#also about the torsten thing

[dhs-in-disguise]

I love my little village. Very close to many beautiful forests and other places in nature. It's so cute.

I only went to the city to watch tfone only for the theater to not have the movie;A;

And the city itself sucked too. 😭😥

The environment itself isn‘t the problem for me either (I mean it is in the sense that the bus drives like 4 times a day and only to places I don‘t need to go and I don‘t have a licence and i cant walk either because we‘re ON THE DAMN MOUNTAIN I AM NOT WALKING ALL OF THAT BACK UP), it‘s the people. They all embody the worst stereotypes of German village people and living here is an absolute nightmare because of how terrible and inconsiderate and annoying they all are. Makes sense though since the shit-gang‘s leader‘s name is Torsten (our family has a,, not so great history with people who are named that).

But yeah all of the surrounding cities are shit too. Detroit doesn‘t seem so bad in comparison,,,

[fractualized]

Alright, I wanna say more about Joker: The World other than flagging misprints (only one I saw, fyi), so here's a little round-up!

🃏 United States: "Epilogue is Prologue" Writer: Geoff Johns Art: Jason Fabok

Of course we kick off with a Three Jokers epilogue like oh my god why are you doing this to me stop trying to make three Jokers happen Johns what did we ever do to you

For a 6-page story, I could bitch a lot about it, but maybe in a separate post. Generally, it got an eyeroll from me because I am out of patience, but if you're into Three Jokers and/or really love Fabok's art, maybe it'll be one of your reasons to pick this book up.

Anyway, onto something new and engaging!

🃏 Spain: "Spring Break" Writer and Artist: David Rubín

Spain features Joker on a little vacation, with the narration being from a postcard he's writing to Batman. He talks about the corruption of this city, and how it makes him homesick, but not for the reason you'd first expect.

I liked this one! Put it in the plus column!

🃏 Germany: "No Jazz" Writer: Torsten Sträter Artist: Ingo Römling

This is my favorite art! Colorful lil Joker managing his big thugs and throwing them out windows. I had a hard time picking one panel. But besides that, it has a fun story that credits Joker for the conditions at Wacken Open Air, a heavy metal music festival, in 2023. The music is not to his taste. :(

Another plus!

🃏 Italy: "Strategy of Tension" Writer: Enrico Brizzi Artist: Paolo Bacilieri

This one is similar to the Spain story in that we have Joker on a vacation of sorts in Bologna, where he teaches a class on storytelling. His students protest against the government, and after one bloody day, Joker decides the authorities deserve "the fruits of their madness."

More on the philosophical end, had me pondering, another good one.

🃏 Brazil: "City of the Mad, Cemetery of the Living" Writer: Felipe Castilho Artist: Tainan Rocha

Arkham Asylum is franchising, and to prove they can handle the inmates, "Colônia Arkham" in Santana da Mantiqueira is accepting a transfer of the Joker. While there is sentiment against the facility, comparing it to the horrors of Hospital Colônia de Barbacena, there are also crowds outside the new facility to welcome Joker. Joker is basking in his fandom until his barber relates how the old Colônia manufactured madness instead of resolving it.

This is the third story with Joker contemplating horrors and corruption outside himself, and it's refreshing against all the stories where he personally is The Worst Thing Ever. Thumbs up.

🃏 Mexico: "The Wrestler" Writer: Alvaro Fong Varela Artist: Oscar Pinto

In Mexico, we're dropped in the middle of a festival, but the story revolves more around Joker's beef with a local wrestler, Ocelotl. Ocelotl was unable to complete a job for Joker, it seems, and Joker is offended that he sent his son to report the failure instead of appearing himself. And you know things end badly when you've irked Joker.

I'm kind of neutral on this one. I like the art, but the story is middling and drops in a "lesson" for Ocelotl at the end. The Batman stinger gave me a chuckle, though.

[7] Czech Republic: "Kafka, Beer, Semtex" Writer: Štěpán Kopřiva Artist: Michal Suchánek

This is a contender for my favorite story. Candidates for the Czech Joker (shown above) are interviewed by a panel overseen by the original, and each one explains their philosophy behind their crimes. Joker's choice in the end isn't particularly surprising, but the candidate's stories are fun and the art is dynamic.

Plus column!

🃏 Turkey: "Fool's Bootblack" Writer: Metin Akdülger Artist: Ethem Onur Bilgiç

In Istanbul we go back hundreds of years, when Ezekiel Arkham is among the Europeans visiting the city to take pieces of it back home. Like many westerners, he's been invited to a theater performance that night, and the Jester is encouraging his squad of shoe shiners to polish the shoes of all the patrons. The Mad Bat knows he's up to something and sweeps him away for interrogation.

Another neutral. I like the scheme, and I had to laugh when the Mad Bat's attempt to interrogate without a beating fails fast, but the story feels drawn out and the ending didn't really land for me.

🃏 South Korea: "Copycat" Writer: Inpyo Jeon Artist: Jaekwang Park

The Czech Republic tale introduced others taking on Joker's mantle, but this is the first story where other Jokers are fully center stage for a copycat spree in Busan. (And the original Joker does not make a showing.) Our protagonist is a cop who tries and tries to talk them down, but eventually the copycats become familiar with him, turning him into a target.

I'm on the fence about this one. The art is great, but it treats Jokerism like virus which… eh.

🃏 Argentina: "Funeral" Writer: Matías Timarchi Artist: Germán Peralta

In Buenos Aires, the story is also not about Joker. We follow a boy who grows up as part of his father's hooligan gang. He tries to take his father's position, but he's beaten down and not taken seriously— until he finds inspiration in stories of a homicidal clown in Gotham City.

On the fence about this one too. It's interesting how the protag's story isn't so different than the variations we've seen of Joker getting involved in crime early in life, before the vat, but it also leans into the issue of defining Joker more by outlandishness than by humor. You could see Joker himself remarking on that difference, but the story ends before that opportunity.

🃏 Cameroon: "Black Therapy" Writer: Dr. Ejob Gaius Artist: Bertrand Mbozo'o Zeh

In Cameroon, the protagonist already works as a clown, and he's frustrated by the lack of respect he receive in his community. But he's guided by a book, ominously titled Breaking the Chains of the Mind, into searching for the moment he can claim his salvation.

I had trouble connecting the dots on some details in this one. It's also another "spreading Jokerism" story that leaves me with more questions than the South Korea story. Joker is actually involved in this case, so it's part of a plan and not a virus, but… what is the plan? I don't think any of these stories are slotted for continuation, so it's just a case where it ends and you're like, well OK, I guess those answers are never coming.

🃏 Poland: "The Royal Jester" Writer: Tomasz Kołodziejczak Artist: Jacek Michalski

In Wawel Castle, Joker admires the painting of Stańczyk, from one of those memes you kids like. After the tour guide explains the painting's significance, Joker lingers behind to steal it, but he's foiled by Zawisza, a Black Knight with less patience for the clown than the Dark Knight.

It was nice to dig back into Joker himself as the book nears its close. His reasoning for why he finds the painting so attractive that he traveled to Poland is as lofty as you'd expect for him. There's more scene setting than necessary at the start, but by the end, I really liked this one.

🃏 Japan: "The Unfunny Joke" (Chapter 1 of Joker: One Operation Joker) Writer: Satoshi Miyagawa Artist: Keisuke Gotou

It's disappointing that this anthology closes with a reprint instead of a new story. And I've read all of One Operation Joker! I had a good time! But come oonnnnnn.

That said, look, you got Joker trying to care for Baby Batman. What better silliness and unexpected heartwarmth could you want?

🃏

Unevenness aside, I liked seeing these takes on Joker from writers across the world, whether they were about the character himself or the way his influence may reach far beyond Gotham City. (Except for the Three Jokers thing. Stop it. Stop it.) If you're a Joker fan, I say pick this book up.

And maybe I'll finally read the entirety of Batman: The World now! After I finish going through the Duke Thomas comics. And finally get back to Batman RIP. Ohhh and I still gotta start Knightfall! And

[blondieart]

Yazoo my beloved. <3 Finally got around to doodle him (he was designed for me by my bestie @g0dp4rticl3). Explained over on my personal blog that the remnants are a thing in my story but they're not the remnants at all. As in, they have no direct connection to Seph (Kad is chill around him and is actually a fan of his work). So yeah, the trio live a happy life actually and I'm happy to go into that another day cuz I love talking about these stinky babs. <3 Slight spoiler(?): Jenova is a thing in my story but not in the way you'd expect. I cannot wait to introduce her along the way. Yaz is the local aroace menace who runs a boba tea shop together with Kadaj. He's no stranger to having admirers but politely turns down any advances. His dedication is fully on his little family (Kad would cause nothing but trouble if left on their own devices and Loz is too emotional to remotely care the way Yaz can). How is he still a menace? He may be polite behind the counter of the boba shop but he is silver tongued (no pun intended) and definitely not afraid to get into verbal fights because he WILL talk you into the ground and own the conversation with such a confidence. I imagine him to talk like Torsten Sträter (a fantastic German comedian). Despite his responsibilities he makes sure to have time for his hobby; shooting sport. It grounds him and caring for his gun is pure relaxation time for him at the end of the day. Also, he looooves banora white apple juice. If he ever meets Gen it's prolly the only instance where he loses his cool in the best way lmao.

Part of my personal little story "Sector VII". It's a wholesome slice of life story. Everything is ooc/my own spin on things, etc.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

[Where to find me] Toyhouse | Linktree [Favs + Reblogs appreciated! <3 But please do NOT repost my art/oc's anywhere.]

[thebrideofreanimator]

can u infodump abt conrad veidt i find it fun reading ppl's infodumps abt their sp/ins

ok. welcome to my completely unorganized collection of thoughts about conrad veidt and how he was actually the coolest guy to exist ever

so one of my favorite conrad veidt fun facts is he was carl laemmles first choice to play dracula in the 1931 movie (wayyy before lugosi was even considered) but he ended up turning it down because he wasn’t super good at english at the time and didn’t really want to leave europe again…such a bummer though just think we almost had a bauhaus song about him…

he was in THE best movie ever made (the man who laughs) and he should have won an oscar for that performance as gwynplaine im not kidding.

according to lil dagover conrad veidt would stay in character between scenes while filming caligari and would occasionally scare the other actors and i think that’s so funny it makes me giggle so much

conrad veidt got paid more than everyone else in casablanca despite only being in the movie for like 20 minutes because he was just that cool

i’ve mentioned this so many times but he was in the first pro lgbt film ever !!!!! but also something i don’t see mentioned very often is in 1926 he was in a pro-choice film (kreuzzug des weibes) !!!

ok so another fun thing is that in addition to the movie there’s also a radio version of a woman’s face with bette davis as anna holm and conrad veidt plays torsten once again and let me tell you he puts 110% into that performance if you haven’t listened to it please do it’s on youtube and it’s life changing. also fun fact a woman’s face was his favorite of his sound films

also everyone knows this but i always have to mention how conrad veidt was super openly anti nazi and after fleeing germany with his wife in 1933 he starred in so many anti nazi films and donated his life savings to the british war effort it is so messed up he died before it ended

also. just look at him. absolutely slaying.

in conclusion conrad veidt was the best actor to never win an oscar and basically the coolest guy ever. everytime i learn new trivia about him i gain even more respect for him

[fantasiesandfolklore]

The Phoenix Queen — Relta’s Secret Love Life

CW: Romantic Content, Arranged Marriages, Secret Romances, Consensual/Ethical Polyamory, Mention of Pregnancy, Vague Mentions of Sex/Sensuality, AKA Gasp, Relta is open to shipping in certain situations!

Relta’s interest in romance began at a young age, reading fairy tales and romanticizing about her future co-monarch. However, after her parents’…divorce…she became more jaded toward the concept of romance and marriage.

Relta did, however, consider taking secret lovers upon reaching adulthood by Lunaruzian standards (eighteen years old or older). She was aware of her bisexuality by a young age, and sought out mainly feminine lovers as to avoid a risk of pregnancy.

Note: In Lunaruzian culture, the royal family members have to go through a special ritual in order to “open the womb” to have a possible pregnancy. So Relta’s paranoia was not aligned with Lunaruzian magical protections.

Relta and various ladies-in-waiting of hers were sexually entangled, her using it as a means to keep them loyal until they were married themselves. The women were all aware it was to keep them loyal, and took the offer as it also kept them safe and guaranteed a marriage of love from Relta.

Relta’s first lover, at age 18, was her longest serving lady-in-waiting, a magical woman herself that went by the name Farah. She was the daughter of immigrants to Lunaruz, or so that was her story, and she had powers related to pleasure — similar to Relta. Their relationship lasted until Farah said she had to disappear, as she wasn’t aging and people could becoming suspicious. It hurt Relta, but she understood.

Relta’s first male lover was an ambassador from “a far off land” (resembling Chinese culture), named Keife, who served under Queen Jane of a less far off land as Queen Jane’s daughter had adopted Keife and his younger brother at a young age after their parents were imprisoned. The alliance between Relta’s father and Queen Jane was strong, them having been childhood friends despite Queen Jane’s advanced age even compared to Relta’s father by the time Relta was crowned. They fell for each other, causing Relta to break things off sexually and becoming close friends, but keeping things purely platonic. He also wasn’t of rank to become her official consort, so it couldn’t go anywhere even if Relta wished it to. Relta also kept the alliance between their respective kingdoms strong thanks to befriending Queen Jane and Keife’s entire family when visiting Queen Jane’s kingdom.

Relta also bedded some female knights and guards, with no strings attached or using power dynamics to influence their choice to lay with her intimately. She was insistent upon their equality, despite her being the heir to the throne, as she would never bed someone who felt forced to because of her status.

Relta’s mother once told her, when she was around 13-15 years old, to kill her child if it was a son, to hide him in the countryside to protect him from enemies and potential misogynist who’d wish to put the boy in power over her. She has never done the ritual for pregnancy due to this fear, even if she had fallen in love with her partner and they were capable of impregnating her.

In some verses, Relta does get married, uniting with @ofheroesandscholars’s King James/Jon and the aforementioned Keife. She also took a lover in the goddess, Nyx, who had come to the mortal plane to explore it. She has a child with Jon, Fennel — who she declares her primary heir, and a child with Keife, Torsten — who ends up succeeding her as the next generation’s primary diplomat due to his charisma and charm. King James/Jon remains the king of his kingdom, Relta being his queen consort there, and becomes Relta’s king consort in Lunaruz, being one of her advisors due to his wisdom from being a ruler himself of a rather peaceful kingdom. Aislin, Relta’s younger half-sister, stays in the castle until her own marriage occurs and she becomes a princess twice-over, and eventual Queen of a kingdom resembling our reality’s France. Her children remain in line to the throne, however none of them desire it.

Relta also has an occasional lover in @singeart’s Sapphire, who she loves dearly and Keife does as well. Sapphire serves in the court as an aristocrat of high rank, yet is as active in hobbies such as fencing as Relta is. The two, when not in bed together, fence or compete in archery together when Sapphire visits. Keife also loves Sapphire, but it is more romantic than Relta’s relationship with Sapphire is. When/If not married to Relta, Keife seeks out Lady Sapphire’s hand in marriage.

Relta is open to marriage to another royal of high enough standing (verse dependent), if they are willing to sign papers allowing Relta to be sole monarch of Lunaruz, and they can decide her role in their kingdom. She is open to a monarch of any gender identity, and would adopt to have an heir of her own if they cannot impregnate her or do not wish to.

When Relta is with a lover, she often wishes to be in charge, even if the partner “on the bottom”. She has control “issues�� due to her upbringing.

[afshinxeldar]

closed starter for @witchertorsten location: their lil room uwu note: not so uwu tho

Remorse towards a place where a woman who couldn't shut up came from did not exist. He'd never understand why Torsten went and he'd also never understand why Eldar did either. As much as he didn't care what happened to any place that wasn't Iskaldrik, he had been concerned about both of them. If something had happened to Torsten while he was there, then what? If something had happened to Eldar? Well, he wouldn't be there right now to even be having a conversation with the other part of his soul right now. Afshin never had these conversations when Torsten was around because he already knew how his Kingsguard felt about the elvhen. There was also the fact that he was fully concerned about Eldar's intentions if he didn't keep the guy in check. If that was even possible. Torsten could obviously defend himself though so he wasn't even sure why he was thinking about that right now.

"Can you just fuck off for two seconds? I can't even look in a mirror without you bothering me."

"Bothering you? I'm protecting you, Afshin. You'd do well to remember that. If you don't survive, I don't survive."

"Thank you for your love and care, asshole."

He moved to turn the mirror around so that he couldn't see the reflection anymore. Then he moved towards another one to flip it around. Once all of them were sufficiently not facing him, his hand dragged down his face. It was almost like he could still heard the elvhen in his head, but it was quiet. He preferred quiet right now. Moving to sit down on the bed, he let his head fall into his hands, eyes closing. "This place is a prison." That could've meant a plethora of things, but right now it felt like he was just talking about himself. A damn changeling sharing a soul with someone like Eldar.

[agrcn]

closed starter for @witchertorsten location: aventia note: where's the man standing emoji

A new member of the Warriors' Guild was not rare. However, a new member that was very similar to him in every way was. There was something that connected the two that he hadn't really had with any other people he had mentored in his many years with the guild. Maybe it was the fact that the two of them spent more time with action as opposed to words. The only people Agron had ever actually considered friends were the ones that he could sit in silence with. Well, maybe not always friends actually. He was just civil with them. Nevertheless, he had seen Torsten on the battlefield and he was interested in what the other had to offer now. There was a magical arm on someone such as a witcher and he could imagine how the other had come across it. What he couldn't wrap his head around though was why a witcher would ever even bother to replace any limb lost with something that was magical in nature. In the short moment of quiet in the night, Agron sharpened his sword and looked towards the Kingsguard.

Kingsguard. Another thing that linked them to each other without much thought. Agron also wondered what the other thought of the monarchy as opposed to the patriarchy that he was used to. It interested him on more of a deeper level than what it seemed though. Lysara had never seen such a thing and the next in line was Leander. The last thing he wanted was to fall into a pattern like Iskaldrik did, but what did he have to second-guess Leander about? Nothing at all. And it wasn't like it mattered anyway. The prince would always be just that. A prince. Anyway, he finally decided to speak to Torsten. "You fight well. I'd expect nothing less from a witcher."

[yulgurr]

a random thing i actually want to complete so it can collect dust in my folder afterwards!

so there was that fe heroes oc Astrid and she has 5 brothers (4 older brothers that are quadruplets and 1 younger; 2 of the quadruplets "went missing") and I wanted to doodle all currently present brothers and then never touch them again (I drew 2 of them before once)

and a lore dump

Currently present brothers are:

The oldest of (ex)quadruplets Aster. He's a musician and plays piano. He also can fix string instruments and that's needed for the plot point when Elm shatters Audun's violin. Aster is also Audun's future partner.

The third of the (ex)quadruplets Torsten. Their father is minister of finances and Torsten is to inherit his father's title. He is a sweet guy but his standard face expression is just >:( this. He is closer to Astrid than the other two, but he's not an overprotective type (he may seem like one, but he's not).

And the youngest Brynjar, pegasi actually like him and he'll be a pegasus knight in the future. Pegasi bring him flowers and he always has some in his hair.

Pegasi like Brynjar because he inherited the blood of Geirskögul, which usually manifests in women of their family.

Geirskögul was a valkyrie from Jötunheimr, who came to Askr long long time ago to assist her friend Líf to establish a kingdom, and she liked it there so she brought her beloved pegasi there too and decided to live in Askr. Geirskögul was a jotun and her pegasi were also big and strong, and with time they became popular among rich people of Askr, and that's how the pegasi knights training grounds were established. Geirskögul and her children would teach the pegasi knights, and a few generations later, long after Geirskögul's death, her children would raise and sell the pegasi.

With time, Geirskögul's descendants lost their jotun power and became like an average Midgard person, with an exception of hair color, tiny valkyrie wings on the head (not everyone has them though), and jotun blood. They did, however, find out that the jotun power can be reawakened, and for that the blood has to be spilled. Once the blood is spilled, the one with blood would gain a part of Geirskögul's power, which is basically just strength and a shield, preventing them from dying. In game terms, the less HP a unit has, the harder they are to kill + a broken Miracle with healing as a special. Also, the whole "jotun blood" thing is not known to general public. The blood mostly manifests in women, and extremely rare in men (Astrid's aunt has no jotun blood for example). Just having Geirskögul's blood makes it easier to approach and train pegasi, and Geirskögul claimed to actually understand what her pegasi were saying. The pegasi of that breed are not hostile towards men (like the Hoshido ones), instead before they are properly trained they are hostile towards everyone without the jotun blood.

Astrid is 1st in line to inherit the pegasi business, as she is the only daughter, and she was raised to honor the family history, even though some parts were not the brightest. She was allowed to assist the Order of Heroes on occasions, as her mother thought that actual fighting experience would teach Astrid to control the jotun blood better.

The 2 quadruplets (that later went missing), after learning that their youngest possessed the jotun blood, wanted to research it and "make it accessible for everyone" but their research was a bit unethical and they ended up kidnapping both young Astrid and Brynjar, but luckily were both caught before they could do anything. They were then disowned and banished, but Astrid's parents covered it as "went missing". No one knows where they are now.

oh wow thats a lot but i really wanted to talk about all that. if you read to this point, thank you you are so cool! if you noticed any mistakes then in my defence english isn't my first language haha

[glowstickverse]

Pigeon and The Eyeless Warlock 

for my creative writing seminar i got to write abt my silly lil wizard elf and how he lost his eyes. i don't put a lot of my writing stuff up on here or my main acc, but i had a lot of fun with this piece and also its MY oc blog and i get to post what i want (*˘︶˘*)

word count: 6k-ish, cw: implied eye trauma

The sunrise was beautiful on the day Pigeon lost his eyes. 

In the morning he was roused by the sound of bustling feet and muffled voices traveling up and down the hall outside his room. This was not necessarily a rare occurrence in the R’adagast household, but it was one that sparked his curiosity nonetheless– curiosity that quickly overtook any drowsiness still lingering in the back of his mind. So he sat up, rubbed his eyes free of the fog of sleep, and headed out into the corridor, still in his salmon colored nightgown. 

Despite dawn just barely beginning to break, the whole estate was buzzing, filled to the brim with servants rushing from place to place, each seemingly fretting over their own equally important task. Pigeon dreadfully wanted to stop someone and ask what all the fuss was about, but decided to keep his questions to himself for the time being, lest he interrupt the workers’ flow. His bare feet padded softly against the carpeted floor and down the wide, spiraling staircase, tracing a hand along the banister as he followed the flow of the crowd.

The height of the activity seemed to be originating not from the main foyer, but from the ballroom. As the group he was trailing after began to trickle through a set of ornate gilded doors, Pigeon gasped at the sight beyond them– the normally barren dance hall dripped with crystal, polished and buffed like he’d never seen it. Large swaths of white and blue roses blanketed the walls and ceiling, linked together with pearly silken ribbons, and long, sweeping tables laid across the glistening floor, each lined with fine porcelain plates and silver goblets. Instantly, the reason behind the morning’s hustle and bustle became clear. 

A sudden tap on his shoulder interrupted his admiration of the elaborate decor. 

“Master Gwydion?”

Pigeon grinned brightly and turned, quickly recognizing the voice. A stout, olive-skinned dwarf in a neatly pressed butler’s uniform stood behind him, wielding a stack of blue satin napkins in one arm and a large bundle of cutlery in the other.

“Good morning, Torsten!” Pigeon greeted them jovially. 

Torsten returned his smile with one of their own, albeit a tad more muted in its warmth. “Good morning, young master. It’s rare to see you up so early. I hope all this noise did not wake you– as I’m sure you can tell, things are a little hectic today.”

“It’s okay! This is much more exciting than being asleep! What’s going on? Is it…” He paused, looking left and right, then dropped into a hushed whisper. “Is it a party?”

“Indeed it is, young master.” Their tone was amused. “I see that your observational skills are as sharp as ever.” 

Pigeon’s smile widened, threatening to split his cheeks; he bounced up and down on his heels in an attempt to curb his obvious excitement. “I thought so! What kind? Is it a masquerade like the one Lady Cersei held last winter? Or is father hosting another diplomat? Oh! Or is it a banquet? I love when we have banquets! There’s always so much leftover food!”

“I’m afraid I’m not privy to exactly what the occasion is, Master Gwydion, as I am currently on table-setting duty,” Torsten responded, chuckling, “But if I was to gander an assumption, I’d say Master Alduin is expecting an esteemed guest of some sort. He usually only orders for the fine silverware to be used if whoever we are feeding is very important.”

As they spoke, they shifted the cutlery they were holding from one hand to the other in order to tuck a stray curl behind their ear. Pigeon followed the movement with his eyes and frowned, his brow furrowing. 

“That seems like a lot to carry, Torsten..” He cocked his head to one side. “Can I help?”

They blinked at him for a moment, the question slowly registering, before their bushy eyebrows raised. “Oh, no, young master– there is really no need for you to exert yourself–” 

“I wouldn’t be exerting myself, honest! It’ll go faster with the both of us working together!” His gaze brightened, his excited bouncing growing more pronounced. “Plus I just learned that cool levitation trick the other week– I can use it to help put up the rest of the flowers! Please? I’ve been wanting to use that spell for ages!”

Torsten took in his look of anticipation and let out a quiet sigh. They shook their head, relenting, their wild brown curls straining to escape the strict bun they were trapped in. 

“If you insist, Master Gwydion. Take the silverware and follow me, then.”

“I do insist! Ah– and hey, you know I told you you can stop calling me ‘Master Gwydion’ when it’s just the two of us. Call me Pigeon!”

Torsten laughed softly and raised a hand in placation as they turned, already continuing on their way to the dining tables. “Of course, Master Pigeon.”

Pigeon puffed out his cheeks in a frustrated pout as he followed behind them, arms now loaded with utensils. The staff that maintained the R’adagast mansion were all very understanding of and receptive to him deciding to go by his birth name, but some of them simply refused to drop the formalities, even when his father and stepmother weren’t around. Torsten was the worst of them all. Every time he asked them why, they told him it was simply because that was his title, and they felt it was only right for him to be addressed as such. He could agree with their logic, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. 

As they worked, dawnbreak crept slowly and steadily over the horizon, tinging the brightening sky a warm, rosy orange and causing ribbons of warm sunlight to cascade across the floor. The rays bounced off the crystalline walls, refracting into thousands of tiny rainbow specks. Pigeon paused in his adjusting of a tablecloth and peered through one of the ballroom’s towering arched windows, looking out over the skyline. Plains of soft wheat danced gently in the morning breeze. The slope of the hill leading to his family’s mansion slid down toward the village square, and beyond that, behind slanted roofs and slightly smoking chimneys, the rest of the world loomed, huge and unknowable and tinted gold by the rising sun. 

Pigeon thought himself exceptionally lucky to behold such a sight.

He moved to return to the tablecloth, and as he did, caught a glimpse of himself in the glass. He met his own eyes– big, bright, with irises of glowing silver; silver like his father’s, and his grandfather’s, and every other powerful mage in his family. He and his reflection stared at each other for a single moment before he smiled and gave the mirror a big thumbs up– and then flinched as the dance hall’s doors flew open. 

Lord Alduin R’adagast strode purposefully to the middle of the polished floor, hands held aloft as he barked orders at a gaggle of servants following in his stead. His voice, loud and commanding, echoed off the marble walls, his perfectly coiffed hair bouncing lightly every time he turned his head. 

“– they go in the ballroom, yes, along with the rest of the floral decorations. And please, make sure there aren’t any more yellow roses, that is most certainly not what I ordered. They clash terribly with the rest of the bouquets; we’re supposed to be respectable, for goodness sake. And another thing, where is that blasted caterer? He was supposed to be here almost half an hour ago! Apparently, not everyone in this kingdom understands that I am not a patient–”

Alduin turned his head, arms still outstretched, and finally caught a glimpse of Pigeon near the window. “–Gwydion, there you are! Finally! What in heaven’s name have you been doing? Don’t tell me you’ve been in here, fraternizing, all this time…!”

Pigeon opened his mouth to answer his father’s question, and then quickly shut it again when he raised an impatient hand.

“Ah, what does it matter, just– come here, now! I need to speak with you about something very, very important.”

As Pigeon made his way across the ballroom, Torsten met his eyes to shoot him a sympathetic look, to which he responded with another bright grin– a grin he quickly replaced with a dimmed smile when he stopped in front of his father. 

“Good morning, father!” he said politely, doing his best to feign as much innocence as he could, “Why’s everyone running around so much today?” 

“That, believe it or not, is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about,” Alduin responded. He took him tightly by the arm and began walking back toward the ballroom doors, effectively dragging Pigeon along with him. “You see, this evening, an extremely important sage, as well as her entire entourage, is coming to visit from the Eastern Shrine. So Cersei and I are throwing a bit of a party in her honor.”

“Oh, gosh– wow!” Pigeon stumbled a bit in his effort to keep up with his father’s long strides. His mind spun with excitement; he hadn’t attended a R’adagast party in years– is that why his father had been looking to speak to him? Would he possibly be allowed to go this time? “That– that’s so amazing, father!”

“Yes, very much so. And what would be more amazing is if the sage is impressed with our family’s prowess and the state of the village and thus agrees to pay us for our magical services. Considering how wealthy she is, that could, potentially, fund almost all our endeavors for the next several years.”

“That would be more amazing! I hope it works out!”

“Hm, yes, so do I. You can imagine I wouldn’t want to take any sort of chance that this night could be jeopardized, thus tarnishing our reputation, yes?”

“Of course, father, we would never want that. That would be horrible!”

“Indeed it would be. I’m glad you understand, Gwydion. In that case, surely you don’t mind making yourself scarce today, do you?”

Pigeon blinked up at him. “Huh?”

Alduin stopped abruptly, turning to give Pigeon a tight-lipped smile. Servants wove around where they stood in the middle of the foyer. “It’s just that this night is so important, Gwydion. I can’t afford even the slightest mistake! And having you around, well…” He gestured vaguely with one hand and heaved a hefty sigh. “We managed to mostly recover from the scandal, but to have that mark on our family’s history be brought to light again could ruin everything. I can’t risk it, not when there’s so much at stake– not just our reputation or our standing, but our future, our legacy, as well. Not to mention there’s that blasted Warlock fellow running around. We’ve already received upwards of a dozen letters of complaint– something about him stealing people’s sight? Ah, it’s all a load of codswallop, but the townsfolk are getting rowdy regardless. I mean, you can see how much pressure I’m under!”

“I.. Ah, but–!”

“Sorry, boy, no buts. You’ll just have to find something else to entertain yourself with today. You’re good at that.” He moved the hand still grasping Pigeon’s forearm up to his shoulder, giving him a couple firm pats. “Maybe the next party, eh?”

Pigeon looked down at his father’s hand. Against the dark brown of his skin, its color was almost reminiscent of milk. He nodded. 

“Yes.. Yes! The next one.” 

“There you go.” Alduin gave his shoulder another pat before walking back towards the ballroom, his attention instantly shifting once again to shouting at the servants. 

It wasn’t the first time his father had given him a speech like that. Pigeon had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last, either. Still, he couldn’t help getting his hopes up a little.

The next one, definitely, he thought to himself as he made his way down the corridor. I’ll definitely be allowed to go to the next one.

There were certainly things that he could do around the mansion that would keep him busy and keep him out of sight, but Pigeon had other ideas for how he planned to spend the day. It wasn’t often he got the chance to wander around on his own; usually he was stuck in divination tutoring or private evocation lessons or helping the staff reorganize the library, things that required him to spend most of his time being trapped in the ivory tower that was his family’s estate. So, whenever he had the opportunity to do what he wished, there was only one place he really wanted to go: into the village. 

He bounded quickly up the stairs to his room, snatching up his favorite yellow cape and worn leather satchel. It was harvest season, and despite the relatively high temperature, the weather was always slightly too unpredictable for comfort. After making his way back down to the foyer and past the ballroom– pausing only briefly to peer wistfully through the gilded doors– he turned down another corridor, then another, then another, finally stopping just before a large, gold-plated painting. He wasn’t positive who the painting was of; if he had to guess, he’d assume it was an ancestor of some sort, but he didn’t recognize them and he’d never bothered to check if he was right or not. In any case, the painting itself wasn’t important. It was simply there to keep the pathway hidden. Pigeon pulled lightly on the portrait’s frame until it swung open with a soft creak, stopping only briefly to check if anyone was around to see him, and then quickly climbed inside. It was a bit of a squeeze, even for him, but he’d been down the darkened passage so many times that he could very easily maneuver himself through with little to no complications, and soon enough he was pushing against a small wooden door and crawling out into the day. The sun beat down, gentle and warm, on his skin, and Pigeon took a moment to breathe in the morning air, allowing it to fill his lungs before letting it out again with a soft sigh. 

“Alright,” he said to himself, brushing stray bits of dirt from his cape, “Let’s go.”

The hill leading to the village was a bit steep, so Pigeon took his time walking down it, making sure to mind his feet. As he got closer and closer to the small brick buildings and faded cobblestone of the town, he felt his steps grow all the more lighter until soon he was almost at a light jog, unable to control his enthusiasm. 

People bustled about the square, some sitting by the fountain at the center, sharing bread and fruit, others just beginning to complete their morning routines. The sound of idle chatter and the smell of baked goods and hay wafted through the air. Pigeon walked slowly, leisurely; he took the time to wave at the townsfolk, said good morning to those he recognized, gave a smile to those who passed him; there was no need to rush, no need to skim past greetings and ‘how do you do’s. The village was so unlike his family’s manor, with its high marble walls, the distilled way they spoke to one another. Here, everyone felt much more alive. 

What to do first? Well, it was morning, and Pigeon hadn’t eaten yet. He figured he’d start with breakfast and work out the rest from there. 

Breakfast was a shortcrust pastry filled with sweet strawberry jam. He chatted with the baker as he ate, asking about her kids and her wife, if business had been good, about what had been happening in the village lately. The conversation was just as light as the pastry, and the baker gave him an extra croissant for the road, to which he bounced up and down and thanked her profusely. 

As Pigeon left the bakery, a quick burst of wind sent a poster flying off the shop’s window. He chased after it, finally catching up after pinning it down with his boot, and went to stick it back on the glass. There was no portrait, just a slightly blurry photograph of a tall, hooded figure leaving an alleyway, a single gnarled hand peeking out from under its robe. 

‘The Eyeless Warlock’, it read, ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’.

He looked at it for just a moment longer before returning it to its place. There’d been a lot of those posters popping up recently. With all the rumors and tall tales flitting about the village, he was surprised his father’s guards hadn’t caught the guy yet. 

The rest of the morning passed in a blink. Pigeon hopped from storefront to storefront, browsing with little intention of buying anything and making light conversation with the shop owners, some of whom he knew, some of whom he didn’t. The sun made a gradual path across the sky, and though its rays were warm, the late autumn breeze kept the temperature down. Pigeon found himself glad he remembered to bring his cape. This proved to be even more true when midday began to turn to afternoon, and clouds started to form overhead. It wasn’t raining quite yet, but rumbles of thunder threatened the inevitable. 

Before he knew it, it was early evening. The sky was beginning to bleed pink at the edges and the clouds that blanketed it grew dark and heavy. Though he was sure the party wasn’t over yet, he could tell the horizon was about to open up, and he didn’t want to risk getting caught in a storm. Pigeon decided it was probably time to start heading back home. If the festivities hadn’t ended, he could just hide in the library until they did.

He made his way slowly through the small, winding streets. The village was much emptier now; it seemed he wasn’t the only one who was hoping to avoid the rain. As he meandered towards the town square, a lone woman in a loose cotton dress rushed up from behind him, almost knocking him off-balance. Her dark hair was wild and tangled, her eyes filled with an indiscernible emotion. She kept her arms wrapped tightly around herself, clearly shivering, and stopped only briefly to apologize before beginning to rush off once more. 

“Wait, ma’am–” Pigeon untied his cape, swiftly pulling it off and holding it out before she could get too far. “Aren’t you cold? Here, take this!”

The woman stared at him. Her expression was guarded, if not fully suspicious. “.... I’m– I’m fine. In any case, it’s yours, I couldn’t… take it..”

“But it’s going to storm! And I have other capes, it’s okay!” He held it out a little further, mentally encouraging her to take the covering. “Please?”

A tentative pause, and then slowly, she reached out, delicately removing the cape from his outstretched hands as though afraid she would damage the fabric of it. Fingers shaking, she draped it over her shoulders. 

“Thanks,” the woman said softly. Pigeon went to tell her it was no trouble, but she was already averting her gaze and rushing away. He watched her go for just a moment before he felt a single raindrop hit the top of his head, and looked up in surprise right as a flash of lightning lit up the quickly darkening sky. The storm had arrived.

Now walking much faster than before, Pigeon hurried down the main road towards the village square, throwing his hands over his head in an attempt to shield himself from the gradual drizzle. The town wasn’t very large, but its streets and alleys were almost labyrinthine in nature, winding around in snakelike circles, and it was easy to get lost if you weren’t careful. Though Pigeon had wandered through the maze of the village many times, he wasn’t good at paying attention to where he was going, and soon, a lot of the houses began to look just a bit too similar. Starting to get a little worried about the impending thunderstorm, he picked up the pace; paused to change directions, turned left and then turned right; passed the bakery and the blacksmith’s house and a feeding trough now devoid of horses; ducked into an alleyway– 

And stopped.

There were other people in the alleyway. Pigeon recognized them both immediately, though he had never seen the taller figure in person before.

It surprised him to find out that the Eyeless Warlock was not, in fact, eyeless. Pigeon could see very clearly that the figure in front of him actually possessed many eyes– many, many, many eyes– in a variety of sizes and colors, hanging from his robe like ornaments decorating the branches of a tree. Some dangled in a bunch from his belt like a bundle of garlic heads, tied together with thick, dark string. He stood statuesque, his stature slim but imposing, and though he’d turned slightly when Pigeon entered the alleyway, his long, thin fingers remained, poised and pointed, over the terrified face of a woman kneeling at his feet– the woman Pigeon had met just minutes before. His yellow cape was still wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her hands were bloody, as though she’d been clawing at the ground.

For a long moment, no one spoke, and no one moved. 

“.... You’re that bastard child of Lord R’adagast’s, aren’t you?” 

The voice that came from underneath the tattered hood was nothing like Pigeon expected. The stories the townspeople told of the Eyeless Warlock had made him sound much more like a beast than a man, like a monster from eons ago, like a long-dead spirit. Don’t go out at night, they whispered. Don’t look him in the face. If he speaks, don’t listen. He appears where the candlelight is dim. He’ll steal your eyes! He’ll claw them right out of their sockets, and then he’ll leave you blind and bleeding in the shadows of the street!

All those stories had Pigeon made assume that were he ever to meet him, the Eyeless Warlock would growl and snarl, his words coming out in a hiss; that he’d groan ancient, evil spells that could boil one’s brain just by hearing them, but the voice that came from underneath the tattered hood was none of those things. It was soft. Almost lilting, in a way. If it wasn’t for all the stolen eyes littering his clothes, one could even say the Eyeless Warlock sounded gentle. 

“Yes, sir, I am.” Pigeon spoke politely. Surreptitiously threatening or not, he was still to mind his manners when addressing a stranger. “How did you know? I’m not wearing my crest.” 

A pause, and then a raspy laugh came from the shadows under the robe. The Warlock raised the hand that’d been resting at his side– ashy skin stretched unnaturally over bones and cartilage– and gestured upwards. 

“My dear child, your eyes! There’s not one noble family for miles with eyes like those. So unique, and such a beautiful color. They’re a symbol of your magical prowess, you know.”

A rush of joy swelled in Pigeon’s chest. Though he made no attempt to hide his lineage– much to his father’s chagrin– it always made him feel so dignified, so honored to be recognized as a R’adagast. His silver eyes were the one thing fully linking him to his loved ones, the ones who allowed him to live in luxury and prestige alongside them despite his… unfortunate conception. He was deeply proud of his eyes. They were a permanent reminder of the family he loved so dearly, the family he so desperately wished to prove his devotion to.

He fought off the urge to preen with satisfaction and instead stifled his excitement in order to focus on the matter at hand. His gaze dropped to the woman kneeling at the Warlock’s feet, the way she curled in on herself as if attempting to hide away, and in an instant, his mind was made up. He took a step closer.

“I’m going to have to ask you to step away from her, sir.”

The hand hovering above the woman’s face did not move. “I will. But first, she must give me what she owes.”

“What does she owe?”

The Warlock tilted his head to one side, and the eyes attached to his robe seemed to jingle like bells with the movement. “Are you merely curious, or are you insinuating you’d be willing to pay the debt in her stead?”

“I will pay her debt.” Pigeon took another step. “Please tell me what she owes.”

Another pause, and then– though the expression was still shrouded in darkness– the Eyeless Warlock smiled. Pigeon did not see his smile. It was more that he felt it. 

“This young lady owes me her eyes,” said the Warlock. 

The woman at his feet let out a muffled sob. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” she mumbled, almost more to herself than anything. Her cheeks were wet with tears and spit. “We were starving, I didn’t have a choice.”

Pigeon looked down at the rambling woman, his heart hammering, and sucked in a breath, bringing his gaze back to the Warlock’s shadowed face. “I don’t particularly want to give you my eyes. I like being able to see.”

“Most people do.” His voice was laced with amusement. “And I don’t imagine your father would be all too pleased about you losing your family’s mark. You R’adagasts are such a dreadfully proud bunch; always so obsessed with… image. You, however, don't strike me as particularly egotistical. Though, you’re not exactly a full R’adagast, are you?”

A rush of defensiveness, quick and hot, rose like a wave in his stomach, and Pigeon stiffened, crossing his arms. “Are you interested in negotiating your price or not, mister?”

The Warlock seemed to study him for a moment. His fingers, still poised above the woman’s eyes, twitched just slightly, and Pigeon felt his gaze travel slowly over his body, starting from his still bare feet, then making its way to the ornate satchel he carried, and finally coming to a stop on a pack of playing cards just barely peeking out of the bag’s side pocket. 

“Are you familiar with Kings in the Corner, child?”

Pigeon blinked. Of all the answers he was prepared for, that most certainly wasn’t one of them. He adjusted the strap of his bag. “Um, yes. My half-siblings and I played a few times when we were young. Why… Do you ask?”

There was a beat of silence, and then the Warlock lifted his hand away from the woman’s face, raised it above his head, and in a single movement, brought the hood of his robe down with a flourish. Salt and pepper curls hung around a wizened face, and a jet-black eye stared. The other eye was blinding white, the only identifiable color being the strange, molten gold of its pupil. Neither eye looked like it belonged there.

“I have a proposition for you, young R’adagast,” said the Warlock, taking a sudden stride forward. Pigeon fought the urge to flinch. 

“What sort of…. proposition?”

“Let’s play a game. Kings in the Corner. If you win, I will take my leave, and the young lady’s debt will be forgiven.”

“... And if you win? What happens then?”

He cocked his head and smiled a smile that was pervasively passive, as though he knew something Pigeon didn’t. “Then… I take your eyes as payment instead.” 

Easy. Too easy. Pigeon knew that it was too easy, knew that he would be a fool to trust the deceptively serene, smiling figure in front of him. He looked down at the cards tucked into the pocket of his bag, then up at the shaking woman still huddled at the end of the alley. She stared back at him, her face tear-streaked and filled with fear, her hands clutching desperately at the fabric of his hooded yellow cape. 

…. It’ll be alright. Even if things go wrong, it’ll be alright. I’m sure my family will understand, he thought. Besides, it’s just a card game. How hard could it be?

Pigeon withdrew the pack of cards and sat down cross-legged on the damp cobblestone. He met the Eyeless Warlock’s gaze with what he hoped came across as firmness, as determination, as strength.

“Okay. Who’s dealing?”

It took him eight minutes to lose. 

Up until that day, he’d never really thought about what it would be like to have his eyes gouged out. He imagined it to be painful– and it was, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, but what Pigeon didn’t expect was the darkness that followed, the disorientation that came with it. The way the world didn’t go black, not really, because that wouldn’t be an accurate way to describe the sensation of being able to see one minute and then not being able to the next. It was more like the world vanished. Like everything around him suddenly didn’t exist. He reached his hands out– or at least, he thought he did– and they collided with nothingness. He was still in the alleyway, he knew he was still in the alleyway, but for a long, terrifying moment, it felt as though he was nowhere at all.

He didn’t know where the Warlock went after it was over. The woman was the one to help him climb, slowly and agonizingly, back up the hill to his family’s manor, and with every step they took, she apologized. 

“I’m sorry,” she babbled, over and over and over again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Pigeon wanted to tell her it was okay, that she didn’t have to be scared, that the Warlock wouldn’t bother her anymore and she was finally free, but he couldn’t seem to get the words out. His lips were wet with the taste of rain and copper. Each movement he made was punctuated with a deep, white-hot pain that resonated through his entire body, stemming in horrible pulses from his now empty eye sockets. He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to stay conscious all that time, despite the pain and the blood loss– presumably shock? Whatever it was, it quickly began to wear off once they reached the mansion.

He was right when he’d assumed the party wouldn’t be over yet. As he and the woman pushed their way through the towering oak doors of the estate, he could instantly tell that the foyer was still packed to the brim with guests. The screams that rang out were deafening, but Pigeon’s ears were ringing so much that it muffled the sound almost completely. His body sagged as the woman laid him against the cold marble floor. Faintly, as though from a great distance away, he thought he heard Torsten shout something, but it was quickly swallowed up by his father’s voice, thundering above the muted cacophony. 

“Alright, everyone, so sorry, I’m going to have to end the party early! Please make your way out the front, sincerest apologies for this little hiccup–”

The words melted away with his fading consciousness. As his eyes fluttered closed, Pigeon soundlessly wondered how the sunset looked that night. 

He hoped it was beautiful. 

[lithiachevyofredding]

Drive Around Town: 4 Local Attractions Near Redding, CA

WaterWorks Park

Located on the Sacramento River, WaterWorks Park offers visitors a chance to enjoy the natural beauty of this unique area. The park is open year-round, with many facilities available during the winter months. The park has an amphitheatre that hosts musical events and plays throughout the year. There are also play areas for children, picnic areas, and hiking trails.

The highlight of WaterWorks Park is its water slides and pools. You can take advantage of a range of different slides – from gentle twists to steep bumps! For those who would rather stay dry, there is a zero entry pool for cooling off between slides.

Shasta State Historic Park

Located near the northwest corner of Redding, Shasta State Historic Park is a popular destination for people who love to hike, camp, or just get away from it all. The park features a reservoir, picnic areas, and hiking trails that wind through some of the most beautiful scenery in California.

The park’s main attraction is its historic buildings, including the original courthouse built in 1854 and an 1850s-era house by the lake. Visitors can also see several small cabins built by miners during the Gold Rush era. The park also has a visitor center with exhibits about local history as well as activities for kids.

Sundial Bridge

Built in 2007 and designed by architect Michael Brill, this is a unique bridge that’s located in Redding’s Sundial Bridge Plaza Park. It’s also part of the Sacramento River Trail, and it’s made with light reflectors that change colors at different times of the day. The bridge was built to celebrate the city’s 150th anniversary, and it’s meant to be an interactive art piece for residents and visitors alike.

Anderson Historical Society and Museum

The Anderson Historical Society and Museum is a great place to learn about the history of Redding. It’s located at 710 W. Cypress Street in Redding. It was founded in 1953 by a group of interested citizens who wanted to preserve the history of Redding and Shasta County.

The museum houses over 10,000 artifacts that tell the story of how people lived in this area over the last 150 years. You’ll see everything from photographs and documents to furniture and household items. If you’re traveling to Redding, there’s no shortage of things to see and do. The Chevrolet Bolt EV has proven to be an excellent choice for Redding visitors, thanks to its comfortable cabin and convenient size. If you’re traveling to this part of the state and want to take a variety of trips, Stop by Lithia Chevrolet of Redding; the Chevrolet Bolt will serve you well.

Photo by Torsten Kellermann: https://www.pexels.com/photo/body-of-water-surrounded-by-trees-955656/

[afshinxeldar]

The both of them were much too headstrong for the situation at hand. If Afshin were to give in, what would that ever say about him? No, he simply couldn't. He much preferred if Torsten humored him and just begged. That was such a long shot though that he knew it was never going to happen. He'd have to beg to get Torsten to beg and that would kind of be the opposite of what he wanted. Maybe he'd have to work on the whole giving aspect of the whole ordeal. Then maybe he would get what he wanted.

No. Afshin actually wasn't going to do that. What did he need to give head for? If anything, he was the one that should've had someone on their knees in front of him. Surely there were a plethora of people that would, but he also wasn't really interested in that anyway. Honestly, right now, he was much more interested in whatever his Kingsguard was putting down. Unfortunately for him, Torsten had his interest much more than he could have ever really anticipated. He'd already said the other could do whatever he wanted to the prince. Think before speaking sometimes, Afshin. That was the only thought that went through his head as he was given that ultimatum.

Well, he certainly didn't want that to happen. He also didn't want to give in too easily either. Speaking of thinking, he was pretty sure he couldn't really think at all. Words were a moment from leaving his mouth, but they were interrupted by Torsten flipping their positions until his Kingsguard was on top again. Of course. Then he was being commanded to beg again. He was a second away from saying no again and then the witcher's hand slapped his ass before a thumb slipped inside of him. Something akin to an embarrassing whimper left his mouth as Torsten pulled away yet again to let that same hand meet the back of his neck.

He couldn't even pretend like there was a thought going through his head at all. As a matter of fact, he was pretty sure the only thing going through his mind right now was the absolute embarrassment he felt at the words that were about to leave his mouth. Actually, they could never speak of this again. What was he supposed to do though? Just let Torsten leave? Absolutely not. But also he would never admit to saying the words if anyone ever asked him. He'd gaslight the shit out of Torsten if it was ever even mentioned as a matter of fact.

"Please fuck me." Afshin paused and added a little bit more for some flair. If he was going to beg, he might as well have made the witcher feel like he wanted to do it in the first place. "I want you so badly."

A skald somewhere would someday work up the nerve to detail the prowess of Afshin's mouth and not come up wanting. An effort was made, and the King's tongue was warm and welcoming - eager. The rest could be learned and trained, the idea sparked something in him that for however long Afshin decreed this throat would be Torsten's to train. Before the witcher could even begin, the King was moving on and rising again, bringing their mouths and their bodies together once more.

Afshin tasted vaguely of Torsten still as he drew their lips against him, all but mocking the Kingsguard's demand. Torsten spent his life kneeling before others and hearing their demands, he would not yield as much here. Afshin smiled, but Torsten's brow remained tightly knit and drawn together. Even with Afshin's hand around his cock, Torsten was not so easily swayed, hips rolling across the King's palm and colours hazy, he steeled himself to meet Afshin's lips again.

"You will. Or we'll both leave dissatisfied." Resolve laced Torsten's tone with a growl that rolled across Afshin's lips. The breath between them was less than a whisper until the witcher's calloused hand made an easy maneuver of flipping Afshin onto his stomach, maneuvering his limbs, and pressing against his back to push his chest into the mattress.

A few moments of appraisal were necessary, given what greeted him: taut musculature in surprisingly defined lines, the slender dip of Afshin's hips, and of course the round, pert ass that sat at the perfect incline. "Beg," Torsten demanded it, his hand followed as an audible smack reverberated about the infirmary - whoever said romance was dead? His thumb pressed momentarily against Afshin's hole and pushed forward, making a show of testing the resistance as Torsten leaned against him, his wet, leaking cock sliding between the King's thighs. That hand moved with the Kingsguard, gliding up the other's back with his splayed fingers taking in every dip and curve as he did.

Torsten gripped the junction of Afshin's neck and shoulder blades, holding onto his neck as he insisted once more. "Beg."

[fromablankmind]

A New Year... with a bigger corner

There are plenty of corners of the internet where you can make sure your voice is heard. Over the last couple of years there’s been a lot of new writers and the art of blogging has had a rebirth. 

It’s never too late. It’s never too late to start a blog or to be a writer. I’ve always been a writer. Or so I would like to think. I’ve written various blogs for close to two decades. Yes, even before blogging became a big thing. Writing has always been my passion. 

I’ve seen writers come and go over the years. I’ve seen people make a lot of money. I’ve seen people flourish and go on to succeed at heights, I could never imagine could be accomplished - all because of blogging. 

But just as we had a flurry of writers in the last couple of years - we will also see a lot of people leave. The truth is, writing is hard work. Ask me, I know. I’ve given it up so many times because I didn’t feel I have the time. Not with a full time job at least. 

Last year taught me a great many things about succeeding online. It taught me that with the world these days, you’re competing for your little corner. You’re competing against anyone and everyone to make yourself seem relevant. 

The only way to win at the game is through diligence, hard work and practice. It ain’t easy. Those that have the patience and the stamina will win out. I’ve achieved a small amount of success in the last two years with that. 

But, I also realize that the reason my success has been small is because I haven’t made the time for it. This year will be different. I’m determined to make it different. 

I’m determined to turn my little corner into a bigger corner. 

Photo by Torsten Dettlaff

[fishyfletch]

Valorant Agents' Names and Their Meanings

I spent more than an hour and Tumblr deleted the draft. Thanks, Tumblr. Anyway I wrote some things I found interesting at the very bottom.

Astra

Astra: the accusative plural form of the Latin word astrum, 'star'

Efia Danso: Efia, meaning 'born on Friday.' Danso, from Ghana, Akan origin, means 'one who is reliable.'

Breach

Breach: make a gap in and break through (a wall, barrier, or defense).

Erik Torsten: Erik, Old Norse meaning 'ever or eternal ruler.' Torsten, a Scandinavian given name. The Old Norse name was Þórsteinn. It is a compound of the theonym Þór (Thor) and steinn "stone"

Brimstone

Brimstone: sulfur.

Liam Byrne: Liam, an Irish name meaning "strong-willed warrior" and "protector." Bryne, burning, fire; flame, heat, burn.

Chamber

Chamber: a private room, usually a bedroom. or to place (a bullet) into the chamber of a gun.

Vincent Fabron: Vincent, from a Latin word meaning “conquering.” Fabron, surname of French origin meaning 'young blacksmith.'

Cypher

Cypher: a secret or disguised way of writing; a code.

Amir El Amari: Amir, a name of Arabic origin meaning 'prince.' Amari, meaning 'moon.' His name means 'prince of the moon.'

I'm not sure about this translation so please correct me if I'm mistaken.

Fade

Fade: to gradually grow faint and disappear.

Hazal Eyletmez: Hazal, a Turkish name meaning 'autumn flower' or 'fallen leaf.' Eyletmez means to 'not let something happen.'

Harbor

Harbor: a place on the coast where vessels may find shelter, especially one protected from rough water by piers, jetties, and other artificial structures. or to keep (a thought or feeling, typically a negative one) in one's mind, especially secretly. It also means to shelter or hide a criminal or wanted person.

Varun Batra: Varun, a name derived after an ancient Hindu deity, Varuna, a water god. Batra is an Indian Hindu and Sikh clan of the Arora Khatri community of Punjab.

Jett

Jett: a jet engine.

Sunwoo Han: Sunwoo, a name of Korean origin meaning 'kind friend.' Han, a Korean surname meaning "King”, “Kingdom”, “country" or/and “Korean people.”

KAY/O

KAY/O: Kill All Your Opponents or Kingdom Anti-Yield Operative

If we're following the theory that KAY/O's mental blueprint is Brimstone's fallen comrade, Tariq Porter, here's what that name means.

Tariq Porter: Tariq, derived from the Arabic verb طرق‎, (ṭaraqa), meaning "to strike", and into the agentive conjugated doer form طارق‎, (ṭāriq), meaning "striker". Porter, originates as an Old French occupational name, portier (gatekeeper; doorkeeper), or porteour ("to carry").

Yes, you can make gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss jokes now.

Killjoy

Killjoy: a person who deliberately spoils the enjoyment of others through resentful or overly sober behavior.

Klara Böhringer: Klara, the feminine form of the Late Latin name Clarus which meant "clear, bright, famous". Böhringer, a habitational name for someone from any of three places in Baden-Württemberg called Böhringen.

Neon

Neon: fluorescent lighting or signs (whether containing neon or some other gas).

Tala Nicole Dimaapi Valdez: Tala, Tagalog for 'star.' Nicole, a female name of French origin meaning "people of victory," or "victory of the people." Dimaapi, I can't find the meaning online but it's similar to the Tagalog phrase 'Di maapi' meaning 'can't be abused.' Valdez, a Spanish toponymic surname of Asturian origin. Its appearance has been dated back to the times of the Reconquista in the municipality of Valdés, Asturias, where the eponymous lineage began. The area around the current town of Luarca was known as Val de Ese, "valley of the river Ese", as attested in medieval documents.

Omen

Omen: an event regarded as a portent of good or evil.

John: derived from the Hebrew Yohanan, meaning “graced by God.”

Yohan: the Syriac Aramaic meaning is "God is merciful". It is also shortened version of the Hebrew word "Yohanan" meaning "Yahweh is gracious".

Fred: a masculine given name meaning "peaceful ruler". It is the English form of the German name Friedrich. It also means 'elf or magical counsel' and 'a sage' (Ancient Greek: σοφός, sophos), in classical philosophy, is someone who has attained wisdom.

Marcus: a name of Ancient Roman origin meaning 'dedicated to Mars.'

Dimitri: a name of Russian origin meaning "follower of Demeter."

Phoenix

Phoenix: in classical mythology, it is a unique bird that lived for five or six centuries in the Arabian desert, after this time burning itself on a funeral pyre and rising from the ashes with renewed youth to live through another cycle.

Jamie Adeyemi: Jamie, a name of Hebrew, Scottish origin meaning "supplanter" which means someone or something taking the place of another, as through force, scheming, strategy, or the like. Adeyemi, a Yoruba name that means "The crown befits me".

Raze

Raze: completely destroy (a building, town, or other site).

Tayane Alvez: Tayane, a name of of English origin and means "star". Alvez is patronymic, that is, it is a surname derived from the first name of a male relative. In this case, the surname is derived from the Portuguese/Spanish first name Alvaro, which is ultimately from the Germanic (Visigoth) words "all," meaning all and "wer," meaning true.

Reyna

Reyna: Spanish for 'queen.'

Zyanya Mondragón: a female name of Aztec origin that means 'forever, always.' Mondragón, a habitational name from Basque Mondragoe ('dragon mountain'), a place in Gipuzkoa province.

Sage

Sage: an aromatic plant with grayish-green leaves that are used as a culinary herb, native to southern Europe and the Mediterranean. Ancient Greek: σοφός, sophos, in classical philosophy, is someone who has attained wisdom.

 Ling Ying Wei: In Chinese, Sage's name is 魏玲瑩. 魏 Wèi is her surname. In very old Chinese, it would mean a "tower over a palace gateway", but that meaning has fallen off and now usually refers to the country of Wei in Ancient China (220-265 CE). The country of Wei was founded by the legendary general 曹操 (Cáo Cāo). 玲營 Líng yíng is her given name. 玲 (líng) generally refers to the tinkling sound of Jade or an onomatopoeia of that, but can also mean: exquisite, ingenious, delicate, nimble. (The radical in this character is 玉 and means Jade. Basically it means that this character's meaning would have something to do with jade.) 營 (yíng) has a lot of meanings. It can be a noun, in which it means a camp, battalion or barracks, or it can be a verb where it can mean to build, operate, manage or to seek.

Skye

Skye: a gender-neutral name of Scottish origin meaning 'island of clouds.'

Kirra Foster: Kirra, used by various Aboriginal Nations around the border regions of Queensland and NSW. To the Yugambeh people, it is said to mean 'leaf' or 'dancing leaf.' Other meanings from surrounding nations include 'Beautiful woman', 'to live' and even boomerang. Foster, "one who keeps the forest."

Sova

Sova: night owl, night person. 'Owl' in many Slavic languages.

Alexander 'Sasha' Novikov: Alexander, the Latin variant of the Greek name Alexandros, meaning "defender of men." Sasha, short for Alexander. Novikov, derived from novik - a teenager on military service who comes from a noble, boyar or cossack family in Russia of 16th-18th centuries. or patronymic from novik 'newcomer.

Viper

Viper: a venomous snake with large hinged fangs, typically having a broad head and stout body, with dark patterns on a lighter background.

Sabine Callas: Sabine, meaning "woman of the Sabine people", the Italian tribe from which, according to legend, the ancient Romans kidnapped their wives-to-be in order to populate their newly-founded city. It is the French and German form of Sabina. Callas, the short form of any of several compound surnames composed with the first element kalos 'good', 'beautiful.'

Yoru

Yoru: Japanese for night, evening.

Ryo Kiritani: Ryo, meaning excellent, excel, succeed; distant; fact; dragon. Kiritani, a name of Japanese origin meaning valley; ravine.

Things to Note:

2 of the agents' names mean 'light.' Namely, Tayane (Raze) and Neon (Tala).

4/5 of Omen's aliases have something to do with gods. 2 of which mean being a follower of a god and another 2 meaning the same thing. Another name means 'sage.'

If I missed anything or put something wrong, please correct me!!! that's all thank yaur

[trainsinanime]

Cars and Trains in Spy x Family Ep. 1

Spy x Family is an excellent anime that is officially set in a completely fictional country in a completely fictional world, far outside of any of our actual histories and timelines. Except not really; it’s actually set in east Berlin of the late 1960s. They don’t call it that (instead calling it “Berlint”, of all things), but the amount of detail they put into portraying the setting and the time period is truly remarkable, considering that they didn’t have to at all. Let’s look.

The first car we see in the first few seconds already tells us that this show is going to be a delight if you’re into that sort of thing (it’s also a delight if you don’t care much). An important diplomat gets murdered in his car. And the car is this:

Americans might think that it’s a 1956 Packard Patrician, but it’s not, as the slightly different grill shows. It’s a ZIL 111, the soviet copy of that car. Here’s a real one:

Picture from Wikimedia Commons, by Max schwalbe, published under CC-BY-SA 3.0 license

This was a classic car for important people all over the east bloc, like state ministers and so on. It’s a beautiful rendition and it fits perfectly in this role.

Ignoring some background cars that we’ll get to soon enough, the next car is the coupé Agent Twilight drives away from the fake information trade set up:

That is a Wartburg 311/3, two-dour coupé version of the original Wartburg 311.

Picture from Wikimedia Commons, taken by Torsten Maue, published under CC-BY 2.0 license

I’ve been told that Wartburg sounds weird in english, but in case you’re wondering, it’s the name of the castle near Eisenach (where this car was built), most famous for being the place where Martin Luther was imprisoned for a while and translated parts of the bible. The Wartburg 311/3 was not a mass product, and the whole Wartburg 311 line was soon supplanted by a more famous boxy version, but this is still a classic example of east german car construction.

Then Twilight has to leave for Berlint on a train, and the engine is, of all things, this:

It’s even more clear in the manga:

This locomotive is an east german class 99.77-79 steam locomotive, built from 1952 to 1956. Here are two of them together in Cranzahl:

Picture by me, feel free to use under CC-BY-SA 3.0

These locomotives fit into the time frame and into east Germany as a setting, but they wouldn’t be hauling a train to Berlin. They were built for the 750 mm narrow gauge branch lines of Saxony, and can only run on these narrow tracks. They’re actually still in use today, now as tourist railroads, operated by a company called SDG. Check them out if you’re in the area, these lines are fun.

The passenger coach that Twilight is sitting in does not correspond to anything I know, so the next recognisable thing is the tram that Twilight and Anya use. 

This is a tram type “Gothawagen” T4-62. These were used in Berlin and not really much outside of it, and were built from 1961 to 1964 (with some prototypes a few years earlier). Newer types replaced them relatively quickly, but the last ones actually ran until 1996. Here’s a picture of one of them on the same exact line 86:

Picture from Wikimedia Commons, taken by Felix O, published under CC-BY 2.0

If you want, you can point out details that are different, e.g. windows, pantograph or the missing V shape, but the overall impression is very clear. Whoever designed this knew what they were doing.

As the episode concludes, we see a beautiful picture of east german road traffic, featuring two of these trams and in front a Wartburg 353, which I’ll talk about when discussing later episodes:

Beautiful. Yes, the show is made for people who like found family and silliness, and it’s lovely in that regard. But it’s also made for history nerds who get excited about old trams and cars, and in that regards it’s absolutely perfect as well.

Here’s the post for episode 2

[witchernjal]

A talking shield was...certainly something. As a witcher, something of the sort felt magical in nature. He wondered if it would be wielded the same if he were to hold it. Not that he would given the fact that the damn thing was now Freydis'. It was a good thing though. A shield for a Shield. Then again, she was much more than that, wasn't she? Much more than just a vessel for a holmgang for others to place their bets upon. As much as Njal loved to watch them, he'd never truly thought of her as less than anyone that stepped foot into that ring with her. Nor did he ever think she really needed to do such a thing to prove a point. Someone like him simply craved violence. Regardless of who was enacting it.

It seemed fitting that a shield that prattled on and on about violence and bloodshed. A hint of a smile reached his lips as it did though. He could imagine it was a lot for her to hear while fighting, but he couldn't imagine it was any different from the holmgangs she was used to. Njal also couldn't help but think about how it felt like the shield was just him whispering in her ear to let that anger and violence overtake her. Of course, she was better than him in that regard. She had some restraint. Njal had none. Yet she still bent her ear towards him and listened when he spoke. It was more than he could say for most outside of just Torsten.

Instead of a response, he let her give a play-by-play of everything that had happened while she had been taken. All of it had him absolutely enraptured. By the time she was done, he was on the floor and the shield was far too close to his forehead. If he were someone else, perhaps he would've been scared. Instead, he was merely excited by the whole ordeal. The excitement only died down at the thought that she had actually had to do all of this to merely survive. Thankfully, she had. Who else would listen to all of the violent thoughts that circulated in his head? He couldn't really let Torsten be privy to that part of him even though his closest friend noticed everything about him. That was pointless anyway. What mattered was that Freydis had made it out of all of this with one good ass story to tell.

"If I were interested in women, Freydis, I would've lost my damn mind right about now. I'm keeping it very mindful right now though." He grabbed her hand to stand up and took a closer look at the shield as he did. "I assume it's magical?" That was certainly not a good idea for him to grab it if so. He'd probably destroy the damn thing.

Freydis affixed the strap of the shield to her arm, straightening and flexing her arm a few times until she was satisfied with the attachment. The wide disc was a shimmering, icy silver with an ice blue gem in the middle of a deeper silver, round plate with intricate carvings. Sharp points stuck out from the inner plate, lethally stretching beyond the luminous, blue perimeter of the piece of armor that shone like the aurora borealis in a cold, dark sky. Freydis was proud to weird it, to be attuned with it, though it wasn’t without its drawbacks. “It’s more of a muttering than speaking,” she told Njal, though she wasn’t sure if he would disagree. They rarely saw eye to eye when it came to the place and merits of violence making them an unusual pair in their friendship. “Listen.” 

The shield output sputtered and clipped phrases, urging the jarl to fight with the fervor and fury of a mad person. It was goading and unyielding in its pressure, its urgency. It seemed hungrier and angrier with every passing word. In truth, the utterings of the shield unnerved Freydis, not because she hadn’t heard many of the things he said before from Isakarans and nobles lining the rings where her holmgangs were fought, but because the pressure to act built and built and there was no one around to take that mounting aggression on–not rightfully anyway–and so when it reached a precipice she knew she would come to exact that violence on herself to temper its impact and sate the ravenous appetite of her new battle companion. 

She looked at him when he wanted a more exact demonstration. Njal would want the story, too, which was more than she intended to offer him. But she didn’t want to disappoint him either. On top of that, she knew he wasn’t the last person who might want to hear the story, and there were others she would need to tell all that she knew now. Perhaps this would be good practice, a chance to purge some of the poison-laced within the narrative. She began by telling Njal all she remembered about the fight with the shadow assassin and the winged knight up until the point that she finished the knight with that final, deciding, deliberate blow. Freydis had gestured to Njal to lay prone on the floor and gave him the show he’d wanted, bringing the shield down with a rapid fury and only stilling her body when one of the pointed prongs of the shield was a centimeter or two from the center of his forehead. 

“It was something like that,” she said, pushing herself back up to a full stand. She adjusted her posture so her arm equipped with the shield was behind her back and reached her other arm out to help Njal to his feet. She began to unfasten the strap of the shield once Njal was standing and held the shield out toward him. "Want to try it on?"

[wastelandwhisperer]

Torsten Ulf for @wonderellawhisper ‘s BC

Vikings weren’t around during this time but whatever I wanted to make a viking pirate which wasn’t a thing really iaoshdaiso

He/They

Pan

Hot Headed // Loves Outdoors // Ambitious 

Fabulously wealthy aspiration 

Torsten grew up with a small clan where the learned the trade of sailing and well doing raids. Although he grew to love the thrill of getting riches he felt like something was missing. He had never been able to find someone to call to his own. Torsten is a very skilled fighter, but he also loves simple things like farming and raising animals. Think of him as a lover and a fighter. Although dashingly handsome, he actually is pretty unskilled when it comes to love and gets really nervous about it. He is very close to his clan members, and would love to have a family of his own one day. And own a bunch of chickens.