#ervin posting

[custardmylove]

"pathetic, aren't I?"

Oh look it's my genshin oc Ervin! :0 He has a lot of lore but I ain't typing all that here, when I'm done making his lore carrd I'll share it all with you :3 I had some art block to the point I was getting mad staring at my tablet so I somehow managed this and nothing else for three days straight- I don't think it's terrible though, especially for a quick sketch :)

[ulenehlervu]

miralda sketch for femslash feb...

[superheroes-or-whatever]

The Team in Young Justice: Phantoms

[sindella96]

*Zatanna drops a glas*

Raquel: Zatanna Giovanni Zatara!

Zatanna: ...That's not my second name...

Zatara: It is now.

[blackfemmecharacterdependency]

Kali Bianca Troy: March 7, 1971

For some reason, she has separate imdb pages and since she is such an icon in Black voice acting, I am gonna include both of those.

Kali Troy IMDB | Kittie Kaboom IMDB

She doesn't get enough shine as a Black voice actor, for me. A living legend and she's still doing things. Respect her.

[arterrorist]

It should be more widely recognised as a jazz classic. Groovy, avant, gentle and fabulous!

[vivian-bell]

Allen Ervin Flowers (left) and Louisa Flowers (right).  Photo taken 1910-1928.  Published by the Oregon Historical Society.  Photographer unknown.  

According to OHS, a note on the back of the photo reads “Mother and Dad Flowers on farm, north slope Mt. Scott”.

[ghoulsbeard]

Strange, to begin with: bright sun from sun-up, and a cloudless sky, a high fast wind. Spring, in Skyrim; Kynareth must be laughing. Faralda strides bridge and battlement with her collar turned down and her hair swept up, to feel the sunlight on her skin.

The sea of ghosts seethes cheerfully at the rocks below the college. Gulls wheel and scream. The air is bright enough to see how bare and brown the main courtyard stands; a glittering chorus of icicles drips along their statuary... a few gaps, where prentices have knocked them loose with snowballs or sticks.

"You," Colette Marence barks from the great rime-frosted doors. "Hold! Hold right there!"

Their mistress of restoration is a font of unflagging energy; it is not past ten and she storms about the place like a stalking cloud of Aurbic lightning. The spring sunshine, weak as watered wine, draws roses from her tired cheeks. Her hair has already flown out of its tail in a curly brown-and-silver cloud.

"I've been looking everywhere for you.” A bony accusing finger waves around Faralda's face. "Have you seen the master wizard?"

"It's mid-morning," says Faralda. "She'll be beating Aren's carpets."

Colette gives her a look, a hairy look-- "She is not with the Archmage. I have already spoken with him; he has not seen her at all this morning."

"He wouldn't see the nose on his own face," Faralda grunts. "Well, and what do you want? Shall I shake him until Ervine falls from his pockets?"

"Your trouble, Mistress Faralda, is that no one boxed your ears when you were a young hellion. Younger," she amends. "I'm off to the lecture halls. I wish you'd see to her chambers."

"If there's a corpse, I'll summon you and Phinis."

"Mara mind your tongue!" Colette snaps. She's knitting her fingers guiltily together. "If you... I would owe you a favor."

"Don't be silly." Faralda claps a hand to her stooped shoulders. The wind is turning: pine and fresh snow, distant smoke. She tramps up salted steps to wander the College warren.

The master wizard's door is shut and locked. Faralda beats it until it rattles against the lintel. "Ervine," she barks. "Are you yet living?"

Magefire sputters on the wall. The long row of living quarters is otherwise quiet, at this hour; down in the common, prentices squeal and bicker. Tolfdir's reeling laughter rings from the stones. She's leaned against the doorway, lighting her pipe, when the lock sighs through a weak spell and clicks open.

Ervine's door likes to jam in warmer weather; Faralda shoves it open with a shoulder, wood and hinges wailing, and slams it shut again behind herself. The room is a tall dark cavern, smelling of herbs and burnt wax.

From the lone window-- small and thin-- a bar of white sunlight.

"It is you," a voice croaks. There is a rattle of a cough, or laughter. "I thought I was dreaming again. What do you want?"

The darkness resolves into shades of grey and brown. A shrubbish shadow, buried in the bed, with a weary round face, grieved and pasty. The stump of a candle on the bedside table, a stack of letters, a stick of wax. A green jar of ink. An empty cup.

"What ails you, master wizard?"

Ervine breaks into true laughter, then. She has never heard the woman laugh before, and hates the sound of it at once-- sour and pitiless.

"I am perfectly capable of my duties. Come a little closer and see for yourself."

She does, with her fingers twitching for a long curved dagger she no longer carries. Over-tired, she imagines Colette's diagnosis, in her clipped tones. Over-worked. Hale, besides. Constitution of an ox.

Something in her eyes, she thinks. She's seen a few deckhands with that look, that dullish beady glint... "You are not prone to fits of melancholy."

"You do possess a lovely arrogance, Faralda."

"So you've taken after Aren." She casts a disgusted hand about the dark room. "Licking your wounds in a drab little hole."

Ervine's dark eyes flash when she lifts her face. "Go to Colette. Tell her I shall see her at noon for a tisane."

She should have directly ordered 'get out'. Faralda bares her teeth in what might pass for a smile. "I will not."

"Will you not?" Tired amusement.

The cup catches her eye. "I'll fetch your tisane."

"Never mind the tisane."

"Berries, then." She draws her bag from within her sleeve, cloudberries and a little elk jerky, and sets it on Ervine's blanketed lap, and pulls it open with a finger. "Eat. You look like death."

"I really couldn't," Ervine says, in the same stern voice she uses to admonish prentices and professors alike. "Put that away, if you would."

"Hemicrania."

"Of a sort." She ought to look shrunken and small, swathed up miserably like this. She's as grand and stolid as ever. The grave face. The firm steadfast mouth. "You can tell Colette I said so."

Faralda risks another long, searching look at the letters. The seal on the first is freshly broken. Ervine winces. Her thick hand knots itself in the blanket.

"Ill news, was it?"

No reply. She watches Ervine's face. The twitch in her cheek; the hair standing greasily on the side of her head. "I'm sorry," she offers, and Ervine looks up fast as a gannet, and her mouth twists, and she barks laughing.

"'Sorry'," she gasps, in between peals of barking bitter laughter. "'Sorry'. Yes. Of course."

Faralda reaches for her other hand, trembling atop Ervine's thigh, and feels her pulse rabbiting in the wrist. "It will pass."

"Ce jeu féroce et ridicule, quand doit-il finir?" She smiles. "As the poets say. Out, Faralda. You do not want to play nursemaid at my bedside, I think."

"Of course not." She lets Ervine's wrist fall. "I cannot leave without you, master wizard."

"No?" Ervine drops her smile to her lap, where her fingers are buried in the blanket. "No, she ordered you here. Most commendable."

"Do you know something, Ervine? I woke impatient this morning." She folds her arms. "Are you unwilling or unable?"

"You are a keeper of confidences, Mistress Faralda. I think you might keep this one."

"I might not."

Ervine crooks a finger, still smiling; of all things Faralda sits at the side of her bed, and feels the heat of her bulky calf and thigh. "He is dead a fortnight now. A week for the letter to sail to Skyrim-- half a week to Daggerfall, half from Solitude to our little holding. I cannot fathom why it was written. But he is dead."

Faralda eyes her. She cannot tell, from the wretched stillness in her face, or the trembling in her hand, who or what or whether to commiserate. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I myself am dead in those lands."

"Then the world has ended."

Ervine wrings the blanket in her fist. "I don't know that it has."

"It ought to."

"Yes," she says, eventually. "Yes, it ought. I don't know that it has."

"If the world hasn't ended," Faralda says, "and you aren't abed with pain or disease-- you can take a turn with me about the courtyard."

Ervine, smiling, shakes her head.

"Don't go to seed here, woman. Won't sort your mind any faster."

"What did you call it... licking my wounds?"

"Lick them outside in the fresh air."

"You may leave."

She turns to watch the unmoving sunlight. Her eyes glint in the shadows; the tip of her long, thick nose, the curves of her chins and soft jaw. Neither overly stern nor discernibly friendly. She ought to have been the sort of woman that Faralda liked, very much.

"Who was he to you?"

Ervine's face stills, save her mouth; the mouth trembles. She covers it with a hand.

"He was good to you, I hope."

"Not to anyone. Not to himself. Now he is dead."

"That much," says Faralda, "ought to be celebrated. Come down with me, master wizard. I'll buy you a drink at the Hearth."

Her dark eye is turned to the light, and glassy.

"Come down with me."

She wheels on Faralda, implacable as the polar night. "Why should you ask such things? Why should I give them to you?"

"You shouldn't," Faralda agrees. "I was born with my foot in my mouth, and I'm a scoundrel besides. But come down. Come down with me and have a little air." She offers a hand.

Ervine shuts her eyes and composes herself, with some trouble. Her throat pulses. "Very well," she says, in a thin voice. "Very well." 

The hallway is chilly and quiet. Mirabelle Ervine, now dressed in her robes, carrying pen and paperwork, trails Faralda out through the back entrance, along the shortcut to the crumbling stargazers' walk. She stops stunned when the door opens to clear sunlight, and the breeze blusters noisily in, lifting her hair from her cheek.

"What day is it?"

"The tenth of Rain's Hand."

"Sun," she puzzles, and pushes past. Noonday strikes bronze and a few shining greys from her hair. She winces at the light, raising a hand to her eyes. "What beautiful weather."

It is startlingly beautiful. The starkness of the bay; glittering snow and rock, foam and current, the city of the dead beneath the falling tide. Mirabelle Ervine's hair sparkling in the stiff breeze.

"Show me your shield," she says, to clear her head. This, too, she dislikes about their new master wizard; the woman has a remarkable talent for snarling up thoughts. Ervine raises an eyebrow, searches Faralda's face.

"Here?"

"Here and now."

Ervine studies her another moment, then twitches a fragment of a smile and stands wide-legged, just as she addresses the assembled collegium. She claps her hands together and slowly pulls the palms apart, fanning a thread of magic between them, up and out into a ward, full and fuller, warping like hot air as it goes.

Faralda tosses four spiraling mageflames, sharp as darts. Ervine swears viciously under her breath, but the ward holds against them.

"A little much, this early in the day," she comments. She looks less like a solemn corpse, Faralda decides. "Another."

Popular among mages of her persuasion to toss a few icicles, but Faralda has always favored claws of frost. The shield sputters.

"Passable work," Faralda allows. Ervine lets the ward drop, shaking her fingers as the spell dissolves wetly into thin air, and regards her with a bit of resigned amusement.

"Satisfied?"

"Not in the least."

Ervine laughs. It is unlike the rest-- deep and pleased. Faralda grits her back teeth.

"You should cast in a radial instead of a flat axis, master wizard."

"Should I." She comes up, smiling, to squeeze past Faralda's side. "I suppose a scholar of destruction would know."

Down in the courtyard, a gaggle of prentices are lunging about in the fine weather, chasing each other with wisps, turning cartwheels. The rest sun themselves under a few of the leafless trees, passing what look like scraps of paper back and forth, conferring in low, urgent voices. Young Brelyna paces at the gate, declaiming to herself. The wind carries most of her speech away.

Colette's eyes are huge and happy when Faralda leads the master wizard into the infirmary. "Mirabelle! How good to see you today. Let me make you a tisane. Put some color in those cheeks."

"I'm perfectly well, dear Colette."

"It'll only take a minute." She vanishes into the stockroom, rolling up her sleeves. "Tincture of..."

Ervine catches Faralda by the cuff before she can duck out and flee to the bridge. In the dim ring of blue magelight, her temper is unreadable. "We have our differences. I trust this will not be one of them."

"Peace, Mirabelle Master-Wizard," Faralda sneers. "I would not betray a colleague."

Ervine's fingers dig hard in her arm a moment; then she steps away, light calving over her face. "Very well."

The day is clear and crisp on the broken bridge; down in the Winterhold square, people come and go. She can feel where Ervine gripped her, even through her coat and robes. Absently, she rubs a thumb along the skin.

[izzy-b-hands]

Unidentified Location, Boat and Cruising Scene, Undated

by Ervin S. Hubbard

[urbs-in-horto]

These beautifully preserved brick homes can be found all across the city—blocks of nearly identical two-flats, each showcasing its own unique architectural details. Beyond the grand historic mansions and towering skyscrapers of downtown, these humble, geometric brick and stone buildings define the character of Chicago’s neighborhoods. The Chicago two-flat emerged in the late 1800s as a response to the city’s growing immigrant population. Alongside four-flats and six-flats, two-flats make up over 30 percent of Chicago’s housing stock I love seeing them from this perspective; the red brick façade seems to shift and flow with you, creating a captivating three-dimensional illusion.

Photo and Description Ervin Eliud from fb - Ervin posts great Chicago pictures. Maybe they'll join tumblr someday...

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

August 8, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Aug 09, 2024

Fifty years ago, on August 9, 1974, Richard M. Nixon became the first president in U.S. history to resign.

The road to that resignation began in 1971, when Daniel Ellsberg, who was at the time an employee of the RAND Corporation and thus had access to a top-secret Pentagon study of the way U.S. leaders had made decisions about the Vietnam War, leaked that study to major U.S. newspapers, including the New York Times and the Washington Post. 

The Pentagon Papers showed that every president from Harry S. Truman to Lyndon B. Johnson had lied to the public about events in Vietnam, and Nixon worried that “enemies” would follow the Pentagon Papers with a leak of information about his own decision-making to destroy his administration and hand the 1972 election to a Democrat. 

The FBI seemed to Nixon reluctant to believe he was being stalked by enemies. So the president organized his own Special Investigations Unit out of the White House to stop leaks. And who stops leaks? Plumbers. 

The plumbers burglarized the office of Ellsberg’s psychiatrist in California, hoping to find something to discredit him, then moved on to bigger targets. Together with the Committee to Re-elect the President (fittingly dubbed CREEP as its activities became known), they planted fake letters in newspapers declaring support for Nixon and hatred for his opponents, spied on Democrats, and hired vendors for Democratic rallies and then scarpered on the bills. Finally, they set out to wiretap the Washington, D.C., headquarters of the Democratic National Committee, in the fashionable Watergate office complex.

Early in the morning of June 17, 1972, Watergate security guard Frank Wills noticed that a door lock had been taped open. He ripped off the tape and closed the door, but on his next round, he found the door taped open again. Wills called the police, who arrested five men ransacking the DNC’s files. 

The White House immediately denounced what it called a “third-rate burglary attempt,” and the Watergate break-in gained no traction before the 1972 election, which Nixon and Vice-President Spiro Agnew won with an astonishing 60.7% of the popular vote. 

But Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, two young Washington Post reporters, followed the sloppy money trail back to the White House, and by March 1973 the scheme was unraveling. One of the burglars, James W. McCord Jr., wrote a letter to Judge John Sirica before his sentencing claiming he had lied at his trial to protect government officials. Sirica made the letter public, and White House counsel John Dean immediately began cooperating with prosecutors.

In April, three of Nixon’s top advisors resigned, and in May the president was forced to appoint former solicitor general of the United States Archibald Cox as a special prosecutor to investigate the affair. That same month, the Select Committee on Presidential Campaign Activities, informally known as the Senate Watergate Committee, began nationally televised hearings. The committee’s chair was Sam Ervin (D-NC), a conservative Democrat who would not run for reelection in 1974 and thus was expected to be able to do the job without political grandstanding.

The hearings turned up the explosive testimony of John Dean, who said he had talked to Nixon about covering up the burglary more than 30 times, but there the investigation sat during the hot summer of 1973 as the committee churned through witnesses. And then, on July 13, 1973, deputy assistant to the president Alexander Butterfield revealed the bombshell news that conversations and phone calls in the Oval Office had been taped since 1971.

Nixon refused to provide copies of the tapes either to Cox or to the Senate committee. When Cox subpoenaed a number of the tapes, Nixon ordered Attorney General Elliot Richardson to fire him. In the October 20, 1973, “Saturday Night Massacre,” Richardson and his deputy, William Ruckelshaus, refused to execute Nixon’s order and resigned in protest; it was only the third man at the Justice Department—Solicitor General Robert Bork—who was willing to carry out the order firing Cox.

Popular outrage at the resignations and firing forced Nixon to ask Bork—now acting attorney general—to appoint a new special prosecutor, Leon Jaworski, a Democrat who had voted for Nixon, on November 1. On November 17, Nixon assured the American people that “I am not a crook.”

Like Cox before him, Jaworski was determined to hear the Oval Office tapes. He subpoenaed a number of them. Nixon fought the subpoenas on the grounds of executive privilege. On July 24, 1974, in U.S. v. Nixon, the Supreme Court sided unanimously with the prosecutor, saying that executive privilege “must be considered in light of our historic commitment to the rule of law. This is nowhere more profoundly manifest than in our view that 'the twofold aim (of criminal justice) is that guilt shall not escape or innocence suffer.'... The very integrity of the judicial system and public confidence in the system depend on full disclosure of all the facts….”

Their hand forced, Nixon’s people released transcripts of the tapes. They were damning, not just in content but also in style. Nixon had cultivated an image of himself as a clean family man, but the tapes revealed a mean-spirited, foul-mouthed bully. Aware that the tapes would damage his image, Nixon had his swearing redacted. “[Expletive deleted]” trended.

In late July 1974, the House Committee on the Judiciary passed articles of impeachment, charging the president with obstruction of justice, abuse of power, and contempt of Congress. Each article ended with the same statement: “In all of this, Richard M. Nixon has acted in a manner contrary to his trust as President and subversive of constitutional government, to the great prejudice of the cause of law and justice and to the manifest injury of the people of the United States. Wherefore Richard M. Nixon, by such conduct, warrants impeachment and trial, and removal from office.”

And then, on August 5, in response to a subpoena, the White House released a tape recorded on June 23, 1972, just six days after the Watergate break-in, that showed Nixon and his aide H.R. Haldeman plotting to invoke national security to protect the president. Even Republican senators, who had not wanted to convict their president, knew the game was over. A delegation went to the White House to deliver the news to the president that he must resign or be impeached by the full House and convicted by the Senate.

In his resignation speech, Nixon refused to acknowledge that he had done anything wrong. Instead, he told the American people he had to step down because he no longer had the support he needed in Congress to advance the national interest. He blamed the press, whose “leaks and accusations and innuendo” had been designed to destroy him. His disappointed supporters embraced the idea that there was a “liberal” conspiracy, spearheaded by the press, to bring down any Republican president.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[custardmylove]

INTRODUCING MY OCS // ERVIN

Ervin is one out of three of my Genshin Impact OCs and I really don't wanna write his lore here since I've written it so many times BUT I will link a page to his uncomplete carrd thingy so you can investigate further if you would like :)

ERVIN LORE

hes so over the top and dramatic, I love how stupid he is.

[aitan]

CHARLES MINGUS E ORSON WELLES

CAPODANNO AL FIVE SPOT

Capodanno 1959, seduto in prima fila, proprio sotto il contrabbasso di Mingus c’era Orson Welles, quasi un alter ego del jazzista, per genialità, esuberanza, fierezza, complessità. E anche per le tante disavventure artistiche. Per Mingus era un idolo, lo seguiva dai tempi radiofonici di The war of worlds, adorava Quarto potere (dove in una scena c'era il suo amico d'infanzia Buddy Collette che suonava il sax in una festa sulla spiaggia), ammirava il suo modo di vestire, il suo impegno politico (sempre in prima linea per la difesa dei diritti civili, il suo Macbeth tutto nero è del 1936), la sua voce (“mi ricorda Coleman Hawkins. Potevi sentirla a un miglio di distanza”). E non era il solo jazzista a essere stato sedotto dalla voce radiofonica di Orson Welles, anche Miles Davis lo citava come un’influenza sul suo modo di suonare: “Fraseggio, tono, intonazione: tutte queste cose possono avere come modello un maestro della parola”.

Il 1959 sarà un anno d’oro del jazz per quantità, qualità, creatività. Al Five spot, piccolo, fumoso, maleodorante locale di Bowery, scelto come luogo di riferimento da artisti e intellettuali, l'anno comincia con un formidabile double bill: sono di scena, uno dopo l’altro, Sonny Rollins, alla testa di un trio con il bassista Henry Grimes e con il batterista Pete La Rocca, e Charles Mingus con il pianista Horace Parlan, il batterista Roy Haynes (che sostituisce il fedelissimo Dannie Richmond arrestato) e i sassofonisti Booker Ervin e John Handy. È la prima sera dell’anno, ma nel club di Bowery dei fratelli Joe e Iggy Termini è anche l’ultimo impegno di quel prestigioso, favoloso cartellone con Mingus molto irrequieto per tutta la scrittura. Aveva appena registrato la musica per il film di John Cassavetes Shadows, una colonna sonora bocciata nel rimontaggio finale (la stessa cosa sarebbe successa anni dopo con Todo modo di Petri), aveva ripreso i suoi musicisti brutalmente e una volta aveva minacciato violentemente i clienti di un tavolo che, durante il suo set, non smettevano di parlare. Oltretutto ogni sera tendeva ad allargare il suo set e Sonny si inferociva, talvolta rifiutandosi di suonare. Ma era un gran clima, entusiasmante e effervescente. Rollins era in un momento di transizione, alla vigilia di un ritiro clamoroso per rinnovare il linguaggio del suo sax tenore con il leggendario e solitario corso di aggiornamento stilistico sul ponte di Williamsburg: «In un posto tranquillissimo, un angolo morto che oggi sarebbe impossibile ritrovare con il traffico che c’è» il suo racconto, dove poteva esercitarsi liberamente.

Anche Welles, come Mingus, era reduce da una delusione cinematografica: la Universal gli aveva tolto di mano la post-produzione del nuovo film, L’infernale Quinlan, ne aveva tagliato una ventina di minuti e aveva fatto girare nuove scene, modificando il primo montaggio. Più o meno nello stesso periodo era finito in soffitta un documentario intitolato Viva Italia (Portrait of Gina) perché Gina Lollobrigida aveva messo un veto, non gradendo il suo ritratto di giovane attrice ambiziosa e la Abc tv lo aveva bocciato ritenendolo cosi poco ortodosso da non poter essere trasmesso. Era un film di mezz’ora scarsa sull’Italia, paese che Orson ha frequentato per 20 anni (la terza moglie è stata l’attrice italiana, Paola Mori). Dopo un lungo oblio (Orson aveva perduto l'unica copia esistente all'Hotel Ritz di Parigi) è stato riscoperto nel 1986, proiettato al festival di Venezia ma poi di nuovo bandito su intervento della Lollobrigida.

La presenza del regista di Quarto potere al Five spot non era casuale

Nel club di Bowery si poteva incontrare chiunque, da Jack Kerouac che leggeva le sue poesie, alla mitica baronessa Pannonica de Koenigswater scesa dalla sua Rolls Royce, a William de Kooning che voleva respirare la libertà del jazz, a Leonard Bernstein che si divertiva a curiosare nella notte, allo scrittore Norman Mailer con la sua passione per quella musica. Ma la musica da sempre è stata una grande passione di Welles. La mamma pianista gli aveva fatto prendere lezioni di piano e violino e Orson aveva anche mostrato un certo talento, tanto da essere considerato un ragazzo prodigio. In gioventù era stato un grande sostenitore del jazz di New Orleans, ma sicuramente ammirava Charles Mingus per la sua musica e la sua personalità, il suo impegno, il suo agire tellurico.

(Marco Molendini)

Non potevo non condividerlo.

Due miei ingombranti miti nella stessa foto, nello stesso locale, nello stesso articolo.

[invisiblequeen]

Anyway, here are my two submissions for the @spacecadet-sims BC that i definitely have not had ready for days prior:

For Atticus: Viana Walton:

Name: Viana Walton Age: Young Adult Gender: Woman Pronouns: She/Her Sexuality: Bisexual Occupation: Vet Likes: Blue, White, Black, Orange, Comedy, Guitar, Horse Riding, Painting, Photography, Polished Fashion, Basics Fashion, Outdoorsy Fashion Dislikes: Red, Gray, Easy Listening Music, DJ Booth, Music, Fishing, Programming, Snowboarding, Media Production, Rocker Fashion, Boho Fashion Favorites: World Music, Spooky Music, Pop Music, Latin Music, spicy foods and most importantly, graham crackers. Traits: Early bird, Hyper, Foodie Aspiration: Dr. Doolittle Family/Important Friends/Pets?: Parents in Chestnut Ridge, Twin sister named Dyana(dee-anh-nah) in San Myshuno. Distant cousin in a sim named Eldon Ervin who visits sometimes. Short Bio: Simply put, Viana Walton is one with the animals. Happily stationed in Brindleton Bay with the top spot in the vet clinic, she spends her time walking with the stray cats and dogs around town, decorating and redecorating her home, and sometimes visiting her family in chestnut ridge to free-ride their horses. She hadn't really thought about a spouse for the future, since most of the guys her friend Supriya Delgato (townie) sets her up with are turned off by how animated she gets about her passions. But Dyana, her twin, got wind of this BC and encouraged her to enter. She's dubious, but Viana is willing to give it a shot. And if it doesn't work out, well, at least she has her occasional sneaky link Catarina Linx. 👀 Misc. Info: She loves denim. LOVES denim. Her mom is tomorangi and her dad is Chestnut-Ridgian, so she visits both places often. She thinks the lighthouse is haunted. And--sit down for this--Mayor Whiskers is her least favorite cat in the area.

For Imogen: Eldon Ervin

Name: Eldon Ervin Age: Young Adult Gender: Man Pronouns: He/Him Sexuality: Heterosexual Occupation: Composer Likes: Brown, Orange, Black, White, PIano, Pipe Organ, Singing, Writing, Preppy Fashion, Polished Fashion Dislikes: Island Music, METAL MUSIC, Pop Music, Yellow, Blue, Harp, Guitar, Cooking, Hipster Fashion, Rocker Fashion Favorites (music, food, etc): Classical Music, Singer-Songwriter Music, Spooky Music, Jazz Music, soup, soup, and more soup. Traits: Lyricist, Outgoing, Unappeasable Aspiration: Musical Genius Family/Important Friends/Pets?: Most of his family is in Glimmerbrook, he's friends with all the townie DJ's in Windenburg, and got on Judith Ward's good side ever since he composed music for her post-peak drama film a few years ago. No siblings, no pets, and if he wants to be around cute animals, he'll visit his distant cousin Viana in Brindleton Bay. Short Bio: You've heard of Mozart and Beethoven, but have you heard of Eldon Ervin? Well, if you watched Judith Ward's last big film, you'd know he was the driving force behind the movie's composition and theme song that catapulted him into stardom. An overachieving genius in every sense of the word, Eldon is looking to release the kind of legendary pieces his idols have in the past. He's noticed that the most heart-wrenching sonatas or concertos were inspired by love. So maybe this BC will bring him the muse he needs. Misc. Info: He likes sitting on benches near ponds and write poems in the rain. His parents are both spellcaster and somehow he came out with no magic at all. We don't talk about that. His favorite animal is a DUCK.

WHAT DO WE THINK?

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

I've really made myself giggle in a way that's not important enough to post on it's own but still funny enough to share with the class (+ also if you ignore the stupid part at the end I've lowkey cooked with this concept)

- Mirabelle is not a fan of the apparent thousands of stairs she has to take to her new archmage's quarters post Horrors but she also hates being cooped up there 24/7

- Brelyna has an Idea because hmm back at home we used to be able to levitate between floors and wasn't that nice

- she writes home for the first time in months with the enthusiastic permission of Mirabelle

- big slay - now everything's accessible! Not big slay - there goes like the entirety of the college's remaining budget

- they do not have the budget for doors or gates or anything. They wish they had planned just a tiny bit ahead because they equally don't have the budget for every students' broken legs from misuse of the levitation shaft..

laughed aloud at "not big slay" bfsdlkgjsldf 😭 their poor budget. you're so right though where's our use of levitation for accessibility purposes!! (imagining a new discourse starter: was Hannibal Traven's levitation ban an ableist maneuver?) the mental image of Brelyna writing home like "hello family I know it's been a while. probably it will also be another long while before you hear from me again. anyway can one of you copy me some master blueprints please it's for.......... extra credit" is sending me kfsdjg

I considered something similar when I was first planning out my revised floor plan but ultimately decided there are simply too many stairs everywhere... ;-; Savos' old room can be the dedicated alchemical garden/workshop (frees up a whole classroom!! now everyone battle it out for the "new" space) and Archmage Ervine keeps her ground-floor lodgings :')

[jiubilant]

What do you think falion's main beef with the college and savos was? Wondering if savos had any strong thoughts about vampires or Necromancy

i'm so glad you asked about this because i've been meaning to write up a post about it

brief history of falion and "the caller":

falion was the master of conjuration at winterhold before phinis gestor. he was an accomplished (if somewhat reclusive and single-minded) scholar of his discipline and popular with his students

he and his research assistant, an ambitious and charismatic young mage named anreth calatil, collaborated for years on a study of life-prolonging magics. this collaboration came to an end after a mysterious quarrel drove a wedge between master and pupil, and rumors soon began to circulate that anreth had abandoned falion's tutelage because she was frustrated with the "timidity" of her former mentor's methods

it soon became clear that anreth, along with a number of impressionable disciples of conjuration, was continuing her research into life-prolonging magics in secret. falion suspected his former research assistant of dark deeds and took his concerns about the potentially dangerous trajectory of her studies to archmage aren, who responded to his concerns in the usual way (by doing nothing)

this, to put it mildly, frustrated falion

as anreth's circle of followers grew and began to challenge falion's authority as master of conjuration, falion took matters into his own hands—first by confronting a now wildly-popular anreth, who mocked his censure, and then by confronting aren. the resulting quarrel culminated in falion quitting in a rage, leaving aren with a dire warning that his negligence would one day result in disaster

falion's dramatic exit left the position of conjuration master open. anreth lobbied for the position but archmage aren, perhaps with falion's warning in mind—or perhaps with the advice of his master wizard, mirabelle ervine, in his ear—gave the position to phinis gestor, a meek former pupil of falion's who was not enthused by the promotion

anreth, outraged, abandoned the college and took half of the conjuration department with her. she and her followers established themselves in an abandoned keep in whiterun. locals soon reached out to winterhold complaining of a "fell glow" from the keep, as well as foul smells and sickness among their livestock, but aren disavowed anreth (now playing to her reputation by referring to herself as "the caller") and her followers and declared their actions out of his jurisdiction

over the next few years, disaffected conjuration students unhappy with phinis's instruction continued to trickle out of winterhold and defect to anreth's tutelage. one such student, orthorn, stole several texts from the college's arcaneum before disappearing. only then did mirabelle ervine, without the archmage's explicit knowledge, take action...more details specific to my rendition of the winterhold questline under the cut

mirabelle, who had known anreth as a student, believed her to be eccentric but not dangerous. she sent ravi to whiterun for the books hoping both that the excursion would keep him out of the thalmor's reach while they plotted together and that "the caller" would be friendlier to the overtures of a layman than those of a college mage

ravi started to suspect something strange after arriving in the village nearest the keep and chatting with the locals, who told him that they'd noticed itinerants—peddlers, cobblers, and other travelers journeying alone or in small parties—disappearing suddenly. they warned him not to go to the keep. he agreed that the situation was a bit beyond him and took a room for the night, planning to write to mirabelle for counsel in the morning—

—and then woke up in the keep, in a cell with a terrified young mage who identified himself as orthorn. orthorn spilled everything: among other questionable research methods, the caller was "cultivating" a "herd" of spellbound vampires for her studies, and releasing them to feed on village livestock at night was "no longer producing useful results"

(she was going to feed them to her vampires)

the two were taken to the vampire pens and thrown inside. every bit of folklore they knew indicated that the starving vampires would succumb to their predatory instincts and make short work of them. instead the vampires restrained themselves in hopes of gaining their freedom. they ordered orthorn and ravi to help them escape. ravi kept their thoughts off dinner by talking nonstop for several hours (his special talent) while orthorn worked on breaking the spell-wards trapping them all inside

they escaped. the oldest and most ruthless vampires fell upon the caller and her followers. ravi and orthorn fled the frenzy, but were pursued by the remaining vampires—some of the kidnapped travelers, recently-turned—who begged to accompany ravi to the college in order to seek a cure for their condition

cue cross-country trip in which cattle were rustled, innkeepers alarmed, and ravi (orthorn having made a break for it as soon as possible) kept up a nonstop soothing ramble about whatever came to mind in order to remind his traveling companions that he was not in fact food

two weeks later the arrival of ravila rano and several hungry vampires at the college caused much consternation. after a heated faculty debate over how to handle the matter responsibly, mirabelle recommended that the caller's hapless victims (who, after all, had never hurt anyone and were repelled by the very thought) seek out falion in morthal for help—with a wizardly escort ensuring their continued good behavior on the way—and that ravi drink some tea for his laryngitis

afterwards mirabelle, in an attempt to relieve her stress headaches, took up smoking. ravi attempted to teach her to blow smoke rings with no success. end of act i