#chant breton

[sonennou]

Hag e gar Sebreved souezhet e oan chomet, Tro teir eur d'ar mintin 'wel' mam bro benniget.

An avaloù e bleuñv a oa ken brav, ken gae, Sailh' a rae ma c'halon a pa sellen doc'hte.

Ha doc'hin me 'lâre ar gouiañv ma vo bourrapl (1) 'C'hober ur barti kaer er grañjoù é filaj.

'C'hober ur barti kaer é filaj er grañjoù, Purju mat, a-dra-sur, a vo 'barzh ar fustoù !

FR. À LA GARE DE SÉBREVET. À la gare de Sébrevet, je restais surpris en voyant mon pays béni, vers trois heures. / Les pommiers en fleurs étaient si beaux, si plaisants ; mon cœur tressaillait à les regarder. / Et je me disais en moi-même que l'hiver sera agréable, à faire une belle soir��e dans les granges, à veiller. / À faire une belle soirée, à veiller dans les granges ; il y aura certainement du bon pur jus dans les fûts !

EN. AT SEBREVET STATION. At Sébrevet (train) station, I was surprised to see my country blessed, around three o'clock. / The apple trees in bloom were so beautiful, so pleasant…

NB : Gare de Sébrevet-Bubry, Lanvaudan : 1902-1947.

(1) bourrapl = plijus

[canis-majoris]

[elavoria]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @sylvienerevarine, @theoneandonlysemla, @dirty-bosmer, and @veryvayyn, thank you all! I tag @nostalgic-breton-girl, @1helios1, @illumiera, and @sheirukitriesfandom~

A little more Lost Chapel, this time after Isanna’s found Regill:

“You’ve lost blood,” she said softly as she laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. Her heart thrilled at the feel of him, even as she sensed him freeze, even as her eyes wandered over the crimson streaks running down his pale cheek. “Let me heal you.” He looked down at her hand without moving his head, then flicked his eyes back to hers with a look of uncertainty. “It’s nothing,” he said, but he spoke the words without conviction, and he was staring a little too deeply into her eyes. “You should save your magic.” “I still have plenty,” she countered. Without waiting for him to respond, she chanted a soft prayer to Sarenrae, then smiled as golden light swirled around him and closed his wounds. Satisfied that he was once again at his best, she withdrew her hand, only to immediately miss his warmth, and she busied herself with removing the sack from her pack to hide her longing. “Here,” she said as she presented it to him. “The rest of your armor.” His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and she caught the brief flash of eagerness within them before it disappeared and his brows knit together. “You shouldn’t have wasted time on this,” he said, taking the sack despite his complaint. Then, muttered in a quiet voice meant only for her ears, “Nevertheless, I… thank you.”

[galleryofart]

The Love Song

Artist: Edward Burne-Jones (English, 1833–1898)

Date: 1868-1873

Medium: Oil on canvas

Location: Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, NY, United States

Description

This oil painting occupied Burne-Jones from 1868 to 1877. A consummate achievement of Victorian art, it fuses a reverence for Venetian Renaissance painting with a distinctly Aesthetic sense of the connection between music and love. Cupid, personifying Love, slowly squeezes the bellows of a portable organ played by a maiden whose music bewitches her lover, an armor-clad knight.

The composition was first created as a design for the decoration of a panel in an upright piano given to Edward and Georgiana Burne-Jones on their marriage in 1860. Georgiana was an accomplished singer whose repertoire included folk songs and medieval music as well as modern pieces; the title of the painting may derive from a traditional Breton song “Hélas! Je sais un chant d’amour / Triste ou gai, tour à tour.” The composition was also used for a watercolor of 1865 (now in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston). Most revealing, however, is a portrait of his mistress, the sculptor Maria Zambaco (1870), in which a tiny version of Le Chant d’Amour is shown, as an illustration to an illuminated manuscript she has been reading. Burne-Jones perhaps identified himself as the lovesick knight.

The style of the work is much influenced by Venetian art, and especially the so-called Concert Champêtre in the Louvre in Paris, then thought to be by Giorgione. This richly toned pastoral scene depicted courtiers playing music outdoors, attended by female nudes. It was in an essay on “The School of Giorgione” in 1877 that the Aesthete Walter Pater coined the phrase “all art continually aspires to the condition of music.”

Le Chant d’Amour was shown in 1878 at the Grosvenor Gallery, the preeminent exhibition space for the Aesthetic Movement. In Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience, the Aesthetic poet Bunthorne declares himself to be “a greenery-yallery Grosvenor Gallery / Foot in the grave young man,” a reference to Burne-Jones’s muted coloring and enervated male figures.

[foxyanon]

Zahkriisos

Summary: No summary, just notes. So for those who don’t know anything about Skyrim, I’m going to give a simple overview of a few things. The Dragonborn is essentially (in its most basic form) a hero of legend. Hermaeus Mora is a Daedric Prince (kind of like a demon) and his realm of Oblivion (kind of like hell) is Apocraphya (he’s know for being a hoarder of knowledge, hence the book named world). The title of the story gets its name from a dragon priest mask, which means Bloody Sword or Sword-Blood.

Pairing: Cultist!Masema x Dragonborn!Reader

Word Count: 2772

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

TW: Implied smut, blood, mentions of death, Dragonborn is a Breton but no other descriptors used, religious references

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Wheel of Time or The Elder Scrolls nor do I own any of the images used.

Dividers by @arcielee

Masema had been found on the shores of Solstheim by the Skaal, having washed ashore after a bad storm ravaged the island a couple years ago. He had foggy memories of his life before, but he did know he was a warrior and not from here. He was taken in by the Skaal shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, and nursed back to health, so he felt he owed it to the old man to stay and help out as needed. Even though he never felt connected to the All-Maker the way everyone else in the village did, he was still respectful of the religion and the culture. Even though he wasn’t born of the people, they still treated him like one of their own which is why the shaman decided he should help protect the pilgrims during their pilgrimage to the All-Makers stones. It was to be a long journey, one that would take months as the stones were scattered across Solstheim’s landscape.

It was at the Beast Stone, just beyond the borders of Thirsk Mead Hall, where he felt his lord’s presence for the first time. They had traveled to all the other stones and this was the last one before they would return to the village, something Masema was grateful for as he was tired of living on the road. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy spending time in nature, but the northern part of the island was all snow and ice which meant it was really fucking cold all the time. He was standing guard over the camp when he heard Lord Miraak’s voice call out from the stone before he was enthralled, the entire party starting to chant about the return of the Dragonborn and erecting shrines to their new overlord. Masema followed the orders of Miraak, first through entrapment and then of his own free will as it was the closest he had felt to any divine being in his entire existence.

As the Cult of Miraak grew, he moved through the ranks and eventually was the one giving orders to the new recruits from the Temple of Miraak. When rumors of another Dragonborn reached his ears, Miraak had given the command for Masema to send people to eliminate the ‘false Dragonborn’ in Skyrim and upon proof of their death, he would be rewarded. At first he sent out some recruits who were eager to prove their loyalty, but when they didn’t return, he started to get suspicious. There were reports of what this mysterious person was capable of, claiming they could slay dragons single-handed and were currently one of the more well known adventurers of the land. After the third attempt at killing this person, Masema started sending the more skilled men and women. After eight months of failure and many dead worshippers, Masema was well and truly pissed. If he wasn’t needed at the Temple, he’d go out and handle business himself but that just wasn’t possible right now. Preparations for the return of Miraak to the island took priority, so he resigned himself to sending another small group in the hopes this thorn in his side would finally be dealt with.

It was another cold day in the temple when Masema heard the most wonderful news. The other Dragonborn had sailed from Skyrim and was currently at Raven Rock, thanks to none other than Gjaland Salt-Sage, the same ship captain he “persuaded” to send the cultists to Skyrim originally. He even learned that the secretive person was a Breton, but no name was ever revealed to him. He thought things were finally looking up and that he’d be able to deliver the body of the false one to his lord, but how seldom does the fantasy match the reality.

As it turns out, this mysterious creature was working with the Skaal to remove Lord Miraak’s influence from the island. Somehow, on one of his trips away to check on a few things at the Earth Stone, this infuriating Breton got into the temple, killed all the cultists there and stole the Black Book from its pedestal. The nerve of that foreigner to desecrate sacred ground really solidified his resentment for them. Masema decided to take matters into his own hands and search out the defiler on his own, swearing to his lord he would handle matters before he set off in search of his target. Naturally, of course, this would be a monumental task as he would have to be careful to avoid the people he once called friends and his elusive prey seemed to be a master of hiding in plain sight. The only identifying thing about them other than the full set of ebony armor was the mask they wore, the ebony metal hiding them from the world. He recognized it as Zahkriisos, the mask of the dragon priest that was buried in Blodskal Barrow, an old Nordic ruin north of Raven Rock.

He tracked his query across all the island, but they were always one step ahead of him. With the help of Frea, Storn’s daughter, they slowly but surely cleansed the stones and cut off Miraak from speaking with any of his worshippers. After the second to last stone was cleansed and the false one had obtained all of the Black Books, Masema knew he needed to return to the temple and try to defend the last stone. It was here that he heard his lord’s voice for what would be the last time, telling him that all was as it should be and that his destiny was to battle the Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha. Lord Miraak claimed that the fate that had been chosen for him would come to pass and that he was pleased with the loyalty and devotion Masema had shown him.

It was here that Masema was waiting for them, standing in front of the Tree Stone in his robes and mask, the last member of a once strong cult. He saw the Dragonborn glide down the hall, their cloak flowing behind them and the mask covering their face as well. He tried to determine the identity of the Dragonborn, but their armor covered them from head to toe, the ebony metal muted in appearance and fitted in the most generic of ways. The soft clanking of their boots on the stone echoed down the hall and into the chamber he occupied, steadily getting louder the closer they got. When they finally stopped several feet away, the tension was palpable as they sized the other up.

For a moment, they both stood there and stared at each other in silence, the weight of their respective destinies entwining with one another in the space between them. He noticed they traveled alone, the Black Book in their hands as they prepared for the final battle against Miraak. There was an energy that clung to them and their armor, the kind that only the favored of the gods could possess and that gave him pause. He found he had no desire to fight them, the futility of their situation coming into focus for him. He could not prevent their destiny from playing out, but he could choose whether he be another body for them or to stand aside and live another day. He chose the latter.

”I will not interfere with what fate has decreed. I shall watch over your spirit as you do what you must,” Masema stepped off to the side, head bowed slightly as he addressed the Dragonborn. The only response he received was a simple nod before the masked warrior opened the book, the tentacles of Hermaeus Mora bursting from the enchanted pages, wrapping around their form and pulling them into Oblivion with a sickeningly green flash of light. All that remained of the mysterious Breton was a spectral image, one that offered no insight to the identity of the physical person.

After what felt like an eternity of pacing back and forth in front of the stone, the book came alive and unceremoniously spit the body of the Dragonborn back out. Masema was startled at the sudden appearance, until he saw the blood dripping from a wound on their side and off their blade onto the stone ground beneath them. There was a new crack in the mask, their shoulders heaving as they pant in an attempt to catch a breath. No words needed to be said, Miraak was dead and the victor returned to the land of the living.

Wordlessly, Masema helped them up, careful not to agitate the wound as the two staggered down the dank halls of the crumbling temple. The walk to the old medical room passed in silence, the sounds of footsteps and heavy breathing bouncing off the stone walls with a soft echo. He helped the Dragonborn onto a wooden cot draped with furs before wandering towards the shelves in search of healing herbs or potions. He hears the telltale signs of the wounded Breton removing their armor, the sounds of metal and leather hitting the ground while his back is turned. When he turns around after having found a single healing potion amidst the disorganized shelf, he nearly drops the glass vial when he sees the Dragonborn for the first time.

He’s surprised to see a woman sitting on the cot, a thin wound bleeding from her hairline and the once pristine linen tunic sticking to her torso, the gash on her side bloodying the fabric. He was frozen in place, her eyes capturing his and the smirk gracing her lips indicating she is used to such behaviors. She holds her hand out, waiting for Masema to hand her the potion he holds. Even though her injuries look serious, she doesn’t push or taunt him, simply being patient as he collects his thoughts. With a shaky breath, Masema closes the distance and hands her the vial, watching as she downs it in one. He’s so caught up in being in front of such beauty that when she speaks, it startles him.

”What is your name?” She asks simply, her voice soft as she lifts her tunic and gets a look at her injury. She lifts her hand, a warm light emitting from her fingers and wrapping itself around her like an aura as she casts a healing spell that closes the wound better than any stitching. Masema watches a little starstruck as the woman literally glows for a moment, forgetting she had asked a question. When she raises a brow at him, he blushes furiously and swallows hard, having been caught gawking at her.

He clears his throat and looks at the ground, grateful for his mask hiding his face from her. “My name is Masema, Dragonborn,” he spoke quietly, fidgeting with his gloves and taking a few steadying breaths.

”A pleasure to meet you, Masema,” she gave him her name and he tasted it on his tongue, finding that the name suited her beautifully. “Would you mind if I asked your story? You are the only cultist who hasn’t attacked me outright and I’m curious as to why.”

He nodded in agreement and they proceeded to talk for hours, the candles burning low by the time they finished. She listened to his story, no judgment or anger in her eyes when he told her the truth of his involvement with Miraak. About halfway through, Masema felt comfortable enough to remove his mask and the act of trust made her smile, something so minor but it made his heart beat a little faster.

After she decided needed to leave the ruins to find food and clean up, Masema found himself unwilling to leave her side. He followed behind her after she got dressed again, letting her lead the way through the labyrinth of halls. Once outside, they both breathed in the cold fresh air, a far cry more refreshing than the stale air inside the temple. He hesitated as she started off in the direction of Thirsk, wanting to stay with her but unsure if she would want that. He looked around at the landscape, trying to gather the words to ask, but she beat him to the punch.

She was stopped several feet away, Zahkriisos held loosely in her hands at her side as the sun shone brightly behind her. ”Masema, how would you like to adventure with me?” Her question offered him the choice to walk away, but when she was looking at him like that, he couldn’t resist accepting her offer. He’d follow her to the end, to the very halls of Sovngarde and beyond if she’d let him.

She smiled and nodded, looking out over the horizon before turning and continuing on her journey. Masema breathed a sigh of relief, a smile on his face as he looked at the yellow mask in his hands. It was a symbol, a reminder of a life he was no longer living. With a sigh, he left his mask on the stone steps of the now deserted place he once called home, leaving behind one life and eagerly walking towards the next.

Masema had been traveling with the Dragonborn for several months now and he learned a lot about this woman in that time, like the reasons his assassination attempts never worked. For starters, she was the leader of half the guilds in the damned kingdom. He also learned that she only used her respective titles when outright doing business for them and wore different masks when dealing with the general population, only a select handful of her closest allies knowing her name. He practically swooned upon learning she had trusted him enough to know her identity, even more when he discovered through a friend of hers that she rarely kept traveling companions for more than a few weeks. Apparently this was to help maintain her secrecy, but since he had proven himself to be trustworthy and loyal to her, she kept him by her side.

His life finally had purpose again, serving and protecting her on their travels having made him realize that Miraak was a fraud, using his divinely given powers to assert dominion over the people he was meant to protect. Whenever he felt shame for his past actions, she was right there to tell him that his future doesn’t need to be weighed down by the consequences of the past. She did, however, prevent him from falling down the same path of reverence he once showed Miraak, claiming that she had no desire to be worshiped by the masses and that history wasn’t kind to those who sought such power. Even if she wouldn't have a following like her predecessor, Masema had no qualms being wholly devoted to her. He found her desire to aid everyone, even the poor and displaced, inspiring. It’s no surprise her kindness towards him and everyone else had him falling in love with her.

It was during one of their adventures, camped somewhere in Whiterun Hold under the stars and two moons of Nirn, when he finally confessed his feelings to her. He had felt nervous, his palms sweaty and avoiding her gaze as he stared into the small campfire. When he heard her get up and walk over to him, he finally dared to look up at her and was shocked to see her hand outstretched towards him, a silent request to take it as she stood there in the low light of the fire. He placed his hand in hers, standing up and following her towards their shared tent, his breathing uneven as she pulled him along behind her.

No words were said, their lips finding the others in the darkness of the tent and hands pulling at laces and straps of their garments. Masema laid her back on her bedroll, taking his time to learn her body even if he couldn’t see it. His fingers traced over old scars, his lips following close behind. He licked, kissed and bit her skin, leaving physical marks on her the same way she had done to his soul. He doesn’t know how long they stayed wrapped in each other, just know that it wasn’t nearly long enough. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, the sounds of her soft breathing as she rested her head on his chest the most wonderful thing he thought he’d ever experienced. Masema sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Creator and the Divines for giving him a chance to find redemption, feeling a sense of certainty spread through his veins at the idea of aiding the true chosen of Akatosh.

Taglist: @valeskafics @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @whitedarkmoonflower @gemini-mama @alexagirlie @thenameswinter99 @mrsarnasdelicious @synintheraven

[petit-atelier-de-poesie]

NOTE DE LECTURE : Cahier d'une retour au pays natal. Aimé Césaire. 1937/1949. Edition 2000

Ce petit bouquin est d'une telle puissance. Il m'a été offert par ma nièce, me tirant des larmes en déchirant le papier cadeau, d'abord des larmes de gratitude et puis pendant la lecture des larmes de nostalgie et de compassion.  Ce poème en prose est tellement d'actualité. Aimé Césaire, poète de la "négritude", est tellement moderne, c'est un manifeste prenant la voix de ses origines noires, ainsi que celle de tous les opprimés, et il y en a tant encore.  Publié en 1939, il est tout de suite reconnu par André Breton qui en assure la préface pour l'édition de 1947. L'écriture est délicate et forte, en vers libres, car il faut bien prendre la liberté là où elle se trouve encore. Et c'est un chant, une incantation et une prière, que nous offre le poète. On y entend la douleur et la colère, l'encouragement et l'espoir. Avec lui, j'entends les chants des peuples africains sur les plantations et les plages, et les chants des esclaves sur les navires négriers, et je me laisse emporter par l'éternel retour au pays natal et la présence toujours vive de notre dignité commune.

[lesondupapillon]

Je chante votre horizon fatal

Vous qui clignez imperceptiblement dans la main de mon amour

/ André Breton

[lahija-del-molinero]

Jules Breton, “Le chant de l’alouette” (1884)

[icariebzh]

"J'ai passé des nuits entières  debout au gaillard d'avant.  Sous bon vent sous vent contraire  sous la brise et les vivants.  Sous bon vent souvent contraire guerre guerre, vent devant." Extrait de chant traditionnel breton

[adieulesc0ns]

J’aime trop la vie ici, ça me rappelle à quel point la vie peut-être douce par des petites choses comme le village d’hier soir où on a écouté des chants marins, où on a discuté avec des gens passionnés.

Aujourd’hui on est allé visiter le Crozon en bateau et c’était vraiment magnifique, on a eut plein d’explications sur la géologie des lieux, la faune et la flore c’était vraiment chouette. Les bretons sont super accueillants je trouve et ils mettent une touche d’humour dans tout ce qu’ils font.

On a vu un collectionneur à qui j’ai pris deux livres (évidemment) de Steinbeck et c’était un passionné donc c’était vraiment un plaisir de l’écouter en parler. J’aime les gens qui ont des passions, quand ils en parlent ils ont une étincelle dans les yeux qu’on ne voit nulle part.

[sheirukitriesfandom]

Shuffle your "repeat" playlist and list the first ten songs

Way behind but still, thanks @katastronoot and @skyrim-forever. Due to my Italian venture a good chunk is likely gonna be in Italian but hey, that only makes it more interesting :D Tagging: @elavoria @nostalgic-breton-girl @thequeenofthewinter @dirty-bosmer @miraakulous-cloud-district and @fenriael

La mia banda suona il rock - Ivano Fossati

Berta filava - Rino Gaetano

Avalancha - Heroes del Silencio

Mermaid - Amorphis

Unleah - Anaal Nathrakh

Italodisco - The Kolors

Spoon - CAN

Ma che freddo fa - Nada

The chant - Gojira

Si può fare - Angelo Branduardi

[sonennou]

Sotaet un den yaouank 'laka 'n e faltazi Da gariñ ur vestrez hep bout sur anezhi./ Rak me 'm eus-me karet get mad hag onestiz Ha roet (1) a-vat, siwazh ! boked ma yaouankiz./ N'hoc'h eus ket soñj, plac'hig, a bardon Lanvodan Hor boa 'n ur mem skudell evet dour ar feutan ?/ Ha c'hwi 'lâre ken brav, goude deoc'h bout evet : « Ma c'halon a roan deoc'h get an dour benniget. »/ Ho kalon-c'hwi, plac'h y'ouank (2), n'ho poa ket hi roet din, Mes ma hani, allas ! c'hwi 'poa laeret doc'hin./ C'hoari a raec'h genin èl ma ra ur c'hrouadur, É reiñ hag é kemer hervez (3) ho plijadur./ Div wezh 'peus (4) ma c'haset d'ho koulenn get ho tud ; Ha pa vezent kontant e taec'h-c'hwi da vout mut./ Betek un deiz, plac'hig, 'poa man difariet (5), E-tal iliz Kalann, e-pad an ov'renn-bred./ An deiz-se, hep truez, din c'hwi 'poa dizoloet Ne oa ket ac'hanon 'rezec'h bout ho pried./ P'oac'h é tonet d'ar gêr, get un all kazeliet, C'hwi 'poa taolet genin ur sell n'ankouazhin ket./ Èl ur fleurenn e bleuñv get ur revenn losket, E oa bet, an deiz-se, ma c'harantez kollet./ A pa doste d'an eost, 'n hani 'm boa kempennet, E'it e serriñ, plac'hig, n'ho poa ket m'istimet.

(Poem by Loeiz Herrieu (1879-1953), traditional tune)

FR. PRÈS DE L'ÉGLISE DE CALAN (Première version). Qu'il est imprudent le jeune homme qui cherche à courtiser une jeune fille sans en être sûr ! / Car, pour moi, j'ai aimé bien honnêtement et donné, pour rien hélas, la fleur de ma jeunesse. / Vous souvenez vous, jeune fille, du pardon de Lanvaudan où nous avions, dans la même écuelle, bu l'eau de la fontaine ? / Et vous me disiez, si gentiment, après avoir bu : « C'est mon cœur que je vous offre avec cette eau bénite ! » / Votre cœur, jeune fille, vous ne me l'aviez pas donné, mais le mien, hélas, vous me l'aviez ravi. / Vous vous amusiez de moi, comme le fait un enfant, donnant, reprenant, selon votre caprice ; / Deux fois, sur vos désirs, je vous ai demandée à vos parents ; Lorsqu'ils étaient consentants, vous deveniez muette. / Jusqu’au jour où vous m'avez détrompé, près de l'église de Calan, lors de la grand-messe. / Ce jour-là, sans égard, jeune fille, vous m’avez dévoilé que je n'étais pas l'époux que vous rêviez d'avoir. / Vous reveniez à la maison au bras d'un autre ; vous m'avez jetez un regard que je n'oublierai pas. / Comme une fleur brûlée par la gelée, mon amour ce jour-là fut anéanti. / Quand approchait l'heure de la récolte que j'avais préparée ; pour la moissonner, jeune fille, vous ne m'aviez pas estimé.

EN. NEAR THE CHURCH OF CALAN (First version). How reckless it is the young man who seeks to court a young girl without being sure of it! / Because, for me, I loved very honestly and gave, unfortunately, the flower of my youth…

(1) <rɛjt> ; (2) ur silabenn ; (3) <rəvɛt> ; (4) 'peus = ac'h eus ; (5) difariet = difaziet

[mrlafont]

Au fond de moi-même un vieux chant breton que la voix des temps fredonne. Un cœur qui pleure je ne sais quelle noble douleur. Tout cela doux et dur, léger et triste. Heureux car beau, beau car vrai. Je tiens dans ma main la main de la sagesse. Qu'elle ne m'échappe que le plus tard possible. Que tout est beau ! Que coule en moi longtemps encore ce chant ! Il est venu, finalement, le temps de l'apaisement, et tous mes faux espoirs se sont enfin tus. À la place, quelle joyeuse sérénité. Car quoi ? L'expérience de la vie m'a rendu la confiance que j'avais perdue en elle. Maintenant, j'ai compris. Il n'y a rien à craindre, tant qu'avec soi-même on est honnête. Les dieux sont contents de moi, car je me suis soumis à eux, et me soumettant, ils me relèvent la tête et me sourient.

[isamajor]

Whumpblrful’s 100 Drabble Challenge - Whump Edition (prompt 6 to 10)

 Another batch of @whumpblrful‘s 100 Drabble Challenge.

6 – Mind

The Dragonborn's eyes widened in horror as they regained control, staring at the Ebony Blade stained with Lydia's blood. They looked at their dying huscarl in disbelief, as the voice in their mind finally fell silent.

"What... what have I done?" they stammered, panic overtaking them. "I didn't mean to... It was the voice... ! "

Around them, the world froze, horror marking faces. From Lydia's lips came only a weak gurgle. The Dragonborn's hands trembled as they dropped the cursed blade, stepping back, shocked. In the back of their mind they could hear the smug laughter of Mephala. (102)

•

7 – Broken Wings

Caryalind's heart pounded in his chest as he sprinted through the woods, desperate to escape his fate, until a lightning spell took his breath away and knocked him to the ground. Powerful arms grabbed him and freed him of his daggers. Caryalind struggled, but his father's men were stronger and more numerous. His eyes filled with fear. He didn't want the destiny his father had mapped out for him and to be molded into the perfect Thalmor. As they dragged him away, Caryalind's dreams of freedom shattered, like a bird whose wings have been broken. (99)

•

8 – Rescue

Their group was formidable, but their enemies knew it and had come in numbers and strength. As if the Aldmeri Dominion were afraid of the Dragonborn and what he stood for, and had decided to eliminate him no matter what. Critically outnumbered, battered by numerous mages and soldiers, they were on the verge of succumbing when Auri noticed the glow of torches by the hundreds in the distance. For a moment they were afraid it was a new contingent of Thalmor but soon, fierce cries that chanted "Dovahkiin! Dovakhiin!" came to their ears. The people of Skyrim had come to their rescue. (102)

•

9 – Helpless

Lucien's usually sharp mind and vast knowledge were of no use in this situation. Cornered by a group of scoundrels who had seen him arrive with his nose in his books, his attempts to reason with them were met with harsh laughter before they decide to hit and rob him. Lucien, trying to protect his books, couldn't even cast a spell before being knocked down by a punch, leaving him breathless and defenseless. He felt totally helpless in this alley of Riften, feeling his clothes being ripped off in search of money or jewelry, under the threat of more blows. (102)

•

10 – Happy?

Serana's lips tightened into a thin line as she reluctantly agreed to Remiel's request. "Fine, no raising the dead. Happy?" Her tone dripped with sarcasm, clearly displeased with the limitations on her powers. If the Dragonborn hadn't supported Remiel's request, Serana wouldn't have complied, the Breton knew that. But only the result mattered. Every corpse that had been brought back to life against its will had for her the face of her own father, whose body had been desecrated by these horrible methods. Although she could understand the tactical advantage of this, there were lines that should not be crossed. (105)

[marciamattos]

René Magritte - Le stropiat - René Magritte

René Magritte

Magritte est né à Lessines, dans le Hainaut, en 1898, fils aîné de Léopold Magritte, tailleur et marchand de textile, et Régina (née Bertinchamps), modiste jusqu'à son mariage. La famille bougera beaucoup : Lessines, Gilly, Châtelet, Charleroi, Châtelet, Charleroi encore ou son éduction ainsi que celle de ses frères, sera confiée à sa grand-mère et des gouvernantes.

Le 12 Mars 1912, sa mère se suicide en se noyant dans la Sambre. Ce n'était pas sa première tentative de se donner la mort, et suite à plusieurs d'entre elles, son mari Léopold s'était résolu à l'enfermer dans sa chambre. Après s'être échappé et avait disparu plusieurs jours, elle est découverte plus bas dans la rivière voisine. Magritte, 13 ans, aurait été présent lorsque son corps a été retiré des eaux, sa robe recouvrant son visage. Cette image aura été suggéré comme la source de plusieurs oeuvres de Magritte en 1927-1928 représentant des personnes dont les visages sont masqués par un drap. Magritte se défendra cependant toute sa vie de toute lecture psychologique et analytique de son œuvre.

Sa carrière d'artiste démarre jeune : il commence ses premières leçons de dessin en 1910. Les premières peintures de Magritte, qui datent d'environ 1915, étaient de style impressionniste. De 1916 à 1918, il étudie à l'Académie Royale des Beaux-Arts de Bruxelles, avec Montald Constant, mais y trouve l'instruction sans intérêt. Les tableaux qu'il a produits au cours des années 1918-1924 ont été influencés par le futurisme et le cubisme pratiqué par Metzinger. On trouve beaucoup de nus féminins

En 1922, Magritte épouse Georgette Berger, qu'il connaissait déjà depuis son enfance et une foire à Char en 1913. De Décembre 1920 à Septembre 1921, Magritte sert dans l'infanterie belge en Flandres, à Beverloo. En 1922-1923, il travaille comme dessinateur dans l'usine de papier peint Peters-Lacroix avec le peintre Victor Servranckx, il dessine également des affiches et des publicités jusqu'en 1926, quand un contrat avec la Galerie Le Centaure de Bruxelles lui offre alors la possibilité de peindre à plein temps.

Magritte rencontre E. L. T. Mesens en 1920 et Camille Goemans et Marcel Lecomte en 1924, qui l’introduisent dans le milieu dada. Le groupe Surréaliste de Bruxelles s'ébauche dès 1924 avec le rapprochement de Nougé, Goemans et Lecomte, avec Mesens et Magritte, puis de Louis Scutenaire et Irène Hamoir en 1926. Il doit alors à Lecomte, ou selon Scutenaire à Mesens, sa plus grande émotion artistique : la découverte d’une reproduction du Chant d’amour de Giorgio De Chirico (1914). « Mes yeux ont vu la pensée pour la première fois », écrira-t-il en se souvenant de cette révélation.

En 1926, Magritte réalise sa première peinture surréaliste, Le Jockey perdu, et tient sa première exposition à Bruxelles en 1927. Les critiques sont unanimement mauvaises... Déprimé, il s'installe à Paris où il se lie d'amitié avec André Breton, et rencontre les surréalistes (Paul Éluard, Max Ernst, Salvador Dalí), participe à leurs activités et expose à la galerie Goemans .

La Galerie la Centaure ferme fin de 1929, mettant fin aux revenus de Magritte. N'ayant pas eu plus de succès à Paris et suite à sa brouille avec Breton, Magritte est retourné à Bruxelles en 1930 et reprend le travail dans la publicité (qu'il appelait ses travaux imbéciles). Son frère, Paul, et lui créent une agence qui lui assure un revenu décent. Il présente en 1931 une exposition organisée par Mesens, avec une préface de Nougé. Il adhère l'année suivante au Parti communiste belge et rencontre Paul Colinet. Magritte expose en 1933 au Palais des Beaux-Arts de Bruxelles et dessine en 1934 Le Viol pour la couverture de Qu'est-ce que le surréalisme ? d'André Breton. Il réalise en 1936 sa première exposition à New York, à la galerie Julien Levy, fait la connaissance l'année suivante de Marcel Mariën et séjourne à Londres où il expose en 1938 à la London gallery de Mesens.

Qu'est ce que le Surréalisme (André Breton), dessin Le Viol (René Magritte) Je ne vois pas la [femme] cachée dans la forêt

Pendant l'occupation de la Belgique lors la Seconde Guerre mondiale, il reste à Bruxelles. Il a adopte brièvement un style coloré en 1943-44, intermède connu comme sa «période Renoir », en réaction à son sentiment d'aliénation lors de ce temps d'occupation de la Belgique. En 1946, renonçant à la violence et au pessimisme de ses travaux antérieurs, il signe le manifeste du « Surréalisme en plein soleil ».

En 1948, pour sa première exposition personnelle à la Galerie du Faubourg à Paris, Magritte peint en six semaines une quarantaine de tableaux et de gouaches dans un style Fauve provocateur et grossier, ce sera sa « Période Vache », dont aucune œuvre ne sera vendue à Paris. Irène Hamoir léguera ces œuvres au Musée de Bruxelles. Pendant ce temps, Magritte subvient à ses besoins en produisant de faux Picasso, Braque et Chirico à l'initiative de son frère Paul Magritte et de son compatriote surréaliste Marcel Mariën, à qui était dévolue la tâche de vendre ces contrefaçons. À la fin de 1948, il revient au style et aux thèmes de son art surréaliste d'avant-guerre.

Magritte rencontre Alexander Iolas en 1946. Celui-ci, conscient de la demande pour l'art Surréaliste aux USA, rentre en contact avec Magritte. Très vite, Magritte expose à la Hugo Gallery de New York en 1947 et Iolas deviendra son agent jusqu'au décés de l'artiste, lui achetant la totalité de sa production (ou de ce que Magritte n'anti-date pas pour se passer de ses services!). Les expositions se succèdent, consacrant l'artiste au cours des années 50 et 60.

De 1952 à 1953, Magritte réalise Le Domaine enchanté, huit panneaux pour la décoration murale du casino de Knokke.

Magritte meurt d'un cancer du pancréas le 15 Août 1967 dans son propre lit, âgé de 68 ans, et est enterré dans le cimetière de Schaerbeek à Bruxelles.

L'intérêt populaire pour l'œuvre de Magritte a considérablement augmenté dans les années 1960, et son imagerie a influencé l'art pop, minimaliste et conceptuel.

[racout]

Korrigans

Note: I'm an English learner and I wrote this text to practise my written English. If you want to give me feedback about my English, please go ahead!

Korrigans are creatures from the folklore of Brittany (North-West of France) that look like little black and hideous people. They are described as hairy, thickset and they have frizzy hair. They keep with them a purse which is said to be full of gold. But if someone stole it, they would find inside only dirty horsehair and a pair of scissors. These pranksters like playing tricks on Christians who don’t respect their duty. They are sometimes accused of stealing animals or objects, or making a mess in houses.

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They usually live in megalithic monuments, which are sometimes called “ville des korrigans,” “city of the korrigans”. They keep inside of these constructions their treasure, which they take out at night to spread it out on the ground. Sometimes they do it in the summer sunshine. Still at night, in some stories at full moon, they dance around blocks of stone, singing often the days of the week till Friday. If one tries to complete the song adding the two last days, the korrigans might dislike it and shower them with blows. If one runs into them, they could get swept up in the korrigans’ dance. They are forced to dance to the point of exhaustion.

Korrigans seem to be related to fairies. For instance, when a fairy steals a human baby, sometimes, it substitutes it with a korrigan.

In Chants populaires de la Bretagne, Théodore Hersart de La Villemarqué explains his theory about the origins of korrigans. The ancient bards venerated a goddess called Korid-Gwen. She was associated with another character who was similar to dwarves and who was called Gwion. He was nicknamed “le Nain” (the Dwarf) or “le Nain à la bourse” (the Dwarf with the purse), because he was sometimes represented with a purse in his hand. He was in charge of guarding a mystical vase containing the water of genius, divination and science. Three drops fell on his hand, and he took them to his mouth. Thus, he discovered the future and science. In addition to carrying a purse with them, Armorican dwarves are related with magic, occult, alchemy, metallurgy and divination, which reminds of the legend of Gwion. This link can also be found in a medicinal plant that dwarves are said to like. It is sometimes called the herb of kov, but the Welsh also call it the herb of Gwion, while the Gaulish used the word korig.

In an article from Bulletin de la Société polymathique du Morbihan, Alfred Fouquet tells a legend about a very poor farmer. One night, the farmer saw little black men around a tumulus. Some were dancing on it, others came in and out. The farmer let out a scream in surprise. The little men, who were korrigans, ran away when they heard him. A few days later, the man wanted to go back there at night. It took him the whole night to clear the entrance of the tumulus, but he eventually managed to go inside. He saw the goblins gathered around a pot. They noticed him and started to run all over the place. One of them even went to the neighbouring wood to hang itself, giving to the place the name of “bois du Pendu” (wood of the Hanged one). The man, who was, as we said, very poor, took their pot filled with their treasure, and brought it home. He became rich, and bought the farm where he worked. Years passed, and his children grew up used to a wealthy life. The farmer died, and shortly afterwards, his children reached the bottom of the pot. Finally, his grandson was buried in debt. He had to sell the farm. As he wasn’t able to pay the land rent anymore, he was evicted.

Emile Souvestre, in Foyer Breton, tells another story about these tiny beings. Lao was a Breton bagpipes player. One night, he went down the mountains with a group of people to play during the pardon of the Armor. They reached a crossroads. The women wanted to go down the path that leads to the ocean. But Lao wanted to take the one that goes through the heath. The women explained that there was a city of korrigans and only those who never committed any sin could go through there without trouble. He didn’t believe in these stories and said he would play for them since they liked dancing. He took the path to the heath and began playing. The women went down the way to the sea. He saw the menhir and the korrigans’ home. He heard a murmur which, little by little, became a rumble. Tussocks shook and became hideous dwarves. Surprised and intimidated, Lao stepped back against the menhir. The korrigans surrounded him and forced him to play. The musician was unable to stop, and he played and danced until dawn. Eventually, he collapsed from exhaustion.

Sources

Marie-Charlotte DELMAS. “Korrigan”. In: Dictionnaire de la France Merveilleuse. Paris, France: Omnibus, 2017, p. 418-420.

Alfred FOUQUET. “Un kilomètre en Crach”. Bulletin de la Société polymathique du Morbihan, 1863, p. 1-7.

URL (Gallica)

Théodore Hersart de La Villemarqué. Chants populaires de la Bretagne, First Volume, Fourth edition, p. 46-53. Paris : Leipzig, 1846.

Désiré Monnier, Aimé Vingtrinier. “Les Fées Chrétiennes”. In : Croyances et traditions populaires recueillies dans la Franche-Comté le Lyonnais la Bresse et le Bugey. Lyon : Henri Georg, 1874, p.  393-397.

Prisma Media. “Korrigan : qui est cette créature légendaire bretonne ?” Geo [online]. Gennevilliers. 05/11/2021. [Visited between 01/06/23 and 02/06/23]

URL

Louis Pierre François Adolphe Chesnel de la Charbouclais (marquis de). “Gauriks ou Gores”, p. 216, “Korandons”, p. 262, “Korigans ou Korigs”, p. 262, “Korils ou Kourils”, p. 264, “Kornikaneds”, p. 267, “Poulpicans, Poulpiquets, ou Korils”, p. 466, “Teus”, p. 594. In: Dictionnaire des superstitions, erreurs, préjugés et traditions populaires, vol. 20 of Troisième et dernière encyclopédie théologique. J.-P. Migne, 1856