#architects apt.

[oberynmaartell]

Retaining Walls - Contemporary Landscape

This is an illustration of a sizable modern stone landscaping.

[jellitchi]

artist au... smiles

more under the cut

artist au where grian and scar are both artists. they met in college coz they both were assigned each other as a roomie and they both just really clicked🙊... anyways got a place tgt, now they js live tgt. this au is just them being domestic sorry its very boring😭...

grian is a freelance artist, looking for work. he mostly works with acrylics and oil paints but has been kinda stumped recently n has been rly into pottery. hes trying sculpture but its kinda difficult for him to get the hang of it. mostly likes using the pottery wheel. he helps out as an assistant in art classes at the college he graduated from sometimes, sometimes does figure drawing art modeling whatever thats called when asked? shrugs

scar is an architect (act surprised) who has like a legitimate Talent for art. this kinda pisses grian off (competitive) coz grian does study after Study.... and art js doesnt click for him the way it seems to click for scar and it frustrates him. They still r esch others motivation and inspiration (CORNYYYY) anyways back to scar hes mostly does like Ideas / drafts... he rly wants to do landscaping but he js has a knack for buildings- like apts, shops, office spaces yeah... Like Ideally he wants to do theme park stuff Then landscaping- but he has a stable career working as a building architect so he just is content. he mostly works from home, most of his work is online so a lotta his colleagues r js like Via Zoom And whatever so he rly like getting out when he can

grian usually is like Im going to go sit and draw in the Rose Gardens. and scar joins him they do parallel play or whatever

Btw theyre not tgt theyre just heavily pinning (Theyve been pinning for the last 5 yrs.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

$1.985m is pretty cheap for an iconic home like the 1894 Winslow House, Frank Lloyd Wright's first commission as an independent architect. Located in River Forest, IL, the 5bd, 3.5ba, 5,000 sq ft home already has a pending sale after only 17 days on the market. And, the current owners recently did over $1m in renovations- so it's really a bargain, if you're rich. Let us peasants take a look inside.

How about your own tunnel? Actually, it's a porte cochere, and look at the platform so you can enter and exit the vehicle comfortably.

Lovely carved oak front door.

This is so different, and a little more elegant, than Wright's later designs. Would this be considered an Inglenook?

The living room looks very formal and tailored. Look at the large built-in seat by the window. I like how they did the walls.

The windows are lovely leaded glass. If you were short of funds after buying the house, you wouldn't have to worry about buying seating for awhile, at least.

The library. Wow, there are so many built-ins in this home.

Isn't this a gorgeous entrance to the dining room? I have to say, this may be my favorite Wright house.

Nice ceiling, more built-in seating, and look at the columns. Very unlike Wright's usual style.

He really went bonkers with the built-in seating.

This is an enclosed sun porch. You can see the outer brick walls of the house.

I guess they redid the kitchen, and I can't decide how original it is. The only thing that would be original are the high upper cabinets, but I don't know about anything else.

It has quite a large pantry that's very pretty.

Nice everyday dining area.

Guest half bath has a vintage sink and new toilet.

The stair railings remind me of a harp.

The bedrooms are plain. They have nice moldings, though.

They renovated the baths.

Most older homes don't have walk-in closets like this.

Maybe this is the primary bedroom.

Original fireplace in the family room up here.

Finished attic is more of an office area, but it could be anything, really. I like the nook that the desk is in.

Lovely grounds.

Two patios.

The garage has a separate residence.

Could be a guest apt. or rental.

It has a cute outdoor area, too.

Look at the path around the garden. The lot is .67 acre.

https://www.redfin.com/IL/River-Forest/515-Auvergne-Pl-60305/home/13325458

[maluuizaa]

About Episode 7 - MCL New Gen (Jason’s route)

• First of all, why would a famous architect build her own house with only one bathroom?? Like wtf, somethings on the story just don’t make sense at all, just like Danica’s babies being cats on the last episode. Dude, the house has a pool but a second bathroom would be too much? I get it that they wanted to make up something that would bring Ysaline and her sister/mother to disagree on, but they could’ve come up with something else, like Tasha stealing clothes from Ysa’s closet or something like that. Anyway, that bothered me so much because even my tiny house has two bathrooms and just doesn’t make sense at all;

• The moments with Jason satisfied me so far, even if it was a short episode, I think it added more layers to their relationship and to Jason’s character, showing a softer side of him, almost sweet, when he apologizes to Ysaline and jumps to defend her immediately;

• Also, when we spot him on the street and he senses that something’s off and immediately asks if the real estate agent is bothering Ysa. Sir, I just know you are down bad haha;

• Our boy is jealous af confirmed, he mentioning Roy and asking why we don’t ask him to help, saying that he would be willing to do it. I just know he IS the possessive type.

• And also, when Ysaline left the apartment after their argument, we see that he starts a negotiation with the agent to try to get her the apt anyway. I don’t doubt that he could literally buy the fucking building as an apology to us, but I guess they would go for something a little less drastic haha. But I do feel like he is the type to try to fix everything with a gift of some kind.

• I love me some little angst to build things up, what can I say.

• Overall I got to see protective Jason, jealous Jason, fake boyfriend Jason (even if he was a jerk about it) so I guess i’m satisfied (for now);

• And now we have to wait another month to play que next one 😭

[mage-ical-character-person]

Architect Sanctuaries and Storage.

So! I feel like we don’t talk about the Sanctuary caches from Subnautica enough as it relates to Below Zero.

Like. First of all, Al-An, where are you going, your people are here. You’re not gonna check to see if anyone else is trapped in a sanctuary with failing power like you were? Granted, I think the Sanctuaries in The Crater are probably Hooked up to the Alien Thermal Plant so they’ll be fine as long as the lava zone continues to be hot. Probably why Ryley wasn’t getting any alien distress signals. But the threat of Kharaa has more or less passed, and these Architects were part of Al-An’s research team, you’d think he’d do something.

It’s recommended to put them in a compatible medium as soon as possible, you said it yourself get down there and fabricate more bodies!

Also. On the “factory reset” point. I feel the need to point a couple things out.

First of all, in the Dunes Cache, you can download this from the alien terminal

(Side note this entry specifically is so revealing about Architect society and stuff. PLUS entire other Architect character like I have so many thoughts. Might get its own post at some point I dunno)

It seems like they were storing the memories like… separately from the individual. They were probably also backed up on the network if Al-An’s comments in the whole “How do humans cope with the loss of memories” conversation are anything to go by.

I think the memories just end up feeling less like something the Architect actually experienced personally and more like something they heard about. Like they lose some personal connection to the events.

but still. I think if the Architect’s technology had a flaw like that they’d be working to fix it. And that leads me to a theory on why the Sanctuaries in the first game are so different to Sanctuary Zero where we find Al-An.

I think that with Kharaa meaning Sanctuary sites more vital than probably ever, improving the technology behind them would’ve probably been a priority. I think Sanctuary Zero is perhaps some sort of prototype for improved Sanctuary technology. Sanctuary Zero is bigger, despite storing only one Architect, while the Sanctuary Caches in the first game are implied to store multiple. It’s got this big bulky Architect Containment Cube to put Al-An in, and the PDA makes a point of noting that whoever’s stored inside is able to remain fully conscious with “whole brain emulation” something we don’t seem to see in the first game’s Sanctuaries.

I think the Network decided to stick Al-An in this instead of a normal Sanctuary both because they needed to test it anyway, and after what he did it’s possible they didn’t really care if it went wrong and he was lost in the process. If it did work, he’d have to continue to carry that emotional weight even if he got a new body, and he’d be forced to be awake, thinking about what he’d done in the thousand years before then. I think the Network would’ve found that to be an apt punishment, without it being only for punishment’s sake, but also part of Sanctuary research. More efficient that way.

[adis-is-hades]

PJO x DC concept: Lantern Corps Demigod(s)

Disclaimer: I haven’t actually read any GL comics so everything I know comes from fanfics and various other sources (Google)

We know that the human GLs tend to have some sort of engineering background, which is why they got the hang of the ring’s constructs pretty quickly. So think about a child of Hephaestus or Athena with a Lantern ring. They’d go feral to have the ability to create stuff with a single thought.

I also just think it’s kind of funny (especially with other kids). Humans can come across as feral to most aliens, and demigods (mostly Greek) are even more so. I can see the GLs (or JL/TT/YJ if the demigod is on a team) being sent in a diplomatic mission that somehow fails and they get dropped into a death tournament. The demigod is absolutely willing to fight tooth and nail, even without weapons. They are taking off fingers (ooh carrot mentality) and tearing skin from muscle and bone. With their prior training (and maybe war experience) they’re wrenching joints from sockets and placing their opponent(s) into submission locks, barely even breaking a sweat.

I think if every demigod got a ring, most of them would have green. All of them qualify for green. The will power it takes to fight and survive as long as they have. That’s a lot. Will to live is such a defining part of many of our canon characters.

Getting more specific:

Percy could possibly have blue (and not just because it’s his favorite color). Blue symbolizes hope. His refusal to release Elpis—hope—to signal surrender is a huge moment in his development in “The Last Olympian”. He could potentially qualify for indigo which symbolizes compassion. He doesn’t kill Iapetus after the Titan’s swim in the Lethe in “Sword of Hades”, instead renaming him Bob and getting him a (relatively) honest job in Hades’ palace. He befriends Damasen in Tartarus. And the pain he feels when he has to leave them behind is tangible.

Annabeth could be orange—greed. Her desire to build a new world is a prideful, almost greedy aspiration. She tries not to let it control her, so perhaps it’s not the best match, but it’s an option. I think she is more apt for green. The will to not let her pride control her (especially after meeting Percy), he will to pursue her dream and become an architect to build a new world is very admirable.

Will I think could qualify for both black—death—and white—life. He canonically has affinity for Apollo’s domains of both healing and plague, so it’s not that far fetched. He could also be indigo. I imagine healing accident prone demigods over and over again takes a lot of compassion.

Nico has the obvious of black, but I think it would be ironic if he had a white ring. The black ring comes from being the son of the god of the dead, but I think that just puts life into perspective for him better than most. He knows the ins and outs of death to the point that he knows that life is sacred and something everyone should get to experience. And think he’d have the opposite of Will’s ring if they had them at the same time, like a yin yang. Nico could also be red, rage, for the fact that his fatal flaw is holding grudges. He holds his anger for months between “The Titan’s Curse” and “The Battle of the Labyrinth” until he finally gets to speak to Bianca and get “permission” to let go. Indigo is yet another option due to his actions of bringing Hazel back to the living world. (If I recall correctly, he was originally looking for Bianca, to offer another chance at life to her, but stumbled on Hazel when he couldn’t find Bianca).

Clarisse is most likely red. Rage is a big part of the Ares kids, and Clarisse is often always angry. She could also be violet—love—or indigo for her acts regarding Chris and Selena.

Rapid fire! With no context and in no particular order:

Piper: red, green, blue

Leo: yellow (fear), indigo, blue

Jason: yellow, blue

Frank: indigo, green

Reyna: green, indigo

Thalia: white, blue

Chiron: green, indigo, blue, violet

Sally: violet, indigo, blue

Feel free to add on!

[vintagelasvegas]

Landmark Hotel & Casino

Landmark tower, unfinished, December 1963. Photo by Bernard Gotfryd.

‘60: Frank Caroll & Sheldon Sandler purchase the property from Las Vegas Convention Center; break ground on Landmark Plaza and apt. complex.

'61: Tower design by architects Moffitt & Hendricks; groundbreaking in Sep. with expected opening date Nov. '62; Landmark Plaza and apts opened in Nov.

'62: KVEG AM station opens at Landmark Plaza in Feb; opening date moved to '63.

'63: Construction halted in Feb.

'64: Financiers Appliance Buyers Credit Corp (ABCC), subsidiary of RCA-Whirlpool, foreclosure of the property

'66: Caroll secures funding from Central Teamsters Pension Fund; Plaza Tower (Caroll & partners) buy the property from RCA; new designs by architects George Tate & Tom Dobrusky; construction resumes in Aug.; Landmark Plaza demolished; Caroll’s gaming license revoked in Nov.

'67: Top of the tower “L” sign installed, 11/19/67

'68: Interior design by Leonard England; Landmark completed in Spring; Caroll arrested for assault on England; Cessna 180 crashes into the tower on 8/2/68; Plaza Tower bankrupt in Aug.; Sold to H. Hughes in Oct.

'69: Hughes subsidiary Hotel Properties Inc created to control the Landmark; Grand opening 7/1/69

'77: Gas leak, 7/15/77 – one dead, over a hundred injured. Fire on floor 22, 10/22/77.

'78: Sold from Summa Corp to Mark III Corp (Wolfram, Tickel, Yelverton) in Apr. Casino closed Apr-May, reopened under license to Modica.

'83: Sold to W. “Wildcat” Morris in Oct.

'85: Landmark files bankruptcy, remains in bankruptcy though closing.

'90: Closed 8/8/90; Bought through foreclosure sale by Lloyds Bank in Dec.

’93: Bought by LVCVA in Sep.

'95: Tower demolished 11/7/95

Sources include Above Them All (2018) by Marc Wagner. Updated 7/1/2024.

[omi-papus]

Concept I pulled out of my ass while trying not to pass out in the micro:

A couple of fanon interpretations of the architects have the idea that they have genetic children, (whether by insemination, something about spores I think, and literally just raw DNA depends on the creator) but they don't give birth, and they don't have partnerships between the parents, they also don't care for their children themselves. That's left to specific qualified caretakers and essentially no member of the equation knows who it is they shared genes with, neither do they care

Now. Present day. No architects save for one are left. Robin and Al-An have been traversing the home world for years and have yet to find sight of any survivors. They find records of what was apparently an evacuation effort to get as many of the children out of the planet as possible, apparently not all were able to be boarded, and they learn that one child was intentionally left behind. The file is too corrupted to get the explanation as to why. They assume said child has already dead, and Al-An is too afraid of facing any more disappointment, but Robin pushes him along, encouraging him to try and find it.

And above all odds they do. Its consciousness is stored in a faulty terminal and it luckily they can get a body for it rather quickly, but due to time and resource availability. They are forced to give it a body that's much smaller. Smaller than even Robin. Al-An claims it to be a couple of decades old, around 98, and to Robin it appears to hold the mannerisms and behavior of a twelve-year-old. It's initially scared and untrusting, and it only begins to trust them somewhat when it seems that they made it a body and that it has nowhere else to go. It can't speak any human languages, being far less apt than Al-An, but it can speak some architect. Both Al-An and it can communicate, and he senses that there'is something it's not telling him. The network is gone, so these two cant read each other's thoughts, so they are stuck as they are. This is why the brooding doesn't actually recognize Al-An in any meaningful way. It can tell he's an older architect, but nothing more. Al-An recognizes this insecurity and, after a long period of trust building, mostly between him and it, Robin being a presence he feels uncomfortable with. Al-An decides to sit it down and explain to it who he really is. Why things are the way that they are, and why he is here now. 

The broodling remains frozen for a second and without warning emediatly attacks him. Al-An has no problem stopping him. And begs for its forgiveness and in the midst of it screaming and crying, falling over its own legs, repeating itself in its rage induced misery, tells him “It is your genes that made them choose to leave me here!” Before running off.

Al-An doesn't understand. He stands there still for way too long, and it's only when Robin shakes him to get out of his stupor, that he manages to whisper.

“That is my offspring…”

He can't face it. Al-An has never even thought about this being before, and cant believe the chances of ever meeting it like this. The guilt swallows him whole as he realizes that his failure was not only known throughout the network, but that they deemed his very being so repulsive that they left an innocent child to die only in the name of culling his bloodline. He does not expect it to forgive him, and he is terrified by the very notion of being a genuen father. He was never meant to be. He doesn't even know who the mother was. It was just something all architects where instructed to do at one point. He's scared and remorseful and yet, even now more than ever before, so desperate to hold it close, to keep it safe and tell it he loves it more than anything. But he can't bring himself to follow after.

And Robin does not plan to let that stand. She's going to get those two back together if it kills her. And she isn't going to tell either of them… but she doesn't want to think about Al-An having a family with somebody else. She deep down wants the kid to accept her too.

[suburbancockroach]

SPOILERS FOR THE POPPY WAR BOOK 3

It's been a while since I finished this series and regardless of the criticism going around about the third book feeling rushed, I have to say that the resolution of Rin and Sister Petra's arc is, in my opinion, one of the most well executed revenge arcs in,,,, really all of fiction. Walking into the series finale, I was completely prepared to see her burn, and still R. F Kuang managed to deliver something way more satisfying, and in a way, more cruel. The fact that Sister Petra's entire devotion to the cause was based on her faith in the Divine Architect and had that faith physically ripped out from her, therefore forcing her to face the reality she's been denying, is nothing short of apt. This was one of the most appropriate uses of a protagonist's abilities I have ever read and proves the damage a person can do to another by simply shaking what they believe in. Chef's kiss.

[ashyronfire]

Consequences || Chapter 04: No More Teeth To Bite With

Title: 04 - No More Teeth To Bite With Rating: M Characters: Grimm, The Pale King Warnings: Disturbing Content, Horror, Gore, Unreliable Narrator, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Read On Ao3: Beginning || Current Chapter

Summary:

“Little more than obstacles to you, are they, nightmare?” he hissed. As empty as the city now was, the words carried far on the wind, resonating off the buildings that he’d find empty. Or would they, too, be tombs, forever encompassing those lost, until time decayed their lifeless shells into dust? “Inconvenient and in the way, the bodies of my people?”

Author’s Notes: Tumblr continues to be a week behind Ao3, I'm awful. I'm sorry. SOME day I'll catch them up (today is not that day and it's only 10 chapters long, so probably when the fic is finished lmao)

CHAPTER 04: NO MORE TEETH TO BITE WITH

The capital had a name once.

It was known more now as the ‘City of Tears,’ an apt descriptor if ever there was one for the rain-soaked cobblestone pathways and windows streaked from the steadily falling droplets sliding down their surfaces.

Once, that rain would have been broken up by the warmth of smoke rising from buildings, from the furnaces of restaurants, homes, and manufacturing plants. The glass panes covering the streetlights would be fogged up from the contrast of temperatures and mud would seep into the cracks of the streets, carried about by messy feet as the citizens went to-and-fro, about their daily business, mechanical and altogether entirely alive.

But it would not have been known by anything so macabre a definition as ‘tears’ back then, and the rain would not have been so dramatic. Though Blue Lake did leak through the cavern’s roof at all times, the menderbugs were constantly on call to repair the damage as fast as they could. Time had stolen that efficiency, and the collapse was imminent. The glorious civilization would be underwater before too long, its history lost to time, and anyone who yet lived within would find themselves little more than a memory as well.

Memories.

It had had a name once. He could not remember what it was called, and that was a distressing thought. He’d created it, this city. He was the architect behind its invention, the layout and design borne of his creativity. He’d always loved creating, far more than he ever had his people, and yet standing before a marvel of his invention, he was left with the distinct reminder of what he’d lost. What he stood to lose still.

Nostalgia seized his heart in a vice grip, choking.

He would not weep for the loss of his creations.

“You should have visited more when it was alive,” Grimm observed, unfazed by the falling rain. He should have been at least a little uncomfortable with the chilled water; he should have been at least mildly perturbed by the sensation of being wet. He was impassive, calmer than he ought to have been, and had the Pale King not hated him before, he might have in that moment.

How dare you stand at the precipice of my brilliance as it falls into the sea and care not at all for the loss.

How dare you be right.

There were corpses around them, desiccated and festering, bloated with infection yet dripping from their eyes, from their maws, from the breaks in their shell. The husks that lined the city ground were broken things, limbs torn asunder. Some of them had injuries clearly inflicted by nail, while others appeared to have just collapsed. The number was not small, though. No, it spread on, and on. Though the streets were not completely covered in the bodies, there were enough to leave no delusion as to how badly the capital had fared in the wake of the infection.

Grimm stepped over one of the fallen carcasses and kept walking, his eyes never even casting downward, and that infuriated the wyrm.

“Little more than obstacles to you, are they, nightmare?” he hissed. As empty as the city now was, the words carried far on the wind, resonating off the buildings that he’d find empty. Or would they, too, be tombs, forever encompassing those lost, until time decayed their lifeless shells into dust? “Inconvenient and in the way, the bodies of my people?”

Grimm did not look back at him, but he did stop.

“Always there will be bodies. Death gifts mementos to those left behind.” The butterfly carefully stepped around the corpse of one of the sentries, then looked left and right. “Memorials to remember those we loved and lost. We tell ourselves it is to honor their memory, but in the end, it is not. Graves, you see, are for the living.” Grimm made a decision, then, and he started down a different path.

Realization dawned as a guillotine on the Pale King’s neck.

Memorials. The direction they were going. It was not a coincidence; it could not have been.

“Grimm.” His voice shook. “There are other pathways to Dirtmouth.”

They would be going past the Watcher’s Spire, true, but that was not the most horrifying thing down that road. That was not what made his stomach drop, crashing like lightning, scorched in its wake.

“There are,” Grimm agreed. “But this is the one that I wish to take. Would you rather we separate?”

The wyrm froze. His stomach lurched violently at the thought, the feeling of something under his skin writhing and cold. Tingling spread through him, numbness that settled somewhere behind his eyes, and the vertigo that stole his vision made the world blur. He did not succumb to the uncomfortable sensation; he bowed his head instead, shaking at the shoulders.

He would not make it to Dirtmouth, and that smug creature knew it. He’d barely made it here. If Grimm left him, what would become of him? Would he—would he simply stop being animated? Would the void rise up from the bottom of the world to devour him once more?

Over the husks, he stepped, but the tattered remnants of his wings snagged on the end of one of their spears and he tumbled forward. His instinct was to reach out, to grab the edge of Grimm’s cloak to catch himself, and the butterfly instantly pulled away. He hit the floor face-down instead, shell crunching beneath the weight of his own rotting corpse. His mouth filled with something sweet, viscous, and he gagged.

Grimm did not acknowledge the sound, rattling though it was. “I will thank you to not touch me,” he said instead, impassive.

The Pale King rubbed his maw on the back of his hand, and it came away thick with honeyed gold saliva. He trembled, staring openly at the spread of his claws, willing away the viscosity, that the rain might wash him clean.

Footsteps told him that Grimm was departing again.

Slowly, he scrambled back to his feet, shell clattering beneath him as he attempted to rise. The rain obscured his companion’s departure, the dusty grays of Grimm’s cloak more like shadows than the flames that represented him most – shadows that crept, tangled, wove up and whispered. Fitting, the Pale King thought, for the path the reaper cut felt like the executioner’s axe, and he did not want to take it.

That was precisely why Grimm had chosen it, though – of that, he was still without doubt.

Did the nightmare god intend to act as jury, to pass judgment on the wyrm’s crimes? Was that the intention?

But surely he understood necessity? Surely he understood how dire the situation had been, for was he not privy most of all to the frenzy that was his counterpart’s rage?

The Pale King thought the Dream must have been a loud place, prior to her sealing. He envisioned it full of her screams, impotent but furious, and then the dawning realization of the monstrosity of her creation. He thought that her realm must have been full of rivers that flowed thick with infection – and Grimm was a part of that world, wasn’t he? Severed though he was from her, did he not see, did he not know?

“Please,” he said, legs uneasy, pain shooting through them. The sensation was burning and it seared down his throat, curling back shell that felt as though it were pressed beneath a branding iron. If he looked at himself in a mirror, would he find marks in the shape of feathers, woven tight around his neck?

Or would it be claws too long for a body that should have resembled his own?

He heard cracking and it took him a moment to register that the sound was his own footsteps over water-soaked bricks. His shell held up beneath his weight and yet the cracking continued. He half-expected to see splits in each brick under the burden of each step, but no – none came. The phantom sounds played in the back of his mind regardless, his path falling in sync behind Grimm’s own, and his plea – however pathetic it sounded even to himself – went ignored.

There was to be no mercy, but he had done nothing to merit so harsh a judgment from Grimm.

“You do not have a right to look down on me so,” he hissed out. Grimm did not turn back to him, did not slow down, and did not acknowledge the words in any way. They rounded a corner, great awnings rippling under the weight of the rainfall pooling on the fabric, and a faint breeze tore free a poster from one of the walls. He watched it splatter onto the ground, the silk parchment long faded, the edges ripped and jagged; it advertised the performance of a butterfly clad in fanciful pink silks, her name emblazoned over the bottom.

The magnificent Marissa.

The singing butterfly at the Pleasure House.

He'd never seen her perform.

He’d never been to the Pleasure House. Many an invitation was sent to the White Palace, with assurances of discretion if he wanted to enjoy their festivities without the bother of the general public. More than once, his retainers had suggested he go to a performance for a break from the business of running the kingdom, and every time – every single time – he’d refused them.

When he should have been a part of the kingdom he’d labored to build, he’d withdrawn instead, to the secrecy of his palace and his laboratories, to the dark recesses of his guilt and shame, to the burden that held him fast in chains.

Because he’d known what was coming. Because he knew what had to be done, and how could he ever hope to look in the faces of those he would sentence to death in a bid at immortality?

…he’d looked in their eyes –

“You who care nothing for the living, only the dead,” the Pale King continued weakly. “Have you ever loved anything in your life, save yourself? The macabre ghosts you call a Troupe, that you would have others believe exist as anything other than figments of your imagination? Extensions of your power? I know what you are—”

“Do you.” It was not a question. Grimm did not stop, but he did lift one hand, and the sound of his claws raking over the corner of the building they passed was jarringly high-pitched and sharp; it brought to mind a razor’s edge scraping over stone and left grooves in its wake. The building in question was a little nestled thing, with old, rotting food on display, long forgotten. It’d been beautiful once, though. The Pale King could faintly remember the smell of the breads baking.

Had he stopped there, on the day the monument was unveiled?

Had he wanted to? Yes. But he hadn’t. He’d been in a hurry to be free of the eyes boring through his very soul.

“I know much of you,” the wyrm insisted. “I made it a point to study you and your counterpart both.”

“And yet still you see so little. Still you are so blind.”

Grimm rounded the corner and he followed – only to be stopped sharply in his tracks. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, his head turning back to look at the memorial fountain, rain falling like tears streaking down a mask that would never have possessed any – that never could have. It was larger than life and stylized to remove some of the accents of the armor, to hide the embellishments that his own magic left like stains. Time had worn the polished black stone away to a mottled grey and the fine chiseling that had once added details was long lost to the erosion the water brought, and yet –

Yet he could hear the shifting of fabric with each turn. He could hear the click of metal as they turned toward him. He could see their mask, perfectly expressionless, and –

How desperately he’d needed to believe that the thing within was nothing at all. Like his kingsmoulds, but in a god’s shell. How he’d needed it to be – but it wasn’t.

In retrospect, he should have known. How they’d loved him. How they’d wanted his approval, how they’d sought it – there were so many signs, so many hints, and he’d ignored them all –

Little eyes staring up at him as he explained the names of the flowers that grew along the balcony.

Too long horns for a body that hadn’t yet grown into them, toppling over and then stubbornly rising again in stubborn determination.

Perfect stillness through the pain of having spells woven like strings into a shell that he now knew could bear pain and not once did it flinch, not once did it react, despite the agony the light tearing through its void must have presented.

The anguished desire for approval. The need to be what he’d asked for – it spelled its undoing, hadn’t it? By wanting so badly to please him, it broke itself – no longer empty, not hollow at all, but overflowing for him.

Nausea settled in his stomach with no where to go. He could have vomited, but the pain that twisted his guts felt like an apt punishment.

“Did you bring me here to gloat, wraith?”

Grimm was staring up at the statue. His mask prevented his expression from showing whatever emotions played through his mind, but the perfect stillness was reminiscent of the posture that his Pure Vessel had once taken, and the Pale King found it very unsettling. Grimm crossed his arms beneath his wings, the long waves of them covering his torso, and he shifted so that all the wyrm could see was his back.

“We are gods, but who is a god to one of us? We, who would rule over others… to whom do we offer our prayers?” the butterfly mused. “We place our faith and hearts in things unseen, in beliefs that we choose for ourselves. And, in some cases… in those we find worthy. I wonder, would I have been the same, had I parents?”

There was an almost whimsical way that Grimm spoke. If the Pale King hadn’t known any better, he might well have thought that it was melancholia that gripped the nightmare’s heart – a longing for what he did not, could never, have.

But that was not accurate, was it?

“I am given to understand that you have at least one parent,” the wyrm interjected. He was looking at Grimm because looking at the butterfly meant that he need not look at the statue and all that it symbolized. His stomach felt weighted enough without the reminder looming down at him, expressionless and yet saying so much – speaking without words – ‘How could you?’ –to drive home understanding.

And moreover, there lingered a question: what did Grimm know of what his children thought of him? Of what it meant to be a parent? He, who masqueraded as one, but was not – no, the Pale King knew very well what that creature that Grimm called his child actually was. He could fool the world, draw them into the illusion of his game, and it would change nothing for eyes that could see beyond the surface. Grimmchild was another facet of Grimm and so, in essence, he was not a parent in truth.

The butterfly inclined his head to the side. “Is it parentage, to be born of fragments of oneself? Is that what you would consider childhood? Birth, existence? Excised to hide away in shame, to banish to the darkest recesses of one’s realm, to pretend it does not exist?” His voice was calm, even, but the words that followed were anything but. “I should not find myself surprised so. You did the same, after all.”

The comparison wrenched deep within him, clawed at his heart, and pulled it tight, blood bursting beneath wicked claws. As it was intended to, no doubt. Grimm punctuated the statement with an easily observed, “She calls me her blood moon, rising scarlet on the horizon, and you call me her counterpart – but it is you, not I, who have the most in common with her.”

…and there it was. The implication given words. It chilled him to his core, and he was suddenly distinctly aware of the heavy drops of water leaking from cracks high above. His gaze shifted upward, to where fractures splintered like spiderwebs across cavern’s ceiling, weeping onto his beautiful city. He was distinctly aware of Grimm’s departure, footfalls light, cloak soundless. Mourning seized his lungs, holding him fast.

His kingdom was dead. He was not the one who killed it, but it was dead nonetheless, and in the war that he’d waged – conqueror to be – had anyone actually been victorious?

Was he really no different?

The Pale King turned and followed Grimm at a languid pace. Unlike the butterfly, his own steps were heavy things, the water splattering around him as he went. He could be faster. He could be more graceful, if he surrendered to his nature and moved on all limbs rather than the mimicry of a bipedal creature that he’d begun to favor. He did none of the above.

“The bodies,” he choked out, claws clinging to the remnants of wings that acted like clothing around himself. They were shattered in pieces and shorn; his reflection stared back at him, a disheveled mess, not at all the graceful figure that he’d once been. Hallownest’s Godking, reduced to a muddy, rotting figure, aghast and suspended in agony. How fitting.

He thought he heard the clank of chains.

He thought he heard the ethereal bells of seals going up.

He thought he saw, in his shadow, a figure behind him with blazing golden eyes.

There were none of those things and yet, part of him wished that there were.

“Will no one tend to them?” the Pale King asked.

Grimm stopped in front of a great, ornamental cage, folded metal and still in immaculate care for its age and lack of use. The butterfly adjusted the lever, calling the elevator back, then turned to look down at him.

“Who is left to do so? To mourn the dead? Would you have the relic seeker in the City do it? The survivors in Dirtmouth? Perhaps the scavengers of Deepnest have use for your carcasses?” He bent over, too far, his body curling in a way that no natural creature should have. “Or will it be you, wyrm? Will you bury your dead, lay them to rest? Bid farewell at last?” The wyrm looked away, and Grimm chuckled, vicious. “No. I thought not.”

This was going to be a long elevator ride.

[megmassa]

Monsters, Bubbles, and White Supremacy in Dot and Bubble

Let's make sure we're all on the same page. Dot and Bubble is a story about how white supremacist (techno) echo chambers doom their participants by obscuring the horrors of the world and showering white people with blissful ignorance.

Ok. Now onto some thoughts...

One of the biggest things that falls flat for me in this episode is the characterization of the man eating monster slugs. In universe, these slugs were created by the AI that runs the influencer echo chamber because all the white supremacists are "so annoying." The character's horror with respect to the monsters is "what are you?"

But this not quite how white supremacy works. The horrors of the world under white supremacy are those created ACTIVELY by it, not by accident. To view a world destroying power (Homeworld population 0) that is being ignored/obscured as an "oopsie", an unfortunate side effect of tech created for pleasure, absolves the white supremacist characters in the destruction of their world. It makes them victims instead of perpetrators.

A more accurate characterization would have placed the monsters as known entities that were created and used by the system to actively uphold white supremacy. The horror, then, for the characters switches from "what are you" to "you're not supposed to be doing this to US."

If instead the monsters were entities that had be used in creating this town, "cleansing" it, policing its borders, and yes, eating "undesirable" people to do so, the metaphor becomes more apt. Now, the bubble is a tool designed to shield the white privileged from the horrors required to maintain their "utopia," to mask the actual ongoings of the world. The dot doesn't register them because it's by ACTIVE design for maintenance of the world. The characters' lack of wanting to lower the bubble then signifies a WILLFUL engagement in the white supremacist system, a purposeful choice to shield that which one does not wish to know. The ignoring of disappearances becomes part of the practice of system maintenance.

Because THIS is ultimately how white supremacy functions. The tools it creates to maintain power actively destroy the world and, eventually, will eat its architects alive as well.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This is incredible- the home of architect and mural artist Juan O'Gorman is for sale. Casa-Estudio Juan O’Gorman (CEJO) is the sister house to the famous Casa-Estudio Diego Rivera-Frida Kahlo. Built in 1932 in Mexico City, Mexico, CEJO has 4bds, 6ba, 4,091 sq ft, $2,412,531. According to the listing: "Juan O’Gorman built, intermittently lived and died in this house, which is why the weight of his vigilant ghost haunts, embraces and secretly accompanies every corner of this peculiar work of art for sale."

I'm thinking that it comes furnished, although it really doesn't specify.

I wish Sotheby's didn't muck it up w/their watermarks.

It's been impeccably maintained and has such beautiful bright gardens showing thru the glass walls.

The bright colors combine beautifully in this setting.

According to the listing, "The dining area hosts a fabulous, priceless petromural with the image of a XIX century eagle symbol, embedded in the fireplace, as a testimony to O'Gorman’s artistic spectrum."

Details of the mural.

Beautiful doors.

I guess he liked his kitchen white and clean.

The house is huge. If you want an art studio, this house has everything an artist needs.

Beautiful room with lots of storage and display space.

They superimposed a B&W photo of O'Gorman actually working in here.

The primary bedroom suite is bigger than my apt.

Room with a vanity table.

Two more rooms make up the suite. They could also be used as studios.

The ensuite bath looks like a painting.

Terrace overlooking the gardens.

The outdoor areas are amazing.

This looks like a guest room.

The shower room has more traditional Mexican tiles and that sink!

Another superimposed vintage photo. It looks like a young O'Gorman and Diego Rivera. The lot is 4,966 sq ft.

https://www.jamesedition.com/real_estate/mexico-city-mexico/casa-estudio-juan-o-gorman-14958382

[shelleytheodore]

CV

SHELLEY THEODORE Born in Brisbane, Australia Lives and works in London, Barcelona and France https://shelleytheodore.tumblr.com/ https://www.axisweb.org/p/shelleytheodore/ EDUCATION 2012 MA Visual Art (Fine Art), Camberwell College of Art, University of the Arts, London 1995 Bachelor of Fine Art (Hons), Goldsmiths College, University of London 1992 Dept of Continuing Education, Goldsmiths College, University of London, Certificate in Art 1980 Bachelor of Social Work, University of Queensland, Australia SELECTED EXHIBITIONS AND PUBLICATIONS 2022 Artist Feature Special Issue: Best Artists of 2022 Magazine 43, Hong Kong 2022 Magazine 43 Film Friday featured artist April 2022 https://magazine43.substack.com 2021 Deptford X Festival, Art in the open Supported Application Guide shapeslewisham introducing@shelley_theodore 23 March 2021 Deptford London 2021 Post Analogue Labyrinth IV, virtual exhibition, https://www.artsteps.com/view/ 6092eeaca33cc06fe89a823f 2019 Post Analogue Labyrinth Ill, as part of DEPTFORD X FRINGE, AAJA Deptford 2018 Post Analogue Labyrinth 11, Sister Midnight Records 4 Tanners Hill London Gaze, Axisweb: Contemporary Art UK Network, online exhibition Aesthetica Issue 81, p157, Artists' Directory, Published on Jan 24,2018 2017 Drawing Open, 26 -28 May, No Format Gallery, Arch 29, Rolt Street, Deptford 2016 Prison Drawing Project, Dean Road Prison, Scarborough, UK Artrooms Fair 2016, Melia Whitehouse Hotel, London 2015 Uncertain States Annual, Mile End Art Pavilion, Mile End 2014 Pala, an online digital program of artist's film and video works curated by Laura Mansfield 2013 Bloomberg New Contemporaries 2013, Spike Island, Bristol, and ICA, London 8 STUDIOS FROM HERE, Faircharm Studios, Deptford Postcard From My Studio, Acme Project Space 44 Bonner Road, Bethnal Green, London 2012 Crash OPEN, Charlie Dutton Gallery, 1a Princeton Street, London The Salon Art Prize Exhibition 2012, Matt Roberts Art, 25b Vyner Street, London Jerwood Drawing Prize Exhibition 2012, Jerwood Space, London No Now, Space Station Sixty Five, Kennington Bend over Shirley, Beaconsfield Contemporary Art 2011 CCW Artist Moving Image, HMV Curzon, Wimbledon 'Chain letter' worldwide exhibition 2011, GIBSMIR family, Zurich, Switzerland. Flash in the Pan, curated by Naomi Sidefin and David Crawford, Beaconsfield Contemporary Art The Unsung Heroes of the studio, ASYLUM, The Chapel, Caroline Gardens, Peckham 2010 Peckham Space Open, Peckham Space, Peckham Deptford X Fringe Award, Deptford X Fringe Nunhead Open Art Exhibition, The Surgery, Nunhead 2009 Creekside Open, selected by Mark Wallinger, APT Gallery, Deptford Creekside Open, selected by Jenni Lomax, APT Gallery, Deptford 2008 London Art Fair, Islington, Beverley Knowles Fine Art 2007 London Art Fair, Islington, Beverley Knowles Fine Art RESIDENCIES 2022 Studio Residency, San Quirze Safaja, Barcelona 2021 Photography Workshop with Architect Lisa Harmey and architecture students University of Cardiff, UK 2015 'Backs to the Future' Residency, FIVE YEARS 66 Richmond Studios, 8 Andrews Road, E84QN 2014 2014 LUX Critical forum, London 2012 Gasworks Curatorial Workshop, Gasworks 2011 Urban fabric 2 (UF2) Paradox Conference, Crawford College of Art and Design, Cork, Ireland 'Sculptural Drawing Collaboration', The Woodmill Project Space, Bermondsey

[prodigiousvisions]

“It’s nothing like I’ve ever seen before!” Kaveh says, awestruck at the massive size of the Jade Chamber from the ground up. Commissions aside, he won’t have to be there until tomorrow, having been hired by the Tianquan months ago to draw up plans for an expansion. “And you’ve been there before?” However, with both hands on his hips, he tilts head over and looks at the swordswoman with bright eyes, eager to know more, “What’s it like?” (To Keqing!)

prompted ! | @dhahabibi

"It's a wonder, isn't it?" Keqing can't help but giggle a bit due to Kaveh's response to the absolute grandeur of the Jade Chamber. Not that she could blame him by any account, magenta orbs being met with shining admiration when she first cast her gaze upon it. "The Tianquan is many things, but lacking aesthetic is hardly an apt descriptor for her. That being said, her enlisting you to assist with the expansion process is by no means a simple stroke of opportunistic luck. Your feats as an architect are well accounted for."

Her head cranes skyward as if the physical sight allows her to jog her memory of the intricate details of the interior. "Extravagant in its antiquity. Covert, but purposeful. A palace of dreams that stirs the genius of those who step inside. It is inside the Jade Chamber that the Tianquan spills herself over certain laws and documents before descending down Liyue to give her final verdict. Being able to collaborate on its growth will be a hallmark of history to write down in your books for years to come."

[the-dragon-folk]

Rat Pack Ramblings

Parsley's father (Oghren) was one of the best warriors in his generation, and the woman she was named after was the Hero of Ferelden and the first Commander of the Grey appointed after the Blight. Oghren is a barbarian drunkard, and Partha was losing her mind long before she ~ mysteriously disappeared ~ and left CotG to Killian. I also imagine a home of Felsi and Oghren was just a somehwat rocky home in general, even if they did love their daughter. Parsley may have been a little parentified growing up. Partha's reputation is also pretty easily marked as "people called her Peace-Keeper as a pointed joke." I think Parsley parallels this by living up to the "Peace" part of the name Partha. Parsley does this by just simply... being more at peace with herself than adult in her life ever was. She's the most mentally & spiritually healthy person in the group because she takes the time to Relax and Unpack Shit, as well as just devoting herself to kindness and seeing people as the complicated fuck ups that they are rather than Good or Bad.

"Were you dropped as a child?" "Twice!"

While Parsley is a good fighter, she's rarely on the offensive. This goes to Selsie - who has been trained by a pack of Gray Wardens and an Ativan crow. Selsie as a child dreamed of being the Commander of the Grey, and the Warden Archivist, and the queen of the Antivan Crows. Now, at 19, she's a little more reasonable, but strives to one day become the Commander of the Grey. She planned to take the Joining as soon as she was allowed, but when Selsie started wondering about the world that existed out beyond Vigil's Keep, Killian and Judpha jumped to encourage her in the hopes they could put off their daughter dying to The Cup or being doomed to the calling by a few more years until they found a way to change her mind. Selsie was probably paired with Parsley to run around the country side with, and Kieran probably involved himself from there.

Parsley definitely knows more about certain Warden secrets than Selsie for the sake that Oghren was probably more apt to let those things slip than Judpha and Killian, who were set on keeping Selsie out of Grey Warden stuff when possible. The Architect comes up.

A lot of Jacinth's character centers around the fact that Jay spent much of her life being told she was the daughter of a coward, compounded by the fact that people probably didn't immediately drop the idea that the Grey Wardens betrayed the nation at a sensitive moment. She was, like, really bullied her entire childhood, and that never really subsided as she grew up. She kind of left when she got the chance. Maybe she served as a helping hand to Connor until they ran into the other kids and converged since Connor and them all had that warden connection.

I need to generate more ideas on Kieran, Connor and Jay, they're definitely my least developed group.

Anyways, Connor ran from the circle after his mental health got worse and he learned they were planning to tranquilize him.

[teabooksandsweets]

“You see, there’s nothing to see. A few pretty things I’d like to show you one day—not now. But there’s the chapel. You must see that. It’s a monument of art nouveau.”

The last architect to work at Brideshead had sought to unify its growth with a colonnade and flanking pavilions. One of these was the chapel. We entered it by the public porch (another door led direct to the house); Sebastian dipped his fingers in the water stoup, crossed himself and genuflected; I copied him. “Why do you do that?” he asked crossly.

“Just good manners.”

“Well, you needn’t on my account. You wanted to do sight-seeing; how about this?”

The whole interior had been gutted, elaborately refurnished and redecorated in the arts-and-crafts style of the last decade of the nineteenth century. Angels in printed cotton smocks, rambler-roses, flower-spangled meadows, frisking lambs, texts in Celtic script, saints in armour, covered the walls in an intricate pattern of clear, bright colours. There was a triptych of pale oak, carved so as to give it the peculiar property of seeming to have been moulded in plasticine. The sanctuary lamp and all the metal furniture were of bronze, hand-beaten to the patina of a pock-marked skin; the altar steps had a carpet of grass-green, strewn with white and gold daisies.

“Golly,” I said.

------------------------------------------------

There was one part of the house I had not yet visited, and I went there now. The chapel showed no ill-effects of its long neglect; the art-nouveau paint was as fresh and bright as ever; the art-nouveau lamp burned once more before the altar. I said a prayer, an ancient, newly learned form of words, and left, turning towards the camp; and as I walked back, and the cookhouse bugle sounded ahead of me, I thought:—

The builders did not know the uses to which their work would descend; they made a new house with the stones of the old castle; year by year, generation after generation, they enriched and extended it; year by year the great harvest of timber in the park grew to ripeness; until, in sudden frost, came the age of Hooper; the place was desolate and the work all brought to nothing; Quomodo sedet sola civitas. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.

And yet, I thought, stepping out more briskly towards the camp, where the bugles after a pause had taken up the second call and were sounding Pick-em-up, Pick-em-up, hot potatoes—and yet that is not the last word; it is not even an apt word; it is a dead word from ten years back.

Something quite remote from anything the builders intended has come out of their work, and out of the fierce little human tragedy in which I played; something none of us thought about at the time: a small red flame—a beaten-copper lamp of deplorable design, relit before the beaten-copper doors of a tabernacle; the flame which the old knights saw from their tombs, which they saw put out; that flame burns again for other soldiers, far from home, farther, in heart, than Acre or Jerusalem. It could not have been lit but for the builders and the tragedians, and there I found it this morning, burning anew among the old stones.