#flashe and mineral paint

[sheltiechicago]

“Talking shit with Coatlicue” (2017), flashe on linen, 79 9/10 × 65 inches

Monumental Paintings by Eamon Ore-Giron Translate Cultural Symbols into Vivid Geometries

A mélange of architectural structures, cosmic mappings, South American textiles, hieroglyphics, and Indigenous symbols emerge in vivid, balanced color in Eamon Ore-Giron’s paintings. Often rendered in flashe and mineral paint on large-scale linen canvases, the works are enveloping and visionary, transporting the viewer into Ore-Giron’s flat, geometric vistas.

All images © Eamon Ore-Giron, courtesy of the artist and James Cohan

“Black Medallion XXIII” (2023), mineral paint and flashe on linen, 72 x 72 inches. Photo by Charles White/JWPictures.com

“Night Shade” (2016), flashe on linen, 84 x 60 inches

“Infinite Regress CLXXXIV” (2021), flashe and mineral paint on linen, 120 x 120 inches. Photo by Charles White/JWPictures.com

“Black Medallion XV (Mama-Quilla)’ (2023), mineral paint and flashe on linen, 174 x 300 inches. Photo by Charles White/JWPictures.com

“Infinite Regress CLXXXVIII” (2021), mineral paint and flashe on linen, 120 x 156 inches. Photo by Charles White/JWPictures.com

[sassenach77yle]

What are ye laughing at, a nighean?” Her father loomed out of the night, smelling of horses. “Everything,” she said, scooching over to make room for him to sit beside her. It was true. Everything seemed suddenly bright, the candlelight from the windows of the Big House, the fireflies in the grass, the glow of Roger’s face when he told her his desire. She could still feel the touch of his mouth on hers; it fizzed in her blood.

Jamie reached up and fielded a passing firefly, holding it for a moment cupped in the dark hollow of his hand, where it flashed on and off, the cool light seeping through his fingers. Far off, she heard a brief snatch of her mother’s voice, coming through an open window;

Claire was singing “Clementine.” Now the boys—and Roger—were howling at the moon, though it was no more than a pale sickle on the horizon. She felt her father’s body shake with silent laughter, too.

“It reminds me of Disneyland,” she said on impulse.

“Oh, aye? Where’s that?” “It’s an amusement park—for children,” she added, knowing that while there were such things as amusement parks in places like London and Paris, these were purely adult places. No one ever thought of entertaining children now, beyond their own games and the occasional toy. “Daddy and Mama took me there every summer,” she said, slipping back without effort to the hot, bright days and warm California nights.

“The trees all had little sparkling lights in them—the fireflies reminded me.” Jamie spread his palm; the firefly, suddenly free, pulsed to itself once or twice, then spread its wings with a tiny whir and lifted into the air, floating up and away.

“Dwelt a miner, forty-niner, and his daugh-ter, Clementine . . .”

“What was it like, then?” he asked curiously. “Oh . . . it was wonderful.” She smiled to herself, seeing the brilliant lights of Main Street, the music and mirrors and beautiful, beribboned horses of King Arthur’s Carrousel. “There were . . . rides, we called them. A boat, where you could float through the jungle on a river, and see crocodiles and hippopotamuses and headhunters . . .” “Headhunters?” he said, intrigued. “Not real ones,” she assured him. “It’s all make-believe—but it’s . . . well, it’s a world to itself. When you’re there, the real world sort of disappears; nothing bad can happen there.

They call it ‘The Happiest Place on Earth’—and for a little while, it really seems that way.”

“Light she was, and like a fairy, and her shoes were number nine, Herring boxes without topses, sandals were for Clementine.”“And you’d hear music everywhere, all the time,” she said, smiling. “Bands—groups of musicians playing instruments, horns and drums and things—would march up and down the streets, and play in pavilions. . . .” “Aye, that happens in amusement parks. Or it did, the once I was in one.” She could hear a smile in his voice, as well. “Mm-hm. And there are cartoon characters—I told you about cartoons—walking around. You can go up and shake hands with Mickey Mouse, or—” “With what?” “Mickey Mouse.” She laughed. “A big mouse, life-size—human-size, I mean. He wears gloves.” “A giant rat?” he said, sounding slightly stunned. “And they take the weans to play with it?” “Not a rat, a mouse,” she corrected him. “And it’s really a person dressed up like a mouse.” “Oh, aye?” he said, not sounding terribly reassured. “Yes. And an enormous carrousel with painted horses, and a railroad train that goes through the Rainbow Caverns, where there are big jewels sticking out of the walls, and colored streams with red and blue water . . . and orange-juice bars. Oh, orange-juice bars!” She moaned softly in ecstatic remembrance of the cold, tart, overwhelming sweetness. “It was nice, then?” he said softly.

“Thou art lost and gone forever, Dreadful sor-ry . . . Clementine.”

“Yes,” she said, sighed, and was silent for a moment. Then she leaned her head against his shoulder, and wrapped her hand around his arm, big and solid. “You know what?” she said, and he made a small interrogatory noise in reply.

It was nice—it was great—but what I really, really loved about it was that when we were there, it was just the three of us, and everything was perfect. Mama wasn’t worrying about her patients, Daddy wasn’t working on a paper—they weren’t ever silent or angry with each other. Both of them laughed—we all laughed, all the time . . . while we were there.” He made no reply, but tilted his head so it rested against hers. She sighed again, deeply.

“Jemmy won’t get to go to Disneyland—but he’ll have that. A family that laughs—and millions of little lights in the trees.”

A breath of snow and ashes

Season 7 episode 2 “The Happiest Place on Earth”

[mindblowingscience]

The flash of bright red caught Laurent Davin’s eye. He was looking at an array of 15,000-year-old shell beads and other artifacts, which have been displayed in a case at Jerusalem’s Rockefeller Archaeological Museum since before World War II. Many people had viewed them, but Davin was struck by this detail. “If you look at it, it’s like blood, a really vivid red,” he says, “and I had to wonder, ‘What’s that color?’” Countless prehistoric artifacts are colored red with ochre, a mineral product that was the world’s first red paint, but something made this hue look very different—and Davin set out to discover what it was. Analysis with high-tech spectroscopy techniques revealed a novel source behind Davin’s suspicions. The beads, originally found in Kebara Cave, on Israel’s Mount Carmel, are the oldest known example of humans using plants to manufacture red pigment. The bright red color adorning them was produced from the roots of Rubiaceae plants, commonly known as the madder family, according to research published Wednesday in PLOS One.

Continue Reading.

[nik-barinova]

*gently hands you my farmer!Zoey info and Shane headcanons and then offers to drop my lore on them, but really for Zoey*

Zoey Kilduff

Full Name: Zoey Elaine Kilduff

Age: 32 (as of Yr 1)

Height: 5’10”

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/Her/Hers

Sexuality: Pansexual

Nationality: Scottish

Ethnicity: Romani, Indonesian, Indian, Afghani

Farm Name: Solasta Farm

Main Produce: Cheese, Jams, Flowers, Wine, Fruit Tree Fruits, Peppers

Primary Choice of Clothing: Gothic and casual

Loves: Tropical curry, Pepper poppers, Green tea, Iridium bar, Topaz, Prehistoric Skull

Likes: All Eggs, All Minerals, All Flowers (except Daffodil and Dandelion)

Neutral: Hazelnut, Ginger, Maki Roll, Holly Leek, Truffle, Clay, Seaweed

Dislikes: All Mushrooms, All Geodes, Cave Carrot, Pine Tar, Spring Onion, Qi Fruit

Hates: Mayo

Bio:

Daughter to a boxing legend and a late dancing queen, Zoey Kilduff virtually had to raise her younger siblings herself despite being the eldest triplet. Their father was not one to exactly get physical with his triplet children, but he does get in their head too much to the point of them developing serious anxiety and self esteem issues. Her father owned an MMA/Boxing club in Zuzu City, and every day after school, Zoey and her younger siblings would go to workout and train, sometimes going into the late hours.

Zoey never could remember much of her mother, except that she would protect her and her siblings from their father until one night she disappeared.

The only time Zoey ever recalled good moments was when her uncle would sneak the triplets out to a gridball game or a rock concert. Zoey and her uncle were close enough that she would end up calling him her “dad” later on, and so did her siblings.

Things only got worse, though, when her father decided to enter her in a series of boxing matches as a teen illegally by lying about her age. Zoey still had an impressive record, but she would come to school with multiple bruises and cuts, prompting school officials to question her about her home life. Zoey felt anxious to tell the truth, but she did what she believed was right. However, she was (supposedly) proven wrong by her father later that week.

Her father would not speak to her except for when he trained her, but he was much harsher on her than he would be towards her two other siblings. One evening, he would take her on a drive, just him and her, and have a “talk”; which was code for “not good, not good”. The drive was anxiety inducing for Zoey, and before she knew it, the “talk” turned into a shouting match between them.

The last thing the both of them could remember was a sudden flash of bright beams and a the sound of a truck horn.

Zoey woke up surrounded by her siblings, uncle, and grandparents as well as police. She could barely remember what had happened up until the wreck, but with what she could remember, her and her siblings’ father was finally arrested for various charges and would lose custody of the triplets and be left with their uncle. At the cost of being free from their father, Zoey was left a total arm amputee due to how bad the wreck was.

After much rehab, therapy, and support from her loved ones, Zoey and her siblings were able to finish high school, and eventually go on to graduate college. Though while the younger siblings went on to pursue their respective careers, Zoey had difficulty finding proper work and eventually settled for something calmer, thus landing her at a corporate office job with Joja Corp. At first, this was a great opportunity for her to find some sort of peace and calm for her going forward in life, it was definitely the most boring and tiring job for her until she realized this was not what she had in mind for her life.

Sure she was able to find more therapeutic alternatives like skull paintings, but living out the rest of her days sitting in a cubical?

That was until early in her thirties did she receive a letter from her dying grandfather that he had left her a huge inheritance: the old family farm Solasta Farm.

Once she realized this was a new chance at a second life, Zoey quit her job at Joja Corp, and quickly moved to Stardew Valley, truly giving herself a second chance at a new life.

Now if only she could get a chance to befriend a certain town drunk…

[t0ast-ghost]

S3 EP12 (The Empath) ohhhh no. Oh no. Oh nononono no.

Aughgg:

- The three of them beaming down to a planet. What a good way to start an episode!

- Kirk protecting his ship over all

- Kirk had to watch Spock and Bones disappear. He had to watch them disappear and be left alone to call out their names in vain

- Kirk’s body left an ass imprint in the sand

- Together again! In the void!

- Showing what’s on the tricorder is so silly of them

- WHAT TGE FUCJ ARE THOSE

- “We Come—” *gets shot*

- Get hit with the gay beam. The photos don’t do it justice but I’m not taking a video because there’s flashing lights (careful showing this to your photosensitive friends!)

- Jim is so enchanted by her, it’s adorable 🥰

- THIS. This is his character. At least the part that is so often discarded. He’s not holding her hand out of a want to romance her or anything like that. He’s holding it because he wants to protect and comfort her. He’s just like this and it’s so so soft.

- Kirk calling them over as he’s just horrified and disgusted. Then Bones calling them over. Like idk I’m happy over them saying each others names, I’m in too deep

- Each of them facing what are basically their own graves

- Too good to be true. They ain’t escaping

- this

- “The prime ingredients” to what? Suffer soup?

- McCoy straight up objecting to Kirk’s sacrifice while Spock offers himself instead

- “What happened to my men!?” CALL THEM YOUR BOYFRIENDS. On another note, Kirk is so fiercely protective of them and so angry and scared that’s something has or will happen to them

- Annnnd they made him shirtless

- “We’ve already observed the intensity of your passions, and gauged your capacity to love others.” Here they are directly referring to how Kirk loves McCoy and Spock

- Spock and McCoy in da void

- McCoy begging for Gem to help Kirk because he can’t help Kirk

- This healing scene is going on for a very long time. An uncomfortable amount of time.

- Like a renaissance painting

- “Spock why do you have to get so analytical?”

- What kind of choice is that? McCoy will probably die and Spock will suffer brain damage

- “I’m a doctor, not a coal miner.” Yippee!!!

- Spock and McCoy both want to sacrifice themselves

- McCoy just fucking drugged Kirk!!!

- Spock you bitch! Don’t sacrifice yourself bbygirl

- Gem is helping McCoy. She understands. “Your action is highly unethical!” Spock shouts but McCoy can’t allow Spock to go with them

- “Why did you let him do it?” “I was convinced in the same way you were captain— by the doctors hypo.” They’re so worried about their boyfriend

- “And they keep McCoy.” Damn every alien planet wants to keep this man. I mean I get it but like.. damn

- HOLY SHIT WHAT DID THEY DO TO HIM

- he’s in so much distress

- SAVE HIM! Please! Gem save him!

- He’s holding him so gently

- “You’ve got a good bedside manner, Spock.” What. Why. Why are you flirting. Right now?!?

- Spock takes longer to leave McCoy’s side

- “Each of you was willing to give his life for the others.” Yeah! Cause they’re in love!

- Damn they’re just torturing her

- He starts coughing and Jim looks so worried that I wanna write a sick fic based on that look alone

- McCoy wakes up and immediately calls for Jim and Spock omg omg

- good point Kirk. They (the aliens) are fucking hypocrites

- forgive the horrible photo quality. They’re just little guys

- Spock is smiling here. Like you cannot deny he’s smiling here. He’s so happy that the doctor is alive and that he gets to joke with him and Jim on the bridge

A couple of busy days went by but I’ll keep posting :)

Masterpost

Episode written by Joyce Muskat

[thunderstruck9]

Eamon Ore-Giron (American, 1973), Black Medallion XI, 2022. Mineral paint and flashe on linen, 48 x 35 in.

[stesierra]

How would you like to see the book I can't publish? It's a book about disability and societal injustice and gay teenagers and terrible diseases. I'm proud of it but I wrote it in a time before OwnVoices and I don't want to take money away from writers who actually are physically disabled. But maybe it's okay to share it for free. YA fantasy that would definitely be banned in Florida.

CAST OUT

CHAPTER ONE

The smell was like nothing I'd ever encountered. It filtered through the hood of my cloak and the silk mask over my nose and mouth, and it filled my lungs the way the sun fills your eyes when you stare at it.

On my shoulders, my parents' hands weighed heavy and warm. My father's trembled.

I was not trembling. I was sixteen today. Full-aged. Full-aged women walked with their heads held high and uncovered. They looked at the world around them, at anything they liked, without worrying they'd see something that would blight a growing mind.

It wasn't gawking to stare around at the gold-plated columns, the silk-draped ceiling, and the obsidian stairs. It was being adult.

We mounted the stairs, my parents a step ahead of me.

At the top, sentinels framed the ivory entrance. Straight whole tusks made up the door, each twice my height and lashed together with silver wire. As we reached the top landing, the sentinels seized silver handles and pulled. They moved like mirrors.

The doors swung wide. A fire smoldered in the entryway, set in a grate lined with silver fish. We walked around it, onto a tiled platform that stretched into the heart of a triangular chamber. Down below, twelve robed men and women sat cross-legged on the floor. White triangles of linen capped their heads.

The Justry.

I took a deep breath. The smell was stronger here. It was a mineral scent, but sweet, almost cloying. I felt a little dizzy.

My parents' hands squeezed my shoulders. Then Father pulled my cloak away. Mother stripped off my mask. For the first time outside of my home, I stood exposed in nothing but my linen camise and baggy calsounds, which belled out all the way down to my slippers. My scalp felt the kiss of fresh air, even with my black hair braided and bound tight to my head. I stood proudly. I wore my best clothes, dyed red with madder and embroidered by Father's hand. I'd even scraped the paint from under my nails.

When my parents returned to my side, smoke choked the air, and the cloak and mask were gone. I would never wear them again. I wanted to skip and jump, but the eyes of the Justry were on me.

The youngest of the Justry rose, a woman no more than seventeen. The justa's skin was the same brown as the powdered cuttlefish ink Mother bought me. A touch lighter than my own.

The woman spoke, but I fixed my eyes on the crimson pillow she held. On the pillow sat a little golden jar.

Mother nudged me. I looked up.

The justa's mouth moved with ritual words Mother had already taught me. "As I have seen revelations, dear one, and been made pure, so will you. The first revelations are always the strongest." She smiled, revealing teeth a shade brighter than her white lip salve. "Are you ready?"

I nodded.

The justa reached down with white-nailed hands and lifted the golden lid. I caught a glimpse of a little cone, which sent up tendrils of glowing green like the essence of life itself. Oracle ore.

Then the smell caught me.

It swept me out of my body and up to the ceiling and through it, like I was no more substantial than a soul. It sparkled and churned and danced in my lungs, and I danced and churned and sparkled in the air above the city, a leaf on the wind. A grain of sand being melted to glass.

I felt as though I could shatter.

Lights burst behind my eyes like lost stars, and they showed me wonders that flashed by so fast I missed half of them. Underground caverns and winding tunnels that burned with their own greenish light. Gold-fronted mansions that lined the curve of a manicured hill. Huge automas, in shapes of animal and human and nothing living, with joints that moved smooth as oil. Their intricate, glowing guts.

A pale-faced woman with a jutting chin and stub nose, her low cheeks framed by mousy brown hair. Her eyes were the green of malachite pigment and old copper and the little cone evanescing on the pillow in front of me.

I fell into them.

I fell into myself.

I knelt between my parents on the platform. I had not moved except to fall. The justas still surrounded us, and the woman with white lip salve had replaced the lid on the golden jar.

Her smile at me was tender. I was too dazed to read her lips, but I could envision in signs what she said; Mother had drilled it into me. "Well? Child, tell us of what you have seen, and be welcome to adulthood."

I let my parents haul me to my feet. My knees felt like pudding. I closed my eyes, and Mother and Father steadied me with their hands.

"It was amazing," I said to the justa. And I laughed. "It was beautiful. More beautiful than anything I've ever seen. And the taste– it was like waterfalls in the mountains, or the way a diamond must taste. I've never seen either, but I've read–"

Mother's hand clamped down on my shoulder. Father's had fallen away. Something was happening. Something was wrong. I opened my eyes.

The justa's mouth was moving. I'd missed the first part of the sentence. But I read the last of it on her lips and guessed the rest. "–She will be cast out."

My hands clenched in dismay. "What? No, you can't! I saw the revelations! I saw!" I needed to taste it again. I needed the justa to lift the cover over that little glowing cone and let me suck its magic into my lungs.

The justa shrouded the golden case with a sleeve and stared at me with narrowed eyes. "Silence your child, perfectas. Her voice saddens this body."

Mother pulled me close. She spoke – her chest reverberated against my back – but I couldn't see, even without my hood. My eyes had frozen on the justa's mouth. I caught every twitch of her lips, as though I had known and read her face for years.

The justa replied, "She is an imperfecta. The law has no leeway." Her eyes turned towards Father. He must have said something. "Take comfort. There are always miracles. Perhaps the Great Unknowns will hear your prayers and cure her."

I set my jaw. "I don't need to be cured. There's nothing wrong with me."

The justa ignored me. "You may have one night with her before she is escorted from the city. With our blessings."

A drop splashed the back of my neck. Mother was crying.

The justa lifted a hand. "Walk in perfection."

My parents led me away.

#

They didn't speak to me until we were home, inside our own entry chamber, which I'd painted myself a year ago. I stopped just over the threshold, brushed by the draft of the door swinging shut behind me. My hands swept the air, agitated, too fast. "They aren't really going to make me leave, are they?"

My parents turned towards me. Tears glistened in the cracks of wrinkles that hadn't been there that morning. "Zisha," Mother said, her hands cupping my face. Was this the last time I'd see my name on her lips?

"They can't throw me out," I signed. "Not just because I talk strangely."

Father and Mother exchanged mournful glances. Father signed, "Little bird, they knew it wasn't only your voice."

"Just because I'm deaf? Because I can't hear?"

Mother stepped back, freeing her hands. Her fingers twitched a subdued answer. "Yes, dear one."

My face felt hot and sticky. Tears ran down my cheeks. "All those years you spent coaching me on how to talk properly, how to read lips. They were for nothing?"

Father signed, "We hoped your training would fool them. But–"

"It didn't."

"You have a beautiful voice, dear one," Mother signed.

"The Justry didn't think so."

Mother bit her lip. "They are all fools."

I signed, "Tell them I'll stay inside. I won't take revelations again. No one needs to see me–"

"They know you are here now," Father signed. "They won't let you hide."

I swallowed. Sniffed. "It isn't fair."

Father shook his head. "I will pack a bag for you, little bird. Go pick your favorite books from the library." He strode away, his back as stiff as the benches lining the entry hall.

I sank into one and signed weakly, "He's thinking of books? Now?"

"You will want them," Mother signed. "You will not find any outside the Plenary Cities. They cannot read, out there."

"Can they even paint?"

"Not like you, love."

I hugged my knees to my chest, pressed my face against them. Tried my voice. "I don't want to go there."

Her hand brushed my back, but I did not look to see her reply. I didn't want to see it.

I wanted to stay.

@anonymousfoz

@moremysteriesthantragedies

@elizababie

@sm-writes-chaos

@bellascarousel

@palebdot

@Hyba

@da-na-hae

@macabremoons

[botanicalbard]

Okay, Okay normally I don’t post my witting on tumblr but I’m really proud of my Fic for the BG3 amino Halloween competition plus what I did is so tumblr coded. So I have to post it here For context my prompts was: “You walk into a trap, uh oh! Each of the companions must spin the wheel and have a unfortunate fate bestowed upon them, what those fates are will be up to you.” An I made them Horrid little fates based on cranewives songs. Excuse the formatting as this is copy and pasted straight from my google doc with no regard for how well it will transfer.

“Chk, I have no desire to participate in any activity as frivolous as a ‘girls' night.’” Lae’zel huffs in annoyance glaring at where Shadowheart was doing Karlach’s makeup to avoid the undignified but adorable puppy eyes her leader was giving her. Jubilee chuckles, “Come on, it's a tradition here in Faerûn, and how would we ever survive without you?” She says, nudging her lightly. She’d meant it as a silly little call back to Lae’zel’s favorite objection to being left but all three of the other women cringed and over the tadpole, Jubilee saw the image of herself collapsing on the floor of Shar’s temple.

“Fine.” Lae’zel hisses, “But, I’m not subjecting myself to any of that ridiculous war paint,” gesturing to the makeup in Shadowheart’s hands.

“It’s not you know what never mind,” Shadowheart says and shakes her head knowing better than to argue with Lae’zel.

Jubilee was ecstatic and pressed a brief kiss on Lae’zel’s cheek, “Thanks you’re the best.”

“I know,” Lae’zel answers flatly, relishing the jealous look Shadowheart gave her so much that she decided whatever frivolous activities she would be dragged through would be more than worth it.

“Easy soldiers,” Karalch says, noticing the silent exchange of expressions that Jubilee was too thrilled to notice.

Jubilee sits cuddling up to Shadowheart as she begins working on her own makeup, quickly not wanting to test Lae’zel’s patience or risk her backing out. Once they were done preening as Lae’zel called it the women began the walk from camp, Karlach bounding ahead, Shadowheart and Jubilee walked hand and hand not far behind whispering sweet nothings at each other while Lae’zel brought up the rear watching all of them with a gaze that was far more protective than she’d ever admit even to herself. The four women didn't make it to the city proper as Karlach found a small tent that had set up the sign above the flap that read The Wheel of Fate.

Lae’zel hisses at it, something in her instincts warning her about whatever lay in the tent.

“Come on, we should go and give it a spin. What's the worst that could happen? We get more doomed?” Karlach jokes.

The two women both looked at the couple expecting them to take sides, Jubilee lovingly twirled the silver braid between her fingers and looked at her beloved, “Well what do you think, my heart?”

Shadowheart squints at it, they'd walked this path a lot and it was a little suspicious a tent had suddenly appeared along it, however, her desire to spite Lae’zel won out and she says, “It’s just a silly carnival game, seems harmless enough,” and holds the tent flap open for all of them.

An old woman with a rickety wooden wheel sits in the tent and she smiles as the four women crowd in there is barely room in the tent. The wheel has various symbols painted on it: a mouth, a moon, a songbird, an anchor, a knife, a rose, a hand, a coyote, a wedding gown, and more decorated the wheel. “Welcome in, dears, spin my wheel: it won’t tell you your future but it will tell you the kind of person you're fated to be,” creaks an old voice that feels eerily familiar.

Jubilee chuckles, “Sounds complicated but I’ll give it a shot.” She says and gives the wheel a spin and it lands on the little songbird.

The woman laughs cruelly, “Canaries, darling little birds, that are only allowed to live as long as they are useful to miners.” She says and in a flash, Jubilee is gone. Weapons were quickly drawn and the old woman crackled, growing into a hag laughing, “The lot of you killed my dear sister Ethel now the lot of you have a choice: let me take this one of yours or all of you face a punishment from my wheel,” she demanded.

Shadowheart steps forward frantically spinning the wheel immediately desperate to save the woman she loves and hers lands on the anchor.

“Anchors, great burdens, you're a greater one.” The hag snarls and Shadowheart vanishes.

“I’ll conquer your challenge and then pay for this chaith,” Lae’zel hisses back just as fiercely, meeting the gaze of the hag and spinning the wheel it landed on a hand.

The hag cracked a grin “Well, darling you bit the hands that feeds and it can slap back.” And Lae’zel vanishes.

Karlach steps up spinning the wheel with enough force that it should’ve broken off its hinges and it stops on the mouth. Karlach looks at the hag expecting an insult or a threat the way the others had gotten the hag looks her in the eyes “You’ve got enough words where you're going you don't need mine,” she answers and Karlach vanishes.

-｡;+☆+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+★+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+☆+;｡｡;+☆+;｡

Karlach blinks she’s somewhere, in a stone chamber with no doors, walls, or windows she takes it in running her fingers along the stone debating if she could smash her way out or not when a pair of black lips appeared and spoke with Zariel’s voice, “Oh my little pet did you think you could escape me for long, your nothing but a menace, nothing but my fury.”

“Fuck off! I’m not your toy. I’m more than what you made me, I’m strong and a good friend and a good person.”she snarls.

A pair of blue lips appear beside Zariel’s laughing and Mizora’s voice speaks next, “A good friend, with how much trouble you got the pup into. No, no dear you are terrible.”

Karlach huffs and starts building up a rage hoping to smash her way out growling her response, “I don’t give a shit about what you devils have to say I’m not yours anymore! Wyll loves me, my friends love me!”

“Perhaps hearing what your friends really think of you will give you the push to come home to me.”

Wyll’s soft brown lips appear twisted in a scowl, “It’s your fault, I got transformed like this. It’s your fault I’m a monster.”

Jubilee’s rosy lips appear next, quivering with fear, “Her rage scares me, I’m worried she'll get out of control and hurt one of us.”

Karlach braces smashing at the walls surrounding her trying to bust her way out, this was a trick of the devils and the hags her friends would never say that.

That didn't make it any easier as Jaheira’s tan lips appeared, “Useless starstruck worm doesn't have thought between her eyes she slows the rest of us down,” Karlach lashes out ineffectively at the walls, her knuckles bleeding from the strikes to stone.

“See dear look, You’ve only ever been a burden, your rage and fire will ruin them. Come home to me where you belong.” Zariel’s mouth says.

Karlach whirls around turning from the wall to face the severed lips, “Fuck off!” she snarls as the lips descend on her and teeth nash into her flesh.

-｡;+☆+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+★+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+☆+;｡｡;+☆+;

Lae’zel looks around and she’s home, in a familiar room back on Crèche K'liir with two attendants dressing her in ceremonial finery. She looks at the two attendants, “Revrykal, explain what the meaning of this is at once! Why am I here? What of the Istik I’ve been traveling with?” she huffs trying not to sound too much like she cares.

The attendants look at each other in confusion, “Your mission, in Fairy Run, is over, you did so well that you’ve been chosen to ascend. We are just preparing you properly for the ceremony,” the smaller one assures her.

Lae’zel cringes now that she knows the truth of ascension, Vlaakith wouldn’t honor her; she would drain her of everything and feed on life essence, and her skin pales as anxiety creeps in.

“Is everything alright?” The other attendant asks adjusting Lae’zel’s robes, “Ascension is a big deal but Vlaakith doesn't make mistakes, I know you can handle that power”

Lae’zel blinks this much kindness even from a servant who was horribly wrong she should be being chided for her weakness or driven out as hshar’lak for her actions away from the astral sea. She scoffs, “Chk! Do not coddle me!”

She tries to walk off to find the others, to spread the word of Orpheus, to find her idiot Istik companions but no matter what she approaches there's a ritual of the ascension prepared for she tries each of the doors pacing ignoring the protest of the attendants she wasn’t prepared for the ritual yet. She growls in frustration looking through the doors and her eyes widen in fear as a magical force tugs her toward the ritual circle.

-｡;+☆+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+★+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+☆+;｡｡;+☆+

Shadowheart doesn't even need to open her eyes; this is palpably wrong she thinks but doesn't have time to dwell on why or how as water rushes into her lungs. Her eyes shoot open, she can feel herself sinking and she instinctively knows with her armor there's no way she can get herself to the surface. She also notices chains above her she can see her parents and her love each bound to her by the chains. It was her heavy armor dragging them down. She opens her mouth trying to yell at them to sever the chains, go, to leave her but water rushed into her mouth instead and all she could manage was a rush of bubbles. That caused her dear Jubilee to tug even more frantically on the chains assuming it was a cry for help.

They couldn’t hear her and even if they could she knew they wouldn’t listen, they all loved her so much and she loved them. She wouldn’t be their demise, she couldn’t let them suffer for her again, and she wouldn’t drag them down with her. If they didn’t have the sense to free themselves she’d do it for them. She grabbed the chain and pumped her magic into it, shattering the link between them. They were already beginning to float up without her heavy armor weighing them down. She looked up, seeing Jubilee floating away, and whispered, “I love you”. She knew she couldn’t hear it and hated the taste of bitter water in her mouth but she wanted those to be her last words. She looked at her parents and girlfriend. If they were free and safe then all of this was worth it.

-｡;+☆+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+★+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+☆+;｡｡;+☆

Jubilee coughs on black smoke as she’s in the middle of a fight, she can see Shadowheart’s spirit guardians swirl around and the war cries and crashing of Karlach and Lae’zel’s swords. She rushes forward and tries to send a firebolt into an enemy coming up behind Karlach but no flame bursts from her talons. The sorcerer blinks frantically and tries again but can’t so much as summon a spark. Her magic has been a natural extension of herself her entire life and it can’t just disappear on her, so she tries again frantically as blades whirl and skulls crack; she can’t summon the tiniest wisp of magic.

Fortunately, the others do just fine without her, of course, they’d do fine without her. She's just a baker. Shadowheart runs up to her but blinks in confusion upon seeing her well, “I was worried! I thought you’d gotten taken out when you didn’t provide spells as cover! Why weren’t you helping us?” she scolds.

Jubilee hangs her head in shame as the others regroup, “I was trying magic, it's being strange, look.” She says attempting to cast dancing lights and failing. They’d all seen her do this a hundred times, Jubilee had done everything right it just simply wasn’t working.

Lae’zel rolls her eyes, “If you can no longer perform even the simplest of spells I see no use keeping you around, we were just fine in the fight without her.”

Karlach gives her a pitying glance and says, “I wouldn’t have said it like that, but she’s right, Soldier. If you can’t cast spells this trip will be too dangerous and protecting you will make us weaker.”

“No, I’m just having an issue at the moment. I can fix it, My heart please help me make them understand.” Jubilee sputters looking to her partner for reassurance but finds only disappointment in Shadowheart’s eyes.

“What good are you, you can’t protect me or help me like this.” Shadowheart huffs gesturing to the empty space between Jubilee’s hands that are still frantically working their way through spell motions.

“I love you and I can do magic, I can be helpful please!” Jubilee pleads.

“Prove it,” Lae’zel says seeming disinterested already.

Jubilee tries flitting through every cantrip, ritual, and spell she knows and none of them do a thing, the others begin to walk away and the tiefling woman bursts into sobs of despair. “Wait please!” She yelps and when they turn around to look, The tiny sorceress yanks at the Weave with all her might and four illusions shatter.

-｡;+☆+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+★+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+☆+;｡｡;+☆

The four women are back on the street corner the tent and hag long gone, Lae’zel lands on her feet feeling drained and disoriented, Karlach is bloodied but manages to stay on her feet, Shadowheart hits the ground hard coughing up nonexistent water, and Jubilee is collapsed sobbing as waves of magic crackle through her body overwhelming her. Karlach reacts first, bending down to Jubilee “Easy, easy soldier, this is sort of like when my engine overheats and we get through that by calming down, focusing on our friends, and breathing.” The two tieflings stumble their way through a breathing exercise causing the magic to die down as Lae’zel stalks the perimeter for threats and Shadowheart recovers enough to tend to the wounds of those who have them.

“Thank you Karlach, and thank you my heart,” Jubilee says, wiping away the tears as she’s healed.

Shadowheart kisses her forehead, “Any time my soul”

Lae’zel huffs, “Let’s go back to camp. I’m never participating in this ‘girls' night’ again” she huffs with disgust. However, that proclamation doesn't stop Astarion from finding the four women cuddled up in a pile together the next morning.

[phantom-rambling]

(Better read this one first.)

The lights go up.

Everything beneath the circus tent is black, green, and purple. The classic three-ring-and-trapeze setups are crowded with pine boxes–stacked to form pedestals. Brainwashed ghosts of varying shapes and sizes perform as they take their places around the stage. Their movements are formless and unnerving. The crowd in the grandstands watches in bewitched silence or claps a little at the end of a noticeable stunt. Suddenly, every figure in sight stops mid-stride.

Freak Show appears in spotlight with a clap of flash paper. His heel is balanced on the lip of the center ring. His deathly white skin gleams against the darkness. He’s wearing a sharply tailored pinstriped suit—the only red in the entire tent. The crowd’s eyes follow as he reaches up to tip his hat in greeting.

But he’s startled to find nothing there. The spiderlike man smooths back the wrinkles on his forehead in a casual gesture and covertly peers around.

The spotlight abandons him, swinging up across the motionless faces of a troupe of ghosts poised on one of the stacks of boxes. It settles to shine at the top on a clown in a baggy yellow sack-style costume with loud pink polka dots all over it and orange frills on the hands, feet, and neck. The clown’s gloved right hand is extended to point, as if having drawn the spotlight’s direction by itself. Its painted face is obscured by the ringmaster’s ebony silk top hat sat snug on its head. The crowd giggles.

Freak Show, miffed and unsure, hurries through the darkness as quietly as he can toward the lit figure. Meanwhile, the clown’s elbow slowly bends for its fingers to reach the back brim of the hat. With a pinch and a tug, the hat tumbles off–revealing a long messy mop of bright rainbow hair. The crowd laughs and claps. The hat bounces off the toe of one of the clown’s pointed white shoes and rolls on the box. Freak Show appears at the edge of the spotlight and swipes to grab the hat. But the clown swipes faster and plays keep-away with it, dodging and weaving like a rubber hose cartoon as Freak Show lunges and reddens. The crowd chortles with increasing vigor at each failed attempt.

The nearly crimson ringmaster steps back and glances at the darkness above before digging in the pockets of his robe. He produces a ring. Its menacing blue jewel glares in the light. Freak Show slips it on a finger and straightens himself. He turns to the audience with a demonstrative smile and juts the ring in the direction of a nearby performer. The ghost’s body vaporizes, reduced to a green wisp that gutters on the floor. The audience yelps in amazement. He then turns the ring on the misbehaving clown. The clown stands still.

Nothing happens.

The crowd chitters. Freak Show tears off the ring and produces a talisman of blood red mineral carved in the shape of a demon’s head.

No luck.

He throws it down and tries again. The clown leans on one leg and taps its foot. After the third loss, Freak Show’s hand flies in and out of his pocket so fast that it drags out a whole tangled mass of cursed trinkets. He nearly falls to catch them, but misses. They hit the floor with a jingle and scatter. The crowd howls with laughter. Even the clown doubles over, holding its stomach. Freak Show snatches a blackened gold necklace from the pile and raises its glaring pendant at the damned hooligan’s face. The neck of the clown’s gown erupts in eight-foot flames that lick at the tightropes above. The audience shrieks.

The singed cloth falls to the wooden floor in a heap, along with the hat. Dead silence fills the air. A little surprised at the reaction himself, Freak Show regains his composure and coolly approaches his prize. The fabric twitches. He hesitates. The ashy yellow gown bucks with an “arf”, and little teeth from inside clench the brim of the hat. A dog with short blue fur and spry legs races out. It leaps down onto the dirt stage, taking the hat and the spotlight with it. The ringmaster fumes and chases it as the crowd cheers.

Dani, hiding in her ghost form in the shadows of canvas high above, laughs to herself. She likes this new guy already.

She turns around and pries apart two layers of the tent’s facade to check on the others. Danny and Valerie are still working on disabling the industrial-sized doomsday mind-control machine–or whatever it is–that Freakshow has hoisted above the stage. The two are hanging in the air at an open panel on the thing’s side. Piles of its guts have been strewn out onto Valerie’s hoverboard as they work feverishly to cut off the power supply without blowing anything up. They bicker in hushed tones over which wires to cut. Neither gives a convincing impression that they’re very sure what they’re doing.

“Almost done?” Dani interrupts.

“Getting there. This wiring is idiotic,” Valerie replies.

“How’s Tim doing?” asks Danny.

Dani zips her head back out and looks down. The dog is running literal circles around Freak Show as the inhibited ghosts fumble to assist. She snickers.

“He’s kinda making me jealous.”

“Just keep an eye out, okay? We don’t know what else could be up here,” Danny tells her. Again.

“What, you think I’m gonna get a spider bite?”

“As if you’d mind.”

Dani doesn’t really hear him. She’s busy thinking about what kind of superpowers you could get from a ghost spider.

“Why did we let the person we barely know handle the distraction again?” Valerie asks.

“You let Wulf come on the last one,” Danny replies.

“Dani vouched for him.”

“And I vouch for Tim. Besides, he’s immune to Freak Show’s tricks.”

“So am I.” Dani taps the Fenton Phones in her ears that keep out the mind control. “Especially if you’d let me pull his cape over his head and shove his stupid hat over it like I wanted. Tim coulda taken pictures. We’d have a Christmas card right there.”

Valerie can’t hide a smirk, but Danny just rolls his eyes.

His sister sighs. He’s so boring these days.

He and Valerie start talking about how to tackle a junction of cords that looks like the head of Medusa when Dani shushes them.

“Wait a second.” She propels herself closer to the outer wall of the tent. Equidistant from the roar of the crowd and the muttering of the machine, she hears tires. Footsteps. The clink of metal. She burns herself a small window with her palm, though she already knows what she’s going to see.

“We got trouble!”

The tent’s flaps fly apart as Guys in White pour in. Each of them is clad in shiny white armor with bulky projectile weapons in hand. The crowd continues to cheer as its own silhouette evaporates in the moonlight from outside. The dog raises its head and barks madly, dropping the hat. The agents ignore the ghosts around them and fire lasers into the roof. Valerie and the halfas put up their shields just in time. The concentrated bolts of plasma slice through the machine like butter. Its moorings fail, and the sabotagers lurch out of the way as the whole thing comes crashing down on the center ring.

What follows is a confusion of ecto-bolts, lasers, darting liberated spirits, and dust. The dog stumbles around on the wreckage of the grandstands with its face stuck in the top hat. Freak Show–battered but undeterred–takes his stupid hat back. He scrambles around, looking for an exit in the chaos without being seen. A crack of green lightning about two feet away scares him limp. He drops to the floor. The dog catches up, nabs the hat, and is gone before it can be reached. Unable to track the dog in the debris, Freak Show shakily gets up and lumbers away. He’s back in the hands of the agents before he’s out of the dust cloud.

The halfas hold their shields as Valerie returns laser fire with laser fire in a hail of bright red energy blasts. In preparation, they’d made up this formation to avoid each person having to juggle offense and defense. But now they find themselves unable to move much as a clump. No matter how many agents they deter, more seem to pile on. It feels like they’re coming from every direction. Closing in.

“We gotta get out of here,” Valerie orders.

“Where’s Tim?” Danny shouts over all the noise.

They have to carefully break formation to look for the dog. No one can see a thing, and they’re all getting banged up. Dani calls out for their new partner, drawing more fire in her direction. She remembers to turn intangible, but a burning shot grazes her arm anyway. She also has to be mindful of her distance to the ground, or else risk melee attacks from batons and debris that swing out of the haze. Something whacked her foot a minute ago.

The dog finally hears her, at least. A muffled bark comes from somewhere behind her. She turns and sees the dog running from an electrified net that gets thrown, reeled back, and thrown again. Dani fires a slew of bolts in the direction of its caster. She hears them hit something, but the net comes again. Her brother swiftly appears and scoops the dog up as it jumps from a collapsed heap of boxes. That’s good enough for her. She flies upward.

They all fly out of there at top speed into the surrounding fields of Amity Park’s city limits. Ghosts soar out of the destroyed tent, up into the night sky like bees from a burning hive. A deadlocked parking lot of government assault vans attempts to follow them out. Dani stops looking back and focuses on heading back toward town with the others.

Exhausted, Tim stops being a dog and returns to his street clothes. This leaves Danny holding him awkwardly by the waist with his legs dangling. Tim still has the hat in his mouth.

“Is there a reason you couldn’t have done that a little earlier?” Valerie asks pointedly.

“I forgot how until now,” Tim answers defensively after transferring the hat to his hand.

Danny turns Tim and himself invisible, so as not to be spotted. Dani joins Valerie on her board to do the same. When things go this crazy, the girls’ usual plan is for the two of them to split up and debrief remotely. But she isn’t sure Danny knows. Before anything can be said about it, the group notices familiar pod-shaped tracing jets approaching on the horizon, ready for them to scatter.

“Great. Now what?” Dani asks aloud.

“Train car!” Valerie points to a nearby train track where an engine with several freight cars attached speeds along toward town. Too low to track, and the Guys won’t be expecting it. The four of them head down and slip spectrally into a half-empty car of hay bales. Urgency finally lifts, and they all melt against the barn-smelling floor.

Danny is the first to say what everyone’s thinking.

“Well, that was a trap.” He rubs a sore spot on his side where he got hit with a stun baton. “I should’ve known something was off. Freak Show’s an ‘artifacts and occult’ guy. A big machine like that isn’t really in his wheelhouse.”

“It was definitely made by the Guys in White. Nobody overdesigns like they do,” Valerie adds. “This wasn’t just a trap, it was a sting.”

Danny nods in agreement, his head still on the floor.

“Hey, hasn’t Freak Show been in trouble with the Guys for, like… years?” Dani directs her question at her brother. She’s never had to deal with the eerie kook herself before, but she’s heard Danny complain about him often enough. “What do you bet they cut a deal where he lures us in and gets–I dunno, parole or whatever. Meanwhile, they test-drive this big honking machine that can brainwash a ton of ghosts at once. Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.”

“Mine too.” Danny sits up and takes out the earphones. He collects Dani’s pair. “Did he actually manage to set you on fire?” He asks Tim.

“No, I did that,” he answers from somewhere behind her. “I think I singed my hair a little, though.”

Danny doesn’t hide being unnerved, which makes Dani grin. Valerie looks away impassively.

“So now, I guess we’ll have to worry about Freak Show being off the hook,” Danny thinks aloud to keep the thread going.

“Doubt it. Cause he stole this.” Tim has spent the whole conversation trying to pry something away from the inside of the hat. He tears away the duct tape and is left with a storage drive. He shows the others the label. “Blueprints and backups.”

“Yikes,” the other three say together.

“So, what do we do with it?” Dani asks. She already has her own opinion, but she doesn’t like the riveted look Valerie’s giving the rectangle in Tim’s hand.

If they built anything like that machine, there are a thousand ways they could use it to their advantage and save their town. Valerie knows that isn’t the way they agreed to handle this. At the same time, Dani knows it’s hard for Valerie to put her trust in ghosts in general. And recent events are only making that more complicated. But even if ghosts aren’t all on their side—and many of them aren’t even that human—they’re not pawns to be used. Dani herself is proof enough of that, isn’t she?

True to his promise, Danny hasn’t said anything–waiting for her lead.

Valerie tears her eyes away to look at Dani. She gives her a half-smile and says, “Well, we can’t let it get out, can we? Shouldn’t even exist.”

Dani nods affirmatively.

“Give it here. I barely got to do anything this time,” she says.

Tim hands it to her. Dani stands up and smashes the drive with her foot.

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

First part of this concept/au.

INDEX

I might make a series out of this. It’s fun.

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 12: what could go wrong?

Cave in

2028 Words; Buried Beneath AU

AO3 ver

Arc leaned against a tree, rough bark pressing into him through the leather of his jacket.

The trail he’d followed out here was only a few feet away, bare of human presence. Sunlight filtered in through the leaves. A gentle breeze made the branches rustle, the dappled sunlight and shadows dancing as the leaves fluttered and shook.

Arc sat down, pressed into the crook of two roots, the trunk stiff and solid against his back. He crossed his legs, his hand straying into the dirt automatically.

If he closed his eyes and concentrated, if he reached out through his root and to the earth below—

He could feel it, the pulsing grind of stone, the little creatures shifting the dirt, the holes in the soil where the roots had pushed into it. He could feel pockets of minerals—

But it wasn’t as clear as it was supposed to be. It took more effort, just to reach out and connect, when that should be as easy as blinking.

Arc dug his fingers into the dirt and squeezed. A ridged circle of soil jerked up around him, barely half an inch tall.

“Oh, damn it all.” Arc muttered. His geokinesis was his pride and joy, it was his most versatile skill, his trump card—

And it had been reduced to this? To struggling just to maintain a stable connection? To moving so little of the earth with so much more effort?

Everything that had gone down in the alleyway flashed through his mind. He was supposed to be better than that. Making the concrete bend and buckle should have been effortless. He should have been able to roll the entire alleyway! To bring down the brick and mortar of the surrounding buildings with barely a gesture!

And yet.

And yet the concrete had moved so onerously, the connection stuttered and unstable.

This was a problem. One that Arc needed to fix.

So here he was, several hiking trails deep into a forest, sitting in the dirt and leaning against a tree. Here he was, hands at his sides, fingers digging into the dirt. Here he was, centering his focus.

He slowed his breathing. In, out. In, out. Let his psychic energies coalesce and pool in the back of his head.

Arc closed his eyes, and entered his mind.

+=+=+=+=+

Pink skies drifted and spun above him, chunks of earth dotting the sky.

Arc stood on the steps of the villa, perfectly manicured lawn and beautifully diverse garden before him, his whole mental landscape spilling out beyond that.

It wasn’t the same as his first life. Wasn’t the same as the pastures and valleys of Macedon. But it was familiar, and it was his, shaped and sculpted from the experiences of hundreds of lives.

His mental avatar stood, a vague amalgam of his first and many bodies, afterimages a smear of all his forms.

He wasn’t here to admire the beauty of his mind or ponder the intricacies of his avatar, though. He was here to dig into the root of the problem affecting his psychic power.

Arc took a step forward. His shoe never touched the grass of his lawn, his immediate surroundings blurring into the dirt path down the side of the plateau. Another few steps, and he was at the outer reaches of his mental landscape, the plateau and villa far behind him.

Behind him, the landscape sprawled out like a gorgeous painting. Before him, a river churned, dark and whispering.

Arc did not fancy a swim. But this was where the entrance to the subconscious stood, in the dark blue depths.

Arc raised a hand and twirled it.

The riverbank before him parted easily, dirt and sand and stone shaping into perfect stairs down into the depths. His mental landscape was his, after all—whatever was stunting his psychic powers could barely touch him, here.

The stairway down was dark, water dripping down the walls. Arc continued down step after step, watching as the earth around him shifted and tilted as he crossed into the subconscious mind.

He would not have quite as much control here. The shadows grew, looming and impenetrable, twisting around Arc like water. Water trickled down the steps, pooling under his feet.

Arc pushed forwards.

The stairs continued down, down, down, darker, darker, the water starting to trickle in more and more with each step—

A heavy censor stood at the bottom of the steps, unseeable in the darkness yet undoubtedly there.

Arc walked right through it. The darkness was all consuming, now, shrouding even the faint outlines of his little tunnel in nothingness. It pressed in on all sides, threatening to crush him, to drown him—

And then Arc was through, standing at the edge of a deserted and lonely big top. Light filtered down from above, murky and shifting, as though this whole place was underwater. Shadows danced through the stands like shifting crowds. Faintly, calliope music could be heard.

Arc paced across the dirt, past the stands and the edges of the ring. Paced all the way out to the center of the space, until he was standing before a small puddle.

Water dripped down from above. Arc didn’t care to look up.

The puddle was barely an inch deep. Ripples danced across the surface with each new drop, but it never grew.

Arc spun around slowly, surveying the entire big top.

There was nothing here that could block his psychic powers. Just the host mind, dormant and quiet, subconscious thought dripping in like water.

If Arc wanted to find the problem, he’d need to dig deeper.

He kneeled before the puddle, his fingertips ghosting over the surface. He could create his own path down, dig deeper through brute force—

But damaging the host mind to that extent rarely worked out well.

Right. Arc rested his palm against the water. There was only one way to do this.

Arc closed his eyes, and fell into the water.

+=+=+=+=+

Navigating the subconscious mind was never an easy task. The subconscious did not function in the same way a conscious mind did; it did not have the same structure and stability. Primal instincts and fears ruled the depths, swirling around and ever-shifting. Recognized thought processes were few and far between.

But Arc was an expert in digging.

His avatar had shifted, stripped away to the most abstract forms. He could no longer manipulate the mental landscape around him, for all that it was just as much his as his host’s, their subconsciouses blended together.

Thoughts floated by in an ever-shifting geometry. The entire space had an underwater quality, interspersed with the solidity of stone. A quiet abyss.

Were it less abstract, Arc imagined it would make quite the sight—an endless void of underwater underground, the pressure and darkness reminiscent of caves and oceans alike.

Arc let himself fall deeper. A nightmare, reduced to staticky abstraction, swam past him. Base concepts of survival sifted through Arc’s form, threatening to shred it to bits.

But the subconscious, for all that Arc could not manipulate it freely, was rife with psychic energy, pulsing through everything in waves. It was the source, the lifeblood, and as it dragged like tectonic plates Arc reached out to it, using it to anchor his form.

The deeper he went, the colder it got. The deeper he went, the hotter it got. At such extremes, cold and hot became one and the same.

Arc drifted downward.

Something pulsed below him, small streams of psychic energy trailing up from it.

There!

Arc touched down on nothing. Before/beside/behind him was a massive stopper, loosened just enough to allow the smallest trickles of psychic energy through.

This was what was stunting Arc’s power. This must have been put here by the host, unknowingly and unconsciously, repressing any and all psychic potential for years. This was a problem that Arc could directly confront.

He did not have hands to press against the stopper. He didn’t have anything to reach out with, really, yet he still brushed/touched/pushed against it, testing how firmly it was stuck.

The subconscious rumbled, like tumbling stones underwater.

Arc pushed/pressed/shoved the stopper. It barely budged.

The water—or was it stone—pressed in on all sides, crushing, squeezing, miles and miles of rock—or was it water—bearing down on him.

Arc shoved at the stopper with all of his might.

It didn’t budge.

The pressure intensified, compacting Arc down to his core. The subconscious defense against the power just beyond that stopper was immense, slamming down on Arc with everything it had to keep that stopper in place.

Arc pressed against the stopper. He’d come this far, he couldn’t just give up—

The pressure slammed down.

+=+=+=+=+

Arc’s mental avatar hauled itself out of the river, water dripping from him during the few steps it took to get across the riverbank.

The staircase he had made earlier was gone, the ground caved in on itself.

Arc took a step forward. The valley blurred around him. Another step, and he was on the lawn before his villa. Quick strides took him up onto the front steps, his hand pressing against the door.

Arc closed his eyes, and exited his mind.

+=+=+=+=+

Dappled sunlight filtered in through the leaves, not quite as bright as before. The ground was steady beneath him, the tree solid behind him. The air was crisp, filled with the sounds of bugs and birds and wind in the trees.

A beetle had crawled onto his leg in the time he had been gone. Arc glared at it, picking it up between his fingers and throwing it away from him.

“AAAAUGH!” He stood up and whirled around. Arc screamed again, his knuckles slamming into the rough bark of the tree.

The pain was a lifeline, grounding him. He punched the tree again, reveling in the feel of the bruising on his knuckles, the sting of the scraped skin.

Arc screamed one last time, letting his rage spill into the air around him. He leaned against the tree, the bark rough against his palms.

A block. A goddamn block against his host’s psychic power, a goddamn block affecting Arc’s own powers, undercutting them.

A goddamn block.

It made sense, if he thought about it. Of course the child of a psychic-hating family would end up repressing their own powers. Of course they’d be the only one capable of removing that block.

It had been loosened, but that was not Arc’s doing. Whatever had happened to result in an Aquato using psychic powers so openly—and Arc still needed to look into that, to dig into his host’s memories—was the reason the block had been loosened, allowing just the slightest bit of psychic power through.

Arc snarled. He was starting to like this body. It was cathartic, living life with a more carefree attitude. The first time he’d been a teenager in centuries—

But Arc could not afford to be careless. Careless cost him opportunities, time, bodies. Careless brought back demons from previous lives.

He’d keep this body—he was too stubborn not too, now, after he’d spent the time carving a space in its mind and making this body his. The very thought of searching for a new body made his stomach turn. He’d keep this body, even if he had to fight that block for the rest of this lifetime.

Arc had the power to make up for it, to push through the block. It’d still cut his abilities down considerably, but he could make it work.

And maybe, with practice, he could bring his power back up to what it had been. What it was supposed to be.

Arc swore, chucking a rock into the undergrowth. He didn’t care where it landed.

He turned back around and sat back down. The dirt was steady underneath him. The tree was solid behind him.

He still wanted to shout, to scream his anger out into the world until all of his energy left him. But he still needed to dig through memories.

He took a breath, in, out. Let the anger slowly dissipate. In, out, in, out.

Arc closed his eyes, and reentered his mind.

[sunrise-of-my-mind]

Awakened Elements: How Natural Stones Create Artistic Worlds

Gemstone paintings are a unique art form, in which natural materials are transformed into incredible artistic compositions. Each stone, such as amethyst, malachite, or jasper, possesses its own uniqueness, and reflects the power and beauty of the virgin nature. Crushed Semi-Precious Stone Workshop of St Elisabeth Convent creates wonderful paintings from gemstones.

The specialists seem to awaken the ancient elements - earth, water, air, and fire, while creating these paintings. Each mineral shows the geological processes that have been forming its unique structure and color for millions of years.

In the paintings made from gemstones, these ancient elements get another expression. The cold depth of the amethyst facets conveys the mysterious power of the water element. The undulating shimmers of malachite seem to bring the winds and waves to life. And the bright flashes in the heart of the agates stir the imagination, releasing the primordial might of the fiery element.

The artists working with this material unifies the human world and the world of nature. In these paintings, the ancient elements of nature come to life, revealing their mysterious grandeur to the viewer.

Each of these paintings is a small possibility to realize the existence of deeper, more profound reality, where the laws of nature reign supreme. When a person gets in touch with such a world he or she feels the connection with the planet and gets the feeling of harmony and peace.

[umichenginabroad]

Week 7: Kayaking (gone awry), Hiking, and Pompeii

Ciao! Apologies for the late post, this past week was busy and one of the more stressful ones I’ve had (ironically, perfectly highlighting my point from last time). My solo adventure in Florence was a blast, and I would highly recommend everyone doing a solo adventure to two when traveling. While I have so much fun traveling with friends, it was freeing just being able to meander around at my own pace, stop into various shops, and go to around 10 museums (I love museums) without worrying about anyone else. 

(Top left picture of a painted cathedral ceiling found in one of the many museums visited, top right is a view of the Duomo down a narrow street, bottom picture of the Florentine skyline with mountains in the background at sunset)

The hostel I stayed at was quiet, felt very safe, and was in a great location. I took the bus back to Naples as it was cheaper than the train (5 euros total!) and I didn’t mind the longer travel time on Sunday as I had my last physics midterm the next day to study for. We were a bit delayed coming back into Naples, but other than that it was a surprising, but welcome smooth trip! Monday morning I took my exam in the morning and had a slow day, working a bit on a job application for the fall and typing up some emails I had been putting off (who wants to write emails when the Mediterranean Sea is out your window??). 

Tuesday started off with more of the same until I had class in the afternoon and an excursion that evening. CIS Abroad took us on a paddleboarding tour along the coast of Sorrento to a hidden beach to watch the sunset. Sounds great right? Definitely something you’d want pictures of. Fortunately, the tour guides provided us with sealable, clear bags for our phones so they wouldn’t get wet but we could still capture the moment. Unfortunately for me, my bag had a hole in it which I failed to realize until halfway through, when I went to take a pic of the town and all I got was the apple logo flashing on and off. 

(Pictures from kayaking, the left one is of me kayaking, taken by a friend who didn't have a hole in her bag. The right picture is a sunset view from the cove we paddled into)

(Last picture on my phone before it went into a coma, at least is was a decent one :)

Once I got back to my apartment, I dutifully put my phone in rice and hoped for the best. The next day, I had class in the morning then hiked Mount Vesuvius with two of my friends (luckily the tickets were on their phones, not mine) in the afternoon. The hike ended up being easier than I thought and the view from the top was phenomenal. We hiked around the crater as far as we could go, as part of it is closed to everyone except geologists. It was strange knowing the volcano is overdue to erupt as the top is closed and just looks rocky, not like the dramatic videos of boiling, spewing lava. As I learned the next day in my archeology class, the closed top actually makes it much more explosive (think shaking a coke bottle with the lid on). Fun fact about me, I used to be utterly convinced I was going to be a paleontologist when I grow up and went through a hard core geology phase alongside the paleontology, so the little kid in me was ecstatic to be on a volcano and be surrounded by the volcanic rocks and minerals (yes, I can still identify more than I’d care to admit). 

(My and a friend at the crater of Vesuvius)

Once I got back from the hike, I worked up the courage to try turning my phone on. Nothing happened. I tried for several hours and eventually got it to connect to my computer to put it in “recovery” mode, but still had no luck getting it to actually work, even after trying to factory reset it. After fighting it for a while and getting nowhere, I called it a night as I had 6 hours of back to back classes the next day. Friday morning I finally had time to take it into an electronics store where they took it to the back and simply told me to come back in a few hours. Without much other choice, I left it there and trusted them as, thanks to dual authentication of practically everything nowadays, I had no way of signing into any of my accounts without a phone number. If I couldn’t get it fixed, I was going to have to buy a burner phone until I could get back to the states. Thankfully the shop was able to repair it and my phone is now good to go (minus a functioning FaceID or phone speaker but I’ll gladly take the loss). I knew it would work out one way or another, but it was still very stressful not having a working phone, especially when I couldn’t even access my bank account or wolverine access without the verification code texted to me. 

Relieved to have a working phone, I rushed to the train station as I had a field to get to in Pompeii! Though it was scorching hot, it was fascinating to see some of the highlights and learn some of the nuances. My Archeology professor is very knowledgeable as she used to work at one of the excavations sites in Pompeii! Walking around the city was so surreal because I had realized just how well-preserved it truly is. Reading about it and seeing pictures pales in comparison to seeing it with your own eyes. Some of the wall murals still had vivid color, intricate mosaics were still intact, and signs still hung outside of businesses. It blew my mind that everything I was seeing was over 2000 years old, yet many aspects were very similar to our cities now. 

(Pictures from Pompeii, top left showing the gladiators old training center, top right showing some (original!) paintings inside a home, and the bottom picture showing Mount Vesuvius in the background with part of what's been excavated next to high ground with building still to be uncovered)

Overall, it was a decent week. Florence was captivating, I had a blast kayaking (despite my phone issues), and I got to explore both Pompeii and the volcano that destroyed the city. Time is truly racing by, but I still have a lot left to experience!

Arrivederci!

Marika Ruppart

Mechanical Engineering

Engineering in Sorrento, Italy

[megkelso]

Day 3 - Art House Project cont.

Kadoya; (200 yr old house) with a focus on the flow of time. ‘Sea of Time ‘98’ / Tatsuo Miyajima an indoor pond with led lights flashing at a pace set by a Naoshima resident, showing how unique every persons view of time is. Also pictured is ‘Naoshima’s Counter Window’ which is motion censored to detect and present things outside through numbers.

Ishibashi; ‘The Falls’ / Hiroshi Senju a painting that has already changed over the 5 years since its installation due to the nature of the mineral the artist used to paint it it oxidises. With a sentiment of life always changing.

Haisha; artist Shinro Ohtake transforms this house into his dreamscape with scraps and collages and paintings and sculpture.

[saiakv]

After a late night working on dismantling the cursed spirit's barrier on Gojo family lands, the two young sorcerers were spared an early morning wakeup. The sun was still making a lazy journey towards its zenith when a bubbly servant girl their age knocked on on the door of Suguru's guest chambers, presenting a tray full of food smelling fresh from the kitchen, two big bowls of rice with multiple dishes between them. "Good morning Geto-sama! You must be Satoru-kun's friend? He said he'll join you shortly."

Ten minutes later Satoru arrived, slamming the sliding door open with a huff and a flustered expression. "Not a word," he grumbled half-heartedly as he made his way towards his friend and the breakfast he'd had sent here for the both of them.

The boy looked like a completely different person. His hair combed back and somehow tamed from its usual chaos, and he wore a dark blue haori draped over light grey kimono, held together with a simple blue knotted himo. Every piece was simple and solid in colour, etched only with the most subtle of patterns along the edges of his obi and the symbol of the clan woven into the pattern of the cloth itself, visible in the refracting of light.

This is what he gets for not packing his own outfits for the week.

During his initial attempts to catch some shut-eye, there were vivid flashes of a blaring explosion. A putrid smell like rotten eggs; the chirping of birds silenced; suddenly his mind could accurately piece together why that curse was a grade one with the ability to perform complex barriers. Entrapment. He'd felt it inside the mountain they had been dropped off at by the appointed clan window, that the time-locked element of the barriers was connected to the curse's nature. And now it made sense, under new light. Miners would only have so long to run outside after gas had been detected. Although... there had been no evidence of an actual mining facility, which was the one thing that did not match everything else; a question that had been dangling from his tongue for hours on the ride back, alongside the pungent taste of orange, held back by the echo of Satoru's voice telling him about clans being more insidious than you'd think with their political games.

So, by the time the sun was well amidst its course, Suguru hadn't slept. But he had still made the most of his afforded rest, browsing over the dusty library books for information on curse manipulation. A thoughtful wrinkle was still creasing his brow as his fingerpad trailed down a line, free hand translating the kanji, as per usual. It made more sense of sorcery books to be written in such, for conceptualization purposes. Sometimes a vivid image could suffice for a sorcerer to grasp onto an ability they were previously unaware of — and the same had happened in his case. Except, from the conception of that idea to its execution, there awaited an arduous journey filled with relentless practice.

His eye narrowed over the picture diagrams following the 'merge' of two flyhead curses into a bigger curse. The author suggested starting small, with types that are similar to each other and working one's way up to higher grades and more complicated weaving techniques. Pen had been idly caught between his teeth, he had been pondering on the advantages and disadvantages of this technique development. 'Merging' would mean exchanging the versatility of his technique for raw power that could probably rival someone with similarly high cursed energy levels to his own. Though, apart from Satoru, there wasn't really anyone else like that.

The thought painted a small crease to his cheek — it was factual, yet still followed by a pang of guilt that maybe he was being arrogant. But then again, look at this place. The luxury surrounding him, the beautiful vantage of the compound from the guest room window, the feel of cursed energy in this place that was so pure and clean — like going from the tap water that was Tokyo's buzz of putrid cursed energy to a clear and filtered stream. If this visit to the Gojo clan had helped solidify one thing, it was his place among the strong.

So, it wasn't arrogant. With Satoru by his side, there was nothing they could not accomplish. The short work they made of this curse, earning mixed reactions from his clan, was definitive proof of it, if any. For once, Suguru felt it was okay to acknowledge his own sense of self-importance; if only in the quietude of the Gojo clan guestrooms.

After dunking his head in cold water to help with the puffiness around dark eyes, he took a long moment to press the provided towel into his skin and relish in the luxurious feeling. The comb had still been running through his hair, mind mulling over the thought of what might happen if he managed to weave all his curses into one using that method. There had been no mentions of sorcerers with his technique managing to do as much; but then again, all of them had disappeared from literary references quite young. Lost in his thoughts, his shoulders jumped with the knock, hair-tie slipping from between his teeth and all his hard work to slick his hair back undone. Hair was still slipping from the half-fastened bun when he answered with an inquisitive tone that soon turned to an affiliative smile. Satoru-kun, huh.

This girl must know him personally.

She would have made the perfect target to pry embarassing childhood stories from, if she had been a little older. Oddly enough, Satoru had never mentioned any friendly characters from his clan before; he certainly came off like he was very inexperienced around friendships when theirs had first blossomed. And — last but not least, he was not ... the easiest person to be around. But the exchange was kept brief ( 'Good morning. Ah, is that so... I will have to hope he does not take too long, then.' Bow. Smile. ' Thank you very much for the meal.' ) and Suguru was left with more inquiries and the delicious aroma of miso soup, rice and salmon to compensate for them.

Chopsticks clashed as his mouth watered over the idea of starting without his host — the second bowl of rice glaring at him every time he was tempted to pinch a bit of that melty-fluffy looking salmon. He had been on the cusp of giving into his desires when the door slid open a second time, with characteristic abrasiveness, and violet eyes stilled over the intruder.

Thick lashes fluttered as if struggling to comprehend just what he was looking at; vaguely familiar yet so different. He'd never really seen Satoru dress up before — his outfits prioritized comfort over style a lot of the time. But this ensemble was regal, from the fine stitching on the hems to the detailed patterns and the feel of luxury in the way fabric sat over his shoulders, accentuating his height and the curvature of his form. Satoru was brazenly handsome; but to see him donning elegance so naturally was a stark reminder of the fact that this boy used to have a life before Tokyo Tech — a very different one from the rest of their friend gruop. Though, his hair did remind Suguru of that one time when Kōryu licked his face and gave him a cowlick.

❝ — pft. Pft-hee-heee-hee-ha-haha! ❞

In either case, he could not remember a time when he reached for his phone faster than now; within seconds the camera had snapped once, twice— thrice to make sure. Oh, Shoko was going to love this. His eating utensils had to be placed aside in favor of holding onto himself as he folded over laughing.

❝ Satoru-kuuuun, please be careful not to get stains on your kimono! ❞

This was more rewarding than any generous breakfast or monetary compensation could hope to be. And as their morning together would progress ( with a lengthy intermission for rough-housing after this, no doubt ) Suguru came to realize that, for once, he did not mind the post-mission fatigue... or the fact this salmon tasted like oranges.

[rhiansmith]

Eamon Ore-Giron

Infinite Regress CXXIX 

2020 | Mineral paint and flashe on linen | 69 x 54 inches

[blogger360ncislarules]

“I do a lot of research. A lot. You can’t really go, ‘I’ll just look it up and see photos.’ You glean through art and pick and choose,” says The Chosen costume designer Leila Heise, who joined midway through the first season and outfits the main cast, guest stars and extras with her small staff of about 12 people.

The process begins in preproduction and the team sews all the way up to the very last flick of a flowing robe when shooting wraps. Many looks are based on Heise’s research, but she also gets directives from producers.

“They do write certain things in the script,” she notes. At one point, there was a request for more color and texture, so when Joey Vahedi joined the cast as Thomas, Heise gave him stripes. Coming up, “We have a lot of different factions of the Roman guard now, so we have to pump them up. A lot is happening in Seasons 4 and 5,” Heise shares.

Scroll down as she breaks down some key costumes.

The Chosen

Atticus

“One of my favorites is Atticus [Elijah Alexander] because he’s secret police. He’s got the biggest closet of anybody because he has to blend in wherever he is and stand out when he’s his most Roman,” Heise says. In his Season 4 look (above), he gets a new breastplate, and the secret police emblem on it was hand painted. During downtime in Utah, a trip to Crazy Mary’s Rocks, run by a miner, yielded obsidian made into closures for Atticus’ cloak.

The Chosen

Tamar

For Tamar’s (Amber Shana Williams) red dress, “I had this beautiful orange-red silk, and I just started playing with it,” Heise says. The necklace was hand-made by a local artist. “I wanted it very rough—it’s gotten better with age. The raw amber and raw emeralds have more luster. It’s four years old, and it’s been through wind, rain, snow, whatever, because then they wrote it into the script that she can’t really get rid of it.”

The Chosen

Simon Z 

“He was kind of based on Star Wars,” says Heise of Simon Z’s (Alaa Safi) Zealot attire. She got the galactic idea for the ex-assassin while seeking a variation on the standard T-shaped tunic. “He has a crossover kimono-style jacket with a wide belt for his protection. Because he’s a fighter, he has to be able to move in his clothes.” Heise also put the Zealots in trousers to reflect their class. “The poor would wear pants more than the upper echelon,” she notes.

The Chosen

Jesus

He’s very much still the carpenter. His mother would’ve been making His clothes even as old as He is, at 30, and she would take the time to do the embroidery around the neckline. I find old embroidery patterns,” says Heise of Jesus’ (Jonathan Roumie) ensemble. For the fabric, “I wanted it to be soft and still have that homespun feeling.” To give something a handmade look, Heise hides stitching and uses embroidered yokes, never finishing the edges so they fray. “In Season 4, the texture is a little rougher.”

The Chosen

Matthew

“I talk about Matthew [Paras Patel] a lot because he’s had a lot of different looks in flash-forwards and big flashbacks,” says Heise. She modified Matthew’s existing costumes, created before she joined the show, but tweaked them to maintain the former tax collector’s Roman style: “He is very much Romanesque. He has money and can buy what he wants. He cut his roots off from his Jewish heritage, but as he’s becoming more of the disciple, he’s got more texture to him, rougher, and he’s got a leather belt.”