Cherrie's note: Use of she/her and mention of Lucerys death Masterlist | Previous Part |

As you returned to the hall, a quiet understanding lingered between you and Cregan. The warmth of the North’s hospitality was beginning to feel familiar, but there was a solemnity in the air, knowing that peace would be fleeting. The tension between your mother’s claim and Aegon’s usurpation of the throne loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon.

Later that day, as you and Jace prepared to show Cregan and his sister Sara what it’s like to ride dragons, a raven arrived with grim news—Lucerys had been slain at Storm’s End. The message was a cruel blow, draining the warmth from the day. Jace froze as he read the letter, his hands trembling. His eyes, dark with fury and grief, met yours, and in that moment, you felt the overwhelming weight of the war pressing down on both of you.

Grabbing the letter from your brother’s hands, you quickly read its contents. Lucerys, your younger brother, was gone.

"No..." Jace’s voice was barely a whisper at first, then broke into a snarl of raw anger. "Aemond did this. That wretched—" His words turned into a snarl, his hands curling into fists. You reached out, placing a hand on his arm, your own heart heavy with sorrow.

"Jace..." Your voice was soft but firm, trying to pull him back from the edge. "We need to be strong now. For the boys. For mother."

But Jace couldn’t contain his rage. He turned away, pacing the room with wild, furious steps. “He will pay. I swear by the gods, Aemond will pay with his life!”

Cregan, watching from the side, approached cautiously. His usual calm was now replaced with a hard resolve. “I grieve with you,” he said steadily. “This is a grave offense, a violation of all honor.”

Jace nodded, doing his best to remain composed in front of company. “We leave for Dragonstone,” he announced, his voice sharp with decision. “Our mother will know how to respond. And when she calls for war, we will not hold back.”

You nodded, though your heart ached with the knowledge of what was to come. Lucerys had been kind and innocent, and his death seemed senseless in the brutal game of thrones. The thought of your mother learning this news, already weighed down by grief, felt unbearable.

Cregan stepped closer to you, his expression serious but his voice gentle. “Princess Y/n, if you wish to remain here for your safety, you are welcome. I understand if—”

You interrupted, shaking your head. “I must return to Dragonstone with Jace. Our mother will need us both.”

Cregan’s eyes searched yours for a moment, and in that brief silence, there was an unspoken bond—a promise of support that went beyond politics. He nodded solemnly. “Then the North will stand with you. Whatever aid you need, Winterfell will be ready.”

Before long, you and Jace mounted your dragons. Vermax was restless, sensing the turmoil within Jace, while Mithrax remained steady, her presence a comfort amid the storm of emotions swirling around you. As you took to the skies, Winterfell’s snow-covered landscape faded into the distance.

The flight back to Dragonstone was fraught with silence, your thoughts consumed by what awaited you. The winds howled around you, reflecting the tempest inside your heart. When you landed on the blackened shores of Dragonstone, the weight of the news you carried settled heavily upon you. The castle loomed ahead, its towers dark and foreboding against the stormy skies.

Jace dismounted first, his face a mask of determination as he strode towards your mother’s chambers. You followed close behind, your heart pounding with dread. Inside, your mother was seated before the fire, but as you and Jace entered, her eyes turned toward you, and her face softened.

“Mother,” Jace began, his voice tight, “is it true?” His words hung heavily in the air.

Rhaenyra’s breath hitched, and for a moment, her grief was overshadowed by the sight of her children before her. She swiftly came to you both, her eyes glazing with unshed tears as she pulled you into a tight hug. "No..." he whispered, her voice breaking. "Not Luke. It's all my fault."

You shook your head at Jace’s words. “We share this blame, Jace. It is not all on you.”

Your mother stroked both of your faces, frowning at the tears streaming down your cheeks. “No, my sweets, it was not your fault.”

The three of you stood holding each other as you cried for your loss. Your heart felt heavy with the knowledge that there was no turning back now. The drums of war had begun to beat, and soon the realm would be consumed by fire and blood.

The air in Dragonstone crackled with tension and purpose as preparations for war escalated. Soldiers trained relentlessly, and ravens flew in every direction to gather allies. Yet amidst the looming conflict, one piece of business could not be ignored—your impending union with Lord Cregan Stark. After the devastating news of Lucerys’ death, celebrating anything felt out of place, but alliances were forged in both battle and marriage, and the bond between the Targaryens and Starks was crucial.

Queen Rhaenyra, though consumed with grief, recognized the importance of the wedding. It would solidify the North’s loyalty, and Cregan Stark was already proving to be a valuable ally. One afternoon, you and Jace were summoned to the hall. Your mother sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by councilors and key advisors. Cregan was there as well, standing tall and resolute, his northern attire a stark contrast to the more elaborate garb of the Dragonstone court.

“My children,” Rhaenyra began, her voice steady but marked by the strain of recent events, “we must continue planning for the war, but we cannot neglect the importance of this marriage. The alliance with Winterfell strengthens our position, and Lord Stark has been gracious enough to expedite the preparations despite the tumultuous times.”

You exchanged a glance with Jace, who gave you a small nod of encouragement. It wasn’t lost on you that your marriage to Cregan was not just a personal matter but a political necessity. Still, as you looked at Cregan, standing steadfast and serious, you felt that this union was more than a mere contract between houses.

“I understand, Mother,” you replied, your voice measured. “Lord Stark and I are prepared to proceed as soon as arrangements are made.”

Cregan’s voice cut through the room with a deep, respectful tone. “I know the timing is difficult, Your Grace, but I assure you that the North stands ready to honor this alliance and to aid in the coming war. The wedding will only solidify our loyalty to your cause.”

Rhaenyra regarded him with a measured look. Despite her loss, she remained sharp and resolute. “You’ve proven yourself a true ally, Lord Stark. Your father’s oath is strong, but your personal commitment has only strengthened it.”

Cregan nodded, his grey eyes meeting the queen’s. “The North does not forget its oaths, Your Grace. We will fight alongside you.”

The queen turned to her council. “We will organize the wedding as swiftly as possible. Winterfell must see their lord married before the battle begins, and our enemies must witness the unity between the North and the Targaryens.”

The decision to hold the wedding in Winterfell surprised many. Dragonstone had seemed the obvious choice, closer to the center of conflict, but Cregan insisted that the North needed to see the union firsthand, to feel the strength of their lord’s bond with House Targaryen. Rhaenyra agreed, though it meant sending you away, far from Dragonstone, just as the war was brewing.

Preparations for the journey north began at once. You had expected a grand procession, but the looming war meant the wedding would be swift and without the usual fanfare. A small retinue traveled ahead of you and Jace to Winterfell, alongside Cregan, who had gone ahead to prepare for the wedding. Meanwhile, your mother and the rest of her forces remained focused on preparing for the battles to come.

Winterfell loomed on the horizon, its towering grey walls shrouded in mist and snow. The journey had been long, but the sight of the Stark stronghold filled you with a strange sense of anticipation. This was the heart of the North, the seat of the man who would be your husband. As you entered the gates, the people of Winterfell gathered to greet their lord’s bride. There were no extravagant festivities—just the solemn acknowledgment of the importance of this union.

The cold winds bit at your skin as you dismounted, but the warmth of the great hall beckoned. Cregan was waiting inside, standing beside his sister, Lady Sara Snow, who had taken on the task of preparing Winterfell for the arrival of her brother’s bride. The hall was austere but grand in its simplicity, the smell of burning wood and pine filling the air.

When you saw Cregan, his eyes met yours with that same steady intensity you had come to rely on. There was no need for words—his presence was enough to reassure you. He approached, his fur-lined cloak brushing the stone floor, and took your hand.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Princess,” Cregan said, his voice a deep rumble that echoed in the hall.

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” you replied, your voice softer but no less certain.

The wedding was held in the Godswood, beneath the ancient weirwood tree, its red leaves stark against the snow-covered ground. The ceremony was simple, as was the northern way, but powerful in its meaning. You and Cregan exchanged vows before the old gods, your hands bound together with a strip of cloth as a symbol of your union. The cold air bit at your skin, but the warmth of Cregan’s hand in yours kept you steady. This was not the grand spectacle expected in King’s Landing or Dragonstone, but it felt right, grounded in the traditions of the North.

As you spoke your vows, you felt the weight of the moment—not just the personal bond you were forging with Cregan, but the political alliance this marriage represented. The North and House Targaryen were now bound by blood and honor.

After the ceremony, you returned to the great hall for a modest feast. The lords of the North, gathered for the wedding, spoke of war and loyalty. Cregan, ever the leader, reassured them of his commitment to Queen Rhaenyra’s cause.

“The North will not forget its promises,” Cregan said, raising his cup. “We stand with the true queen, and with the strength of our alliance, we will see her seated upon the Iron Throne.”

The men cheered, their voices echoing through the stone walls of Winterfell. You felt a surge of pride as you looked at your husband, now bound to you in both marriage and war.

Later, as the fires burned low and the hall emptied, you stood with Cregan by one of the tall windows, gazing out at the snow-covered courtyard.

“The North is ready,” Cregan said quietly, his breath visible in the cold air. “When the time comes, we will march south.”

“And I will be by your side,” you replied firmly, meeting his gaze.

Cregan’s hand tightened around yours, but he shook his head. “I need you to remain here.”

You scoffed and pulled your hand away, narrowing your eyes at him. “No, I will do no such thing.”

His voice softened as he reached for you again. “Princess, please—”

“I’ve been married to you for less than a day, and you’re already trying to order me around?” You glared at him, your voice sharp. “I am fire and blood. I have a dragon. I will help my mother defend her birthright.”

Cregan sighed, his expression conflicted, but after a pause, he nodded. He spoke carefully, choosing his words. “I do not mean to control you. I know you are capable, fierce, and brave. I only wish to protect you. As long as you allow me by your side, to fulfill my duty as your husband, then I will be content.”

Your face softened at his words. After a moment, you leaned in and kissed his cheek gently. “Very well, my lord. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Cregan’s relief was palpable as he pulled you into a warm embrace. Together, you would face the war ahead, united in fire and blood.

[muneca-lemon-steppa]

Stormy Weather

Alfie Solomons x F!Reader; angst/comfort/fluff

Trigger Warnings: major domestic issues, trauma response, things are resolved but hard, language

A/N: Hey my loves! So this one is… pretty hard core for me? I rarely write angst but this one has been on my mind for a bit. This does get pretty aggressive but I needed to process my own experiences with DV and relationship issues. This story isn’t meant to glorify or make light of DV, but rather it’s a way for me to process my fears about my future relationships after my bad one. I hope this made sense, and maybe someone could find some catharsis in this like I did. Love you all to bits and pieces, I’m trying to get to my inbox!! As always, feel free to send me prompts or requests. Love you all 💕- Mo

It had been tense recently in the Solomons house. The new men in the bakery were just above incompetent despite Shelby assurance. American prohibition put another twist in the binds. And the recent weather had done nothing to aid Alfie’s sciatica. Through no fault of your own, and despite your best efforts, Alfie was knee deep in angry old man territory.

Though that wasn’t something that put you off. Women are not so easily turned by nasty weather, for better or worse.

You weren’t naive to the tempest of your husband. The beauty of his heart and his mind had to paid for by torrential rains once a season. His roar never came to your quiet garden, though you were acquainted with his rumbles and thunder. But you knew how to temper it. You knew what brought him through it into the clear.

You hummed to the radio in the corner, settling your finishing touches to a soothing evening with your beast of a husband. Brisket was just pulled out, with carrots and potatoes buttery and tender. You had washed the sheets and blankets, pressed them with dried lavender and eucalyptus oil. Lamps were turned low, and the fire was a soothing crackle, the entire parlor a syrup sweet orange glow. Water was hot for a bath for two, and everything was set for a soft warm evening.

As you pour out your first glass of wine, you hear the front oak door swing open, and slam shut shaking the walls. Light on your feet you flew to the front, opening your arms as a harbor. “Alfie darling, get your coat off, I have dinner and wine all set for your already! Let’s get you warm!”

His eyes don’t even meet yours as he evades your soft arms.

You feel as though your body wilts. Completely crumbling under the weight of the dejection.

But maybe he didn’t see you! Maybe he just didn’t realize!! He works hard he probably just has to attend to something quickly.

Your bare feet flex against the frigid wood stairs, creaking under the weight of your trek. Your ears perked up to the rustling of the papers and slamming of drawers and rumble of his voice. Like a dragon arranging his lair.

You crack the heavy door, requiring all of your weight. Paper and ink were thrown around, drawers yanked crooked, and you see him take long swigs of the amber liquid in the crystal decanter. “Alfie? Darling you alright? Did something happen”

He does not even toss a glance, “nothing that concerns you. Close the door one your way out.”

The rolling thunder edges closer to the home, “Aren’t you going to come down and eat? I’ve made your favorite tonight.”

“Does it look like I care about dinner? I’m preoccupied at the moment and don’t need your yowling right now.”

A bright flash illuminates the room.

“Alfie I don’t know what’s wrong but you will not speak to me like this.”

“I’ll fucking speak to you how I fucking feel like! Now get the fuck out!”

The sky explodes. Shaking the paintings and photos on the walls. The mirror above the fireplace behind you shifts precariously. Your eyes shut but the sounds wash over you.

You don’t let the anger out of your chest very often. You pride yourself on keeping an even temper and offering a gentle hand in place of the rage. Especially when being with Alfie, your honeyed lips and temperament is what makes you the queen of Camden. There’s been so few people who have seen your rage, much less deserved to receive it.

“Get the fuck out you said?”

A slight chill runs down Alfie’s spine. “Yeah. Yeah I said get the fuck out. You deaf now?”

Another flash.

“Ok.”

Alfie hardly blinks before he suddenly sees glass hurdling towards his face. He just barely ducks before it shatters against the wall behind him.

“What the fuck!” He roars and thrashes.

To his shock, you pick up the glasses on his bar cart, throwing them with all your might at his head, one by one, with deadly aim.

“Get the fuck out eh Alfie! Get the fuck out!! I’ll get the fuck out! Maybe I’ll take you fucking with me!”

You make your way to the Faberge eggs on the shelf.

“Don’t you fucking dare sweetheart! There will be hell to pay if you touch those fucking eggs!”

“Oh we are well past that Alfie. You tell me to get the fuck out? I’m taking your fucking stuff!”

Three perfectly beautiful eggs are slammed against the fire with your husband roaring and punching the wall, “Enough damnit! Get the fuck out of my office! Get to the fucking room you fucking lunatic! I’ll lock you in the bedroom if you keep this up!”

“Oh I’d like to see you try! You call yourself a man! King of Camden! King of Camden so upset he curses out his woman! So mighty yet he can’t take care of his own home! You’re a fucking CHILD! A fraud!”

You grab at a cabinet and pull it down, slamming against the ground. The glass shattered. The tin type of your wedding surely shattered in the frame. In the moment of silence after the shatter, you don’t realize Alfie coming up behind you and lifting you in the air.

You scream and kick, trying to get away and out of his grasp. But he was immovable. A wall. All you hear was his grunts as you howled and cried. He wrenches the bedroom door open, throwing you onto your marriage bed. You scramble up the bed, reaching for the knife under your pillow.

Heaving breaths, Alfie puts his hands in surrender, “Treacle treacle please. Enough ok. No need to stick me. Let’s.. let’s talk.”

“You’ve already said anything you need to. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say you fucking-“

“Darling I was wrong. Ok. I shouldn’t have swore at you. Come on. Just… put it down. Let’s… let’s talk about this ok? Truce?”

You push the hair out of your eyes, wipe the tears off your face and put the knife on the night stand, far enough from either of you.

Alfie has never raised a hand towards you ever. He’d rather put the gun on himself than touch you. But old habits die hard.

You pull your feet under your night gown. Watching Alfie pull off his coat and shoes before sitting on the bed. The ancient frame creaking under his weight.

He reaches for your hand, but retracts when he sees your dark stare toward it. With a sigh he relents and decides to begin. It’s never good to be the starter of negotiations. “Darling. I am sorry for shouting at you. It wasn’t fair to you. The business doll… it does my head in. But. It doesn’t excuse shouting at you. Can you forgive me?”

You feel the heaviness slowly slipping away from your neck. You nod meekly, allowing your fingers to drift to his, weaving around his warm fingers.

Brushing the inside of your wrist, he continues, “Now darling. While I was in the wrong, you don’t normally start throwing shit around. Very unlike you it is. You want to explain what caused that? What’s going on in that pretty head?”

You shake your head no. It’s sitting on your tongue though it’s so bitter. You can’t bring yourself to spit out the poison.

“Oh come on darling. It’s just me. Nothing can put me off. You and me forever right?”

You nod, and reveal your feelings, even if it’s a slow trickle.

“I just… got so angry at you Alfie. I’ve been so lonely these past few months. You’ve been gone. Any time you say you’ll be home you’re not. I’m without you all the time. And when you are here, you’re not really. Your mind is still gone and I don’t have my husband. Just his body. And his words hurt me so much. And I thought, I thought tonight I could finally get you. I thought if I tried hard enough you would be happy and with me. Like we were. And then when I tried to help you and be your wife, you screamed at me. And it hurt me. So I wanted to hurt you and break things to make myself feel better. But it didn’t. It made me more angry and sad and…”

Your words were reduced to tears as your husband pulled you into his lap. Your tears soaked his neck and shirt, “Oh God Alfie I’m so sorry! That was wrong and I’m sorry! Alfie was please forgive me! I’ll never disturb you again! I’ll never throw anything ever again! Oh God Alfie can you forgive me!”

A gentle kiss to your forehead settles your fears, “Now my darling you know in your heart of hearts that we are bound for eternity. Nothing is taking us apart. Not even when we fight like demons. I’m yours and you’re mine. You and me… well we just need a little medicine yeah? Just need some help right now. You and me need to do a better job talking to each other and listening yeah?”

You can barely get words out as you nod. Cheeks hot and sticky. But it doesn’t stop Alfie from kissing your cheeks so tenderly. “My dove. My sweet dove. The business has been out of control but it’s finally settling down. I came home angry because of all the messes I’ve had to clean up. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on the one person I like. The one person I love. But it’s finally settled my pet.”

His thick hands tenderly touch your chin to bring your eyes to his, which are also wet with tears, “I promise to always tell you when I’m not doing ok. And if I can’t tell you then, I’ll make sure to tell you when I need a moment. You think you can promise your old man the same?”

“Yes… I promise.” You whisper

There is a slight twinkle that flies across his eyes, “Think you can seal it with a kiss?”

You throw yourself against him, and he catches you with a grunt. You hated to fight. You’d sooner walk into the ocean than be at odds with the love of your life. When you finally come up for air, Alfie whispers against your lips, “I’m staying home for the rest of the week. I’ll tell Ollie what he needs to do in the morning.”

Without moving a millimeter you say, “No you can’t darling. It’s your life I don’t want you to have to stay home if you can’t.”

“You’re my life treacle. Forever and all eternity you’re what matters. I’ve decided. I’m staying home. And come Saturday we go up to Margate.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that you’re the only woman for me.”

He kisses you sweetly, and you whimper as you let yourself be further embraced by him. Barely moving from your lips he whispers, “Why don’t you start a bath darling? I’ll grab tea from downstairs and join you soon.”

“I made dinner… it’s on the stove for you.”

“I’ll bring a plate for us. You just… get comfortable for me treacle. I think we need some time.”

For the rest of the night… and the rest of the week. You spent time talking and embracing, coming back together and healing what had been fraying at the edge. Though mistakes were made, and there were deep wrongs, you both wanted to fix it, to heal.

Neither of you were perfect. You never would be. But there was love there, and determination to get through the wounds that lead to these kinds of mistakes. These moments were not ok, and they stemmed from deep seated traumas that were undealt with. But you both wanted this marriage. You both wanted each other. And you both would work everyday to make it work.

With every word.

With every caress.

With every kiss.

Things would heal.

[annemarieyeretzian]

something something ashton with chronic pain watching keyleth in constant pain with injuries that won’t heal talking about anger and being angry and using anger something something

[gorgynei]

aid of the tempest.... (c3e66 thumbnail redraw)

[uwmspeccoll]

Shakespeare Weekend

Volume Two of The Pictorial Edition of the Works of Shakspere edited and published by Charles Knight (1797-1873) contains the remaining six comedies All’s Well That Ends Well, Much Ado About Nothing, Twelfth Night; or What You Will, As You Like It, Measure for Measure, A Winter’s Tale, and Tempest. Knight includes introductory notices prior to the start of each play throughout the collection to determine “the state of the text.” The notices provide brief overviews of the play draped with an editorial point of view, deliver a critical analysis of the “supposed source of the plot," and address character costumes.  

The notices are as heavily illustrated as the plays, and unique to Volume Two is an advertisement defending the editorial choices of how and which illustrations are chosen for inclusion. Knight informs readers that there are no editions of Shakespeare “in which the aid of Art has been called in to give a distinctness to the conceptions of the reader by representing the realities upon which the imagination of the poet must have rested.” He further explains that his pictorial edition will focus on representing the scores of rich scenes and characters without unnecessary embellishments. With one hundred and sixty illustrations in Volume Two alone, it is safe to say his intentions were well met.  

The Pictorial Edition of the Works of Shakspere was originally issued out of London in fifty-six monthly parts before being bound in an eight-volume set in 1839. 

View more Shakespeare Weekend posts. 

-Jenna, Special Collections Graduate Intern 

[white-rabbits-captain]

*A soft knocking can be heard on the door.*

"Agent Jin? I have arrived to aide you with Cynthia."

((@tempest-toss))

[Jin opens the door with Cynthia in her arms.]

Thank you for coming over on such short notice.

[Cynthia looked up at him with wide eyes.]

[girlactionfigure]

Emma Lazarus

Born on 1849 in New York City to a family of Portuguese Sephardic Jewish descent whose roots extended to the very early days of NYC as a British colonial city.

Lazarus was the poet who wrote in 1883 "The New Colossus" - the famous poem that greets new immigrants to America till this day.

“...Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she with silent lips.

"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

With those words, the Statue of Liberty was given life and purpose beyond that of a monument to liberal ideals, becoming a beacon of hope for the refugees seeking freedom from the terror of persecution.

The poem was placed on the Statue of Liberty in 1903 (after her death).

Aside from writing, Lazarus was also involved in charitable work for refugees.

At Ward's Island, she worked as an aide for Jewish immigrants who had been detained by Castle Garden immigration officials.

She was deeply moved by the plight of the Russian Jews she met there and these experiences influenced her writing.

The Jewish themes she had never dealt with before erupted in her work.

Emma Lazarus died November 19, 1887 (aged 38) in New York City, most likely from Hodgkin's lymphoma.

Lazarus was buried in Beth Olam Cemetery in Brooklyn.

Her papers are kept by the American Jewish Historical Society, Center for Jewish History, and her letters are collected at Columbia University.

Jewish History, Jewish Culture & Spirit

[shipperqueen93]

Let me tell you why I'm not worried as much anymore. They made a mistake.

Even if Vax and Keyleth died, BH made it out. Orym made it out. Orym saw the Champion of the Matron of Ravens compressed to save The Voice of the Tempest. And Orym has connections to Whitestone.

The second Vex finds out what happened? VM is all in. Gilmore? In. Kima & Allura? In. Zahra and Kash? In.

Yasha and/or Essek find out about Caleb and Beau? M9 is there. They could possibly even pull the dynasty in over the bastardization of their relics. Could maybe pull in Astrid and Wulf. Ending up at Uthodurn? Hi Reani.

Yussa? Well tbf he probably won't fight but he'll provide aid.

Not counting Vax there are 5 champions of the God's out there that BH have direct, or indirect, access to. The Gods are going to be pissed.

BH are too well connected now. They should have killed them first.

Ludinus fucked up.