#cithrens

[cloudcountry]

IKEMEN REQUEST BC IT SAYS 5/5 AND I HOPE I'M LAST DFJGHFJDKSDFFJKDLS

Shakespeare "reusing" one of his sonnets to woo the reader with his extremely shitty guitar skills under the window (outside the door) and overall he's just yowling like a cat bc of the guitar 🎸 (also I say reusing bc we've read it in modern times, but for him it's new asf)

note: he is trying smth "modern" to woo the reader but also thinks a guitar is a cittern/cithren hence the yowling

SUMMARY: theo yells at you to wrangle your lover. said lover is trying his best to serenade you.

WARNINGS: none!! :D

COMMENTS: YOU ARE THE LAST DW im writing two things today since i missed yesterday oopsie. i feel like will would be a really nice singer though :(( he has such a ncie voice :((( so yea i changed your request a little bit because i doubt hes the type to YOWL but yk theo is fed up with anyway!!

i used sonnet 116 for this because its so beautifully written excuse my geeking

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments.”

“Hey, Hondje. Tell him to shut up.” Theo huffs, a string of very creative Dutch swears leaving his lips after he slams the door shut behind him.

You can hear what Theo is talking about.

There’s a strange warbling noise that sounds like a musical instrument, along with a very familiar voice cooing unintelligible lyrics from out on the balcony. You open the door that Theo just left, stepping out into the cold night air. The singing becomes clearer, and a smile creeps on your face when you lean over the railing.

“Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove.”

It’s Will, a guitar in hand that he’s clearly struggling to play, his eyes trained on the space you occupy now. A smile blooms across his face as he sings, the notes too plucky to be anything but offensive, but it's him and he’s doing something for you, and so you listen.

“O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.”

It takes you a second to register the words he’s singing to you, but when you realize it's a sonnet giddy laugh tumbles from your lips. Will’s eyes gleam with joy at the sound, and he steps closer to the balcony. His neck is craned up so he can see you, yearning to be close and yet being a whole floor away.

While he may not be able to physically reach you, his words do.

“Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.”

The sonnet reminds you of Will’s love, of how it’s never changing, of how it’s held up even though everything the two of you have been through together. It reminds me of how devoted he is to you, his love, and how he’d do anything to ensure your happiness, even if he has to sacrifice himself.

It’s something he’s been working on. He’s well aware that it’s not just him who would die if the two of you were parted now.

“If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.”

The final notes ring into the night and you offer him a polite clap, the soft sound leaving the night around you two undisturbed.

“Sebastian told me that was an effective way to woo someone from your time period. I do hope you found it satisfactory.” Will confesses, awkwardly holding the guitar like he isn’t sure what to do with it.

This time you laugh loud, raising your head towards the stars as your heart flutters for this man.

“Come inside already!” you call out to him, giggles still seeping into your voice as you rush back inside to let him in.

You’re going to have to make sure Theo isn’t around, but you can deal with that when the time comes. Right now, you need to concern yourself with your silly, wonderfully talented lover.

[kpellinore]

It seems I have never made a post about a cittern! Let’s fix that. First, this great performance - and then some info...(from Wikipedia)

“The cittern or cithren is a stringed instrument dating from the Renaissance. Modern scholars debate its exact history, but it is generally accepted that it is descended from the Medieval citole, or cytole. It looks much like the modern-day flat-back mandolin and the modern Irish bouzouki. Its flat-back design was simpler and cheaper to construct than the lute. It was also easier to play, smaller, less delicate and more portable. Played by all classes, the cittern was a premier instrument of casual music-making much as is the guitar today.

The cittern is one of the few metal-strung instruments known from the Renaissance period. It generally has four courses (single, pairs or threes) of strings, one or more course being usually tuned in octaves, though instruments with more or fewer courses were made. The cittern may have a range of only an octave between its lowest and highest strings and employs a re-entrant tuning – a tuning in which the string that is physically uppermost is not the lowest, as is also the case with the five-string banjo and most ukuleles for example. The tuning and narrow range allow the player a number of simple chord shapes useful for both simple song accompaniment and dances, however much more complex music was written for it. Its bright and cheerful timbre make it a valuable counterpoint to gut-strung instruments. The Spanish bandurria, still used today, is a similar instrument.

[eveningoftheempires]

Evening of the Empires Worldbuilding - Excerpts from "Wonders of Uria" by Levari Karrius

Some claim that Uria is broken; that, shortly after its creation, it was torn to pieces as an act of rage by the Lunar Mother. She swallowed most of the lands and left only scrumbles to the mortal beings. All of them have descended from The Depth, the heart of all creation, born out of Alania’s endless burning love. Scattered among what was left, the countries we know today started forming.

“But those are simply telltales,” you, my dear reader, might claim - and for a good reason. I do specialize in fantastic stories after all, but this time I shall make an exception and reach towards the truth.

And the truth is - despite all the work put into research by various scholars of all origins, we do not know much of our beginnings.

[…]

Previously mentioned Depths are mostly inhabited by dwarves, whose society flourishes despite not having a strong head of the state. They live in numerous cities, each carved in a mountain and one more impressive than another. Many among them work in mines, supplying their trade partners with either the materials or already made equipment - some dwarven merchants proudly claim that their steel is unbreakable. 

Since the Depths are commonly assumed to lay above the heart of the world, many dwarves choose the path of knowledge, seeking to learn about the creation of Uria. Their expeditions go far down, to places that would never see the sunlight if it was not for these curious individuals. Most of their discoveries have shaken the very foundations of what we call science - minerals and plants never seen before or ancient underground settlements among those wonders. Gremmal Thernik, the curator of the House of the Forgotten, believes that only the surface has been scratched of what lies beneath.

[…]

Nushkan Congregation gathers numerous smaller countries, led by Nushka, a coastal kingdom ruled by the orcish dynasty of the Unbroken. However, many different races may be found among the Nushkan citizens - including humans, halflings, tieflings, and even a big population of elves. Each state governs itself, but they unite when it comes to foreign politics. The current high king, Xugash V, granted all of his vassals more power than his predecessors ever, all in return for their help in strengthening the army. This fragmentation of power may seem foolish at first glance, but it was a necessary move after a series of revolts in the region.

In the past decade, this western backwater of a country truly grew into an enemy to behold. The Unbroken Dynasty strongly focused on technological advancement, turning away from the ineffective agriculture. The harsh climate no longer stops the economy. Future Units, formed from scholars, mages and generals of all local races, became pioneers in engineering, mixing ages old magics with whole new inventions. Though, these wonders are granted to only the ones that can afford them.

[...]

Karathny Republic, built on remnants of the Ruby Empire, is a place of grand traditions. It is home to some of Uria’s greatest leaders and warriors, a place where many glorious battles occured - and, with all those legends, it should be no surprise that storytellers thrive in such an environment. The art of rhetorics is considered the most noble, which is one of the reasons for local politics being so interesting. The power here is fluid, and the people of the republic choose their representatives every five years. 

The culture has always been the most important factor in this hot, deserted region with little to no natural resources. The trade routes are full with caravans transporting breathtaking paintings and sculptures or delicate, hand-woven fabrics. Along with the merchants travel various artistic troupes, lone bards and circuses. Although mostly inhabited by humans, elves and half elves native to this land, other races are seen as well - there are even a few purely orc and tiefling settlements. 

[…]

The Free City-State of Ienow can be simply described as a curiosity unlike any other in the world - not only it is a melting pot of all races and cultures of Uria, it is also the smallest country that survived without being ingrained with one of the powers in the region. And the strangeness does not end at that! The politics of Ienow are dominated by the leaders of the most influential guilds in the city - Guild of Traders, Guild of Mages, Guild of Bankers, Guild of Fighters, and even… Guild of Assassins. The coastal islands are a common hideout of the pirates roaming the seas, since the system of justice is nearly non-existent. All of this makes for a rather dangerous - albeit always interesting - place to live.

Everything in Ienow revolves around two things: freedom and money. All is fair when either of those values are involved. Murders of political or economical opponents are a common practice, so are fights between gangs hired by guilds to keep the citizens in check. Those who come here seeking a new start are bound to be disappointed; it is nearly beyond possibility to climb up the social ladder. The poor immigrants are mostly employed in factories.

[...]

Queendom of Lunaris is the cradle of all things magical. This primarily elven, secluded country hosts a great entourage of mages, one more powerful than another. They are gathered in the Sorcerers’ Assembly, and the most influential members rule alongside queens from the Liaquen dynasty. Enchanters and alchemists are the backbone of the country’s economy, providing it with stable income - although the Guild of Mages offers arcane goods as well, it cannot compete with the lunarian quality.

The warm, forested islands are clearly prosperous under the reign of queen Cithren and Grand Sorceress Amarille, and one can see it even through the lense of everyday life. The roads crossing the islands are well maintained and protected, the villages and cities are all truly a sight for sore eyes, and even peasants are hospitable and content people. The only scar on Lunaris’ image is a faction led by a human preacher who calls himself Doom. Those people believe magic to be heresy, and claim that its users will bring doom upon Uria.

[…]

Soleil Hegemony thrives off conquests. What started off as a small northern county is now the grandest of the empires, and it is aiming to eventually be the only one. It was not always this ambitious, though - until recently, its sleazy aristocracy was content being stuck in the previous era, profiting off of peasants’ hard work on the fertile fields. These very devout people put their faith in the kings, believing them to be beloved sons sent by Watchful, the chief of their pantheon. No one dared to rebel against them, until recently.

After a foul murder of king Degarmo IX by a Ienowan assassin, another prominent figure rose to power - that is, General Chastain, a well respected leader of the soleilan army. Once he announced himself a dictator, everyone knew what his next step would be. He started a relentless war with what used to be the Gornorth Kingdom, and then quickly conquered the Lokei Republic. The empire grows, the nobles host decadent parties in order to celebrate victory, and countless soldiers die on the battlefields. The future seems rather unsteady.

[…]

The Monarchy of Sabal is quite a good definition for the word “underestimated”. This small country of seemingly no consequence has been around for too little time to build itself a decent reputation - it was only in the last era when a secessionist group of lunarian citizens, mostly tieflings and half elves, managed to tear them away from the Queendom. The newborn monarchy with still destabilized power attracted (and still attracts) numerous criminals, being a good alternative for the already crowded City-State of Ienow. Others have seen it as a great place for a fresh start and chose occupations of fishmongers and sailors. 

The current monarch, Zarramine the Witful, truly lives up to their name. Rumor has it that the web of sabalan spies reaches far beyond the islands, all thanks to the monarch’s quite… liberal approach to outlaws. Many of them are forgiven in the local law’s eyes if they agree to work for the crown. Besides gathering information and manipulating the events from the shadows, Sabal has been building up its navy for quite some time. They would make a good operational base for soleilans if they wished to attack north and west - and many believe that soon General Chastain will turn his focus there...

[caravanslost]

3 - Point of View

Characters: Jord; Aimeric (mention); Damen/Laurent (mention). 

Tags: I am sad about Jord. Jord is sad about Jord. Set during Ravenel in Prince’s Gambit. Written for @capri-month.

Jord stands amongst the festivities like an effigy, in the same room but watching as though from afar.  

Jord is left alone, that night. No one dares come close to him.

They had taken Ravenel. The patchwork rabble of the Prince’s Guard had been given its first sip of victory, and like adolescents, they had inebriated themselves with it.

All around him, there is mirth. Mirth, and wine from the cellars, and frolic in the open. The air is heavy with the scent of spiced meats and spilled drink, and the sound of a lush melody comes from somewhere, plucked on a cithren.

And why shouldn’t they celebrate? The Prince’s Guard had been birthed and raised with the Regent’s blade at its throat. They had barely dared to breathe, but now they had taken Ravenel. Laurent had won a victory against his uncle, and bared to Vere a fraction of the cunning that his guard had watched him cultivate in silence, for years.

Jord stands amongst the festivities like an effigy, in the same room but watching as though from afar. The spectacle around him unfolds in slow motion, faces blurring and their cacophony muted. People move past him and around him, but no one dares look him in the eye. No one ventures a word, kind or otherwise. He cannot decide if he is grateful.

A bottle of wine sits unopened on a table, two steps away. He takes it and removes himself from the room. He finds himself walking through one unfamiliar hallway after another, the full bottle heavy in his hand. It does not take long before he is lost.

Something causes him to stop at a balcony, open to the brisk evening air. Below him is the skeleton activity of a fortress at night. Firelight flickers quietly from disparate spots, interrupted every so often by the sound of wheels on gravel or shouted conversations. The words are indecipherable from this distance.

He unstops the bottle, and begins to drink.

The vintage is sweet, heavy with the taste of plum. Between generous drags of it, Jord’s mind retraces every step that has taken them from Arles to Ravenel. Govart’s dismissal. The Prince tossing the Captain’s badge into his unsuspecting hands, as though on a whim. Aimeric offering his respect, and then his affections, and then himself. The Akielon—the prince-killer—rarely more than three steps away from his unsuspecting master.

Jord takes all of those things into his hands, turns them upside down, and re-examines them with the benefit of all the new and terrible knowledge he has learned tonight. It seems to rewrite reality.

For the moment, he can do no more than feel out the edges of his grief and map its size. It is almost unbearable.

But he must bear it. He alone has authored it.

Jord reflects bitterly that his mistake was in taking things that did not belong to him – a rank, a higher station, the affection of a youth as beautiful as a dream. He erred in wanting, and in letting himself have when he should have known better. 

And the universe had not tricked him. It had not treated him cruelly. It had only given him the misery he was owed, delivered with a delay. The fault was his, for turning his eyes on more.

Aimeric still feels too close to be a memory. He is still too real, too much flesh and blood. If Jord closes his eyes—and he shouldn’t, but he does—he can feel the phantom of Aimeric’s hand on his face, the silk of his hair curled around his fingers, the breath of his soft laughter against his ear. It had been a melodious sound, that laugh, from lips he could have spent the rest of his life kissing.

Jord brings the wine to his lips again, and downs enough to splutter on it. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, a motion as artless as he feels.

He forces himself to push thoughts of Aimeric aside, and takes his grief as a fixed point. He begins drawing a line from it, backwards in time, back through Arles, to Marlas, to Auguste, slain on the battlefield. To the man who stood over his body, and who now stands falsely at his brother’s side.

Every breath that Damianos has taken in their company is a betrayal: every kilometre he has ridden as part of their campaign; every night he has spent in the Prince’s tent; every drink he has shared around a fire; every strategy he has offered, and every one of which they have acted on, is a betrayal.

Jord puts the bottle at his feet. Perhaps the Prince would never forgive him for Aimeric. If he must live with that, he would.

But—if something happens to the Prince at the hands of Damianos, while Jord sits idly with the truth in his hands, he would never forgive himself.

He abandons the wine, and goes to find his Prince, to bring him the truth.

[nourapast]

THERE IS A SONG THAT PLAYS from the epicentre of the maze that lulls any and all to forget that the city is but a carriage ride away. it is a song romantic as a bear to his maiden fair. a song comedic as a moth befouled by candle. a song as violent as the first day of spring — though aimless like snow falling through the air, all to stall from reaching the ground. it rises like tide to to his feet to guide vasily to its source of sound and no less surprises him to how easy the steps are to follow—how easy they are to predict when you fall into a rhythm; each step a note, each move a measure. there’s nothing difficult about taking sharp turns within the maze where the notes of cithren and lira da braccio can twine threads so fine they pull princesses out of palaces. some say they even lead god-kings in and out of labyrinths.

and, as it is with god-kings, there is no mistaking them. the sight of the şehzade earns him an earnest smile of acknowledgment from the prince. as it is with these things, too, vasily does not bid in kind. his gaze is a farmer’s scythe standing over a cluster of angled wheat, ready to claim good harvest, but not yet reaping; a fly that can see through a kaleidoscope and easily pick apart difference between threat and tame with observation, so when his gaze settles on the şehzade, there will be no amount of slapping, itching, or pulling that can keep him out.

after inching closer from the snow capped corner of the maze, vasily dips his head in a bow without a missed lesson in equilibrium, lilting the name with an undue familiarity as if it to say ah. you at last: “as-alamu alaykum, devletlû najabatlu şehzade sultan murad hazretleri efendi.”  

when he rises to yet another graceful movement, he does so in acknowledgement to the sound as he briefly looks past murad’s shoulder. “did you find maze as unprrredictable as you vould have hoped? i kan't say i have, which is shame, as i have the prrroclivity forrr puzzles and strrrategy.”

[mideastpk-blog]

Cittren 9 String Walnut

Mid east Mfg. Cittren 9 String Walnut (also cithren), is a plucked string instrument from the family of box necked lutes. It exists in a variety of designs, which is why the cistern is not regarded as a particular instrument, but rather an instrument family. 

Read More

[scrabblebot]

AI defeats AI: 322 - 316 (AG ASTONY AT CITHREN CURD DAUBS DETEST ED EL ET FIX FOU GLEEK HERB JIAO JOINT JOINTURE KOLA MAE MYELIN MYELINE OD OSAR OW PEAG QINDAR QUOTA SINISTER TOG UM VEEPS VOWEL WEAVED YAW ZOIC)

[mideastpk-blog]

Cittren 9 String Walnut

Mid east Mfg. Cittren 9 String Walnut (also cithren), is a plucked string instrument from the family of box necked lutes. It exists in a variety of designs, which is why the cistern is not regarded as a particular instrument, but rather an instrument family.

https://mid-east.com.pk/product/cittren-9-string-walnut/

[mideastpk-blog]

Cittren 9 String Walnut

Cittren 9 String Walnuts

Mid-east Mfg. Cittren 9 String Walnut (also cithren), is a plucked string instrument from the family of box necked lutes. It exists in a variety of designs, which is why the cistern is not regarded as a particular instrument, but rather an instrument family.

The typical cittern still found in many museums is a form in which the neck becomes thicker toward the body, giving the body a slight incline shape when viewed from the side.

https://mid-east.com.pk/product/cittren-9-string-walnut/

[mideastpk-blog]

Cittren 9 String Walnut

The cittern (also cithren), is a plucked string instrument from the family of box necked lutes. It exists in a variety of designs, which is why the cistern is not regarded as a particular instrument, but rather an instrument family.

The typical cittern still found in many museums is a form in which the neck becomes thicker toward the body, giving the body a slight incline shape when viewed from the side.

https://mid-east.com.pk/product/cittren-9-string-walnut/