#flocked vellum

[monarch-afterdark]

Superspecies History: Warbat

Welcome once again to Monarch: After Dark, the digital gateway between you and the organisation dedicated to understanding and navigating this troubled new world we live in.

Today, we take a peak between the curtains of Hollow Earth and the wonderfully terrifying creatures that reside within. Starting off, we have a terror of the skies that gave Kong a run for his money during the Titan's first Hollow Earth crossing; the Warbat!

(Pictured above: Monarch's first encounter with the Warbats, as one destroyed a HEAV transport accompanying Kong, circa. 2024)

Monarch Database File: Warbat

Monarch Designation: Vellum vespertilio

Length: 428 feet

Weight: 26,000 tons (Northern Hemisphere), 11,000 tons (Southern Hemisphere)

Species Designation: Serpentine reptilian superspecies

-----

The first new megafauna encountered by Monarch during the first successful expedition to Hollow Earth, the Warbat was a more-than-adequate introduction to a world that manages to make even the Titans seem small.

Colossal serpentine predators, the Warbats roam the open skies of Hollow Earth in pursuit of prey. Travelling in groups of varying sizes, the Warbats use surprise to their advantage and ambush prey when they least expect it. Highly resilient, Warbats can withstand attacks from even Titans for a short period of time.

When grappling with larger prey, Warbats use the membranes of their wings to constrict their prey and suffocate them. Their 14-inch long fangs can also produce large quantities of venom, up to 9,800 gallons. Venom can also be produced from glands in their wings.

(Pictured above: A Warbat lunging to attack a HEAV, before being grabbed by Kong, circa. 2024)

Monarch's first encounter with the Warbats came shortly after they had successfully made the voyage to Hollow Earth alongside Kong, during a joint Monarch-Apex expedition to uncover an energy source to be used against Godzilla. Initially a trio of HEAV crafts, the expedition team lost one to an ambushing Warbat.

Kong rapidly killed the first Warbat by slamming its head into a rock, using its corpse to batter a second Warbat into a nearby hill. The second Warbat attacked Kong, constricting him with its body and attempting to suffocate him with its wings.

Expedition leader Nathan Lind ordered a stream of missiles fired from the HEAV he was on to agitate the Warbat, allowing Kong to free himself. Pummelling the Warbat into the ground several times, Kong ended the brief terror by tearing the second Warbat's head off and feasting on its brains before discarding the head and continuing his journey.

In 2027, a Warbat was among the superspecies that fell victim to Raymond Martin's killing spree in the Titan Hunter mecha. Flocks of Warbats filled the skies of Hollow Earth, observed by Monarch and Kong.

(Pictured above: A flock of Warbats flying in Hollow Earth, circa. 2027)

-----

And that's all she wrote on the Warbat! A common and deadly sight to anyone without the protection of a Titan to back them up, the Warbat were a fitting introduction to what would await in Hollow Earth for Monarch.

Until next time,

Monarch: After Dark

[jlilycorbie]

7 & 7

Thanks to @toribookworm22 for the tag!

Rules: Share 7 snippets from a work of choice and tag 7 people.

Forgive me, but I still don't feel comfortable tagging people. Someday, I will convince myself that other people like being tagged and won't be annoyed with me, but today isn't that day. If you see this, consider it an open tag. I would love to see snippets from your projects!

These are all from the (still) untitled fantasy WIP.

For reference, Scavats is an unagul: a giant ram rooster. He's big enough to ride like a horse, and his kind are know to be formidable predators.

1.

Scavats stretched his neck to nibble and pull on Oyuungah's tail. She squealed and danced ahead, giggling, then turned to bat at his nose. He showed his fangs and pranced.

"Everything?" Zaya asked, keeping hold of his harness so he wouldn't be tempted to chase his new friend. "Do you remember everything?"

"I don't think I ever knew much." Setsamaa swept a hand ahead of them. "It's like the road. If you know to look, you can see it. I still forget, until I see someone who is Djaetyli. And I remember there was a land to the north filled with people. I remember the sound of their accents, the taste of food they brought. The wine and the vinegar from ice berries."

Scavats hung his head while he plodded along until Oyuungah slowed to walk beside him and scratch his ears. He moaned, dangling his tongue.

Zaya breathed deep, and maybe she recalled a ghost of flavor. The road died when they stopped coming, when other people stopped going. Wet season would wash it away, flower season would sprout through it, fire season would parch and crack it, cold season would finish shattering it to wash away. The Huudzairen kept open roads by magic and labor. The caravans did their part, maintaining where they could, marking problems and passing word when they couldn't.

The people of the north wouldn't have used a road alone. Huudzairen must have made and kept it. Why wouldn't Castravi and Tsaltich and others use it, too, even if they no longer wanted to go north?

2.

The spring burbled out from beneath a big rock. On the steppes, a little extra height went a long way. Zaya grabbed her map and climbed on top of it.

As she unfurled the vellum, she saw Djaetyrot and remembered. Why she was there. Everything she'd talked to Setsamaa about. She had the map for years, and occasionally she'd take it out, realize something had gone very wrong in the world, then…put it down and forget. Put it away without looking. Find it again.

But every time, it wore a groove a little deeper in her mind. Became harder to ignore even if she didn't know what fit there. And she remembered ice berry vinegar with salty, crumbling cheese and peppered honey on warm bread.

3.

They arrived with the sunset in their eyes as the zaighen gathered for the evening. The low sun caught on their pelts and blazed like fire.

"They're beautiful," Zaya breathed.

"And yet you slaughtered one," Setsamaa said.

Zaya spent her life protecting herds and flocks. She knew some of the cold reality of even the gentlest farming. From a distance, the herd looked healthy. "It is not always beautiful and does not always feel right, does life."

4.

It also meant she clearly heard staggering footsteps nearby. Zaya looked around, and at the next intersection, she spotted a young woman struggling to carry two water buckets. She wore a loose top like the Huudzairen, and she had two legs. She had hooves, but they were rounded instead of cloven, and she wore a loose wrapped skirt with bright, intricate embroidery and tiny mirrors that flashed in the early light.

"A hand," Zaya offered, extending one to her.

She stumbled to a stop and stared, and Zaya worried she'd gotten the words wrong until her pale cheeks flushed. "Thank you," she said, and she allowed Zaya to take one of them.

"Where we going, then?"

"We're the spices and ovens," she said, grasping her remaining bucket with both hands. She had a Tsaltich accent.

"You cook so far from water?" Zaya asked.

"Not usually, no." She shook her long, dark hair out of her eyes and peered up at Zaya. "You're new then."

"Arrived last night. Just trying to find my way around, yeah?"

The girl grinned. "Then you want to find us. I'm Llenas, and you'll meet my ma and da soon, Elyri and Hyelwun. Usually we get here, someone calls a well for us, but it failed this year. Got to wait a few days to try again."

"And meanwhile carry water," Zaya guessed. "I'm Zaya. Don't know how long I'll stay."

5.

"You're back!" Oyuungah spotted them and addressed Scavats directly. He rumbled with pleasure and stretched his neck out, then flopped over as she scratched him, blocking the whole path.

"Shameful," Zaya told him, shaking her head and doing her best not to smile as their escort of children giggled.

A pair of dragons swooped by, and one managed to score a clawful of fluff. "I see the monster is on the loose," Bahkyti said mildly. He had one dragon on his shoulder, and his bald head covered as much to give another somewhere to perch as to protect himself from the sun.

"I hope we're all prepared for the aftermath of his rampage," Zaya said. He rolled over for belly rubs, dangling his tongue.

"Devastating," Bahkyti drawled as he tossed a couple of dried meat scraps into the air. The dragons caught them while Scavats watched. He fingered another piece before he tossed it to the unagul.

Scavats tried to snap the crumb out of the air, but he also didn't want to unseat the child who had climbed onto his chest. He wiggled to the side, twisting his head to lick it off the ground. He sneezed.

"All your ancestors are embarrassed right now," Zaya said while Oyuungah giggled and scratched beneath his chin.

6.

"You can wait in camp then," she said, smiling as she pushed him back. He snorted in her face, then stopped and crouched as their camp came into sight. Aleksani stood on the edge of the boundary. Scavats lowered his head, rumbling quietly, and Zaya set a hand on his neck to calm him.

Aleksani held very still as Zaya approached. Her jaw and eyes were tight, her skin almost blue in the fading light. When Zaya was close enough to talk, she turned to show her entire side soaked in blood. "I require assistance," she said, and crumpled.

As Aleksani collapsed, Zaya lunged forward. Aleksani folded over her arm. "Not the best place for this, hey?" she asked. Even after all the sleep, Zaya's body ached in protest. At least they were at the edge of her camp, so it wasn't far to haul her up and support her over the boundary and to her hammock.

Scavats grumbled and scratched at the ground, and Zaya said, "Oh, go pout out of the way." He snorted and continued to hover nearby. "What have you done to yourself, Leksa?"

"Who said you could call me that?" Aleksani asked.

"Made the decision myself, when you swooned into my arms," Zaya said. "Come on now, what have you done?"

Her skin was clammy, her eyes dark. "I made a miscalculation," Aleksani said.

7.

Zaya watched Aleksani in the reflection until she opened the doors to her wardrobe and gathered up the hem of the borrowed shirt. Watching her reflection felt intrusive in a way simply facing her would not. She turned away, and she found herself at eye-level with the three poppets. "Leksa?" Zaya asked. "Will you tell me about the poppets?"

"Thank you for your assistance," Aleksani said, offering Zaya her shirt. She wore a soft gown now of pale blue. The shade made her look like a corpse.

Zaya accepted her shirt and nodded. She almost expected Aleksani to call her back as she left, but she didn't.

[libidomechanica]

“The next door we will do, speak in figures also, they were”

Were ‘t aught aske I, but a dreams.     Again the water dewe. Ah fools of short that nobody     can love is true. Too late cars which gown to a lake where all     that grow, and make him invisible when I’ll speak but the     acting of spice and feare,

enter brauely euerywhere, that     lover’s hermitage; your love but gauds; nay, whistle a little     man. Did silence to me and Cleopatra—night that     able spirits so fair on the altar heap’d with the banner     of them blue in the

argument all back again. Earth     her een her home thy louer? One in war with a full heart thumping     like-hat relation, so I could really see the     heardgroomes, keeping, where were sweet but don’t holy were greater     in an ear! Or to wronged

lovely young JESSIE you saw a     field made up of worths surmount. Welcome, wean; mishanter far     doth not breath our coming want them leave all enjoy hats, but     of conversation of hands knot, I change and there Damon     lay, with trembling dew: or

glitter’d to my bonie, sweetnesse, which     with tears. When you are more to try it when I realize     it. Whether the ones thy flocks the wild birds sang thee his skill     in horse, my hand hold her feel her chekes pit thou have done:     mine enemie. Are far estrange

route. The sorrows of you, a     kind of the English eyes were grew so tender&I so young     JESSIE you saw a field made such annoied. His honor, or     his colowred crime. Decay: for fierce tears. The rest I’ll speak.     The next door we will do,

speak in figures also, they were     you epitomize contemplating to breathe a man-at-     armes did draw: of touch my soul with the blood from the hill. Not     as to get out. And all the news tonight: a debate about     the new. Ay little

kissable mouth in waves asking     about goings of Dove, a maiden fair Syrinx in trees     or colour’d vellum playes, yet this love gentle into diamond     is impossibility we will ever call it     bee through which prove more, by

paying time. Out of a burro.     Two grubs on thy corbe shoulders with its mouth a locust in     your body takes on the line&her pillow understand. Trading     be, or to be Lord, what would not Love make thou within     a year a son was delight

from Boston to Paris watching     such ends, and old. Of custome to that an act that fatal     knife shut in your starry air of midnight I feele,     and dirks the horsemen my glass, in the most impeach’d standing     day; rage, rage disarms—these

bitter bargain driven: I hold     her and thoughts, new grows erect, as sour bare is a tall ghost     tossing and you, to whom love me—wilt thou leau’st that grow, and     only when there were true cause their hair. And hail once be seen:     trees, at one thieving lyre,

whose hat you will, approve, hers     conversation I could encline. All through and I do love me     on my soule to proved us one. Yet if the lintwhites     in New Jersey lighted;— o that moved the maidens came around     else is. I have been

born is gone. Love chants of your     carelesse corage hath stell’d thy beams as thou place, straw into     that an act that soft and look out at thy mither’s hate, weeds     among the cast live on the flowers alarming us,     as happy as well with

gilded leaues or filled within, the     rose, the God be the music speaks with the sea has been     exhibited on Bond Street and not suffer the blowen bags,     like paper animals. I call me Papa. It so have     been exhibited only

this last wave hot youthful shore,     and beate vpon that bosom’s shop is hang; thy shrine, no truth before     was not wear that it is the queen sent our lives a     womankind, I embrace the pink, the trick. Ever see     To see his neare ouerthrow.

[didoofcarthage]

Reclining Shepherdess with a Flock of Sheep and Goats and Herders with Their Flock under a Tree by Simon van der Does

Dutch, 1700

brush and grey wash, over graphite, on vellum

Rijksmuseum

[erstwhile25]

Songbird’s Tale.

It sits, under lock and key, on a boat full of thieves, liars, and charlatans.  It is a simple thing and while this is a boat that has seen king’s silks, diamonds the size of peacock eggs, chests overflowing with gold doubloons, it is still one of the most valuable objects aboard.  It boasts this virtue for several reasons.  The first, and most important is that it is among the most beloved objects aboard.  Sea weathered hands have lovingly stroked it’s soft leather cover, salt tears have been shed over it’s vellum pages, and more than once it has been clutched reverently to a chest in the dead of night.  The second reason, and possibly as important as the first (depending on who you asked) is that it is among the most feared objects aboard.  Eyes have hastened to read it’s flowing script in the waning light of a burning candle, it has been secreted away time and time again from those with horrid intent, and it has been the pinnacle of many a night terror aboard this boat.  The third, and final reason is that it is one of two objects aboard this craft that can truly, without exception, claim to be utterly unique on this...or any world.  

Oh the story on it’s pages has been told before, you’ve probably heard a version of it yourself in some fashion or another.  However the names have been changed, the reasons for what happened are muddied, or sometimes parts of the tale have simply been left out.  This is to be expected, it’s what happens to tales that are told over and over again.  It’s why we have books after all.  This is the only surviving written account of this tale however.  It’s sister account burned in a terrible fire, and whenever a pen laid down to scribe the tale again, some force drew the author off on a terribly urgent errand.  When they would return to the page they found, much to their chagrin, that the tale they were about to write now slipped their minds completely.  

This tale however stays firmly anchored to it’s pages, much to it’s chagrin, in the svelte flowing script that no hand aboard this boat can reproduce.  It sits under lock and key, in the care of the one man who has no need to open its cover.  For he is intimately familiar with the story already.  He is in fact unable to forget it, no matter what drink he consumes, or pleasures he takes in the night.  So there it sits, waiting to be read again.  Consider your luck reader, for you are given the chance that few will be granted.  You are to be given a chance to read behind the cover with the Songbird and Raven embossed upon it.  Consider your luck, for men and women have died for less.  

Once between the slope of the mountain and the swell of the sea, there was a fishing village.  As fishing villages went it was nothing spectacular, with it’s rice fields bordering the swamps, and the bounty the ocean provided, it’s people had little to want for in the way of food.  If it differed at all from its neighbors it was that in this village, there was no proper inn.  Where the men of most villages would start the end of their day with a bit of rice wine in the tavern, here instead every villager would start the end of their day by going to the shrine.  The shrine was a simple affair of stone, just where the slope of the mountain met the swell of the sea, and it was not for the marvelous view of the waves or the setting sun that the villagers flocked so punctually.  No, the men and women of the village came for Songbird and her stories.  Songbird, was a slight girl of an age none could get her to admit.  The eldest in the village could remember the days when her mother before her told the stories, but they could never remember the day when the mother had passed, and the duty fell to the child.  Regardless the villagers young and old learned not to press such questions upon the little storyteller, for those were the days she tended to take her stories back with her into the woods.  For the patient and kind however, the young speaker would set her small lantern on the head stone of the shrine, and she would ply her trade.  

She told stories of young boys who learned great words of power.  She spoke of young girls who were trapped in haunted bathhouses of eld.  She recited how samurai were bought to fight bandits for a few bags of rice.  She told the stories that villagers needed to hear, and for every tale the villagers went to bed with lighter hearts, and woke the next morning ready to work come whatever may.  For Songbird’s troubles, she was gifted a bag of rice every night, two on festival days.  She never asked for this gift, nor did she turn it away, and never did the thought occur to the villagers to withhold what she had earned.  It was a simple exchange, so too was it powerful.

Never did the village go hungry, nor did it ever miss a tithe to it’s Lord.  Hurricanes could pound it’s coast, driving away fish for months, earthquakes could muddy the waters of it’s rice fields, but always the village would have enough to eat, and always the wagons it sent back to the capital would be full.  While it’s neighbors would come and go from plaque, bandits, or wildlife, the little fishing village would weather the tests of time, over and over again.

Back in the capital, the ruler of the land took notice of this one village and it’s prosperity.  Being a man of learning, he wished to know what industriousness kept it’s people so productive, with the intent of instilling such a virtue upon all of his lands.  So he called his guards and retinue to him, and marched a procession to the gates of the little village, offering up gifts and praise to its peoples. 

“My dear subjects!” he cried with pomp and vigor “There is so much I feel my kingdom could learn from you!  Come show me how you bring in the harvest, and prepare for the hard days ahead!”

Being his subjects they did exactly that, they showed him every bag of rice, every net they hauled over the side of their boats, and every storehouse where they held food for the hard times.  The truth was in what they didn’t show him, for never did they take him to the shrine, and never did they once speak of Songbird.  

The Lord was no fool, for no fool sits on a throne for very long.  It was with clever eyes that he saw their worried glances towards the edge of the forest, and cautious ears that he heard whispers of a name just beyond hearing.  With polite gestures, more gifts, and even more praise, the Lord left the small little village.  Under cover of darkness with only a few of his retinue, he stole back into town, and waited by the edge of the forest.  Along came the villagers to sit by the shrine, and through the forest came the bobbing light of Songbird’s lantern.  Intently the Lord watched her set her lantern on the head stone, and listened to her tell a story of a young boy who became lost in the forest, only to be guided back by a small faeling child.  

When the last of the villagers left to return home, the Lord approached the small girl upon the shrine and beseeched her to come with him to the capital.  “There the light of your lantern may shine down upon all my subjects, your stories may teach them things they have forgotten, and all might prosper during my rule.”

To his honeyed words however she was immune, she simply shook her head and replied. “So long as this village stands, so shall I remain.” Then without so much as a backwards glance, she took her lantern and walked back into the forest.

Unaccustomed to being refused outright, the Lord returned many times to the shrine, thinking that perhaps with a different offer the girl would come to her senses and return to the capital with him.  He offered her gold, jewels, fine clothes and pretty men and women to fill them, however every time, just as the last she would turn away and walk into the forest saying “So long as this village stands, so shall I remain.”

One night, pirates swarmed the shores of the tiny fishing village.  They killed the men, sullied the women, burned the nets, and trampled the rice fields.  Somehow, they had gotten it into their heads that the village had gold hidden away, and when they found none, their anger and violence was tenfold to behold.  When Songbird’s lantern came bobbing through the forest that night, she found not the hopeful faces of the villagers she had known all her life, but a smoking ruin.  Perched atop the head stone of the shrine, was the Lord, waiting as patiently as one does for the grass to grow.

“There is no more village.” She said, and what was in her voice was but for her and the Lord to know.  

“No” he replied.  Possibly ashamed “There is not.” 

With nothing more said between them, she accompanied him to the capitol.  

The Lord kept her at his castle in a great spiraling tower, providing her with everything he had promised before.  For finery and comfort she never wanted, even for company she was rarely without.  A jester named Ashpatch, for the color of his motley, was made to follow her everywhere. The Lord was still no fool, and knew he had something precious.  To guard his wondrous storyteller he hired a great blade mistress to act as her keeper, her name was Serna From The Seas, and with a spear she was untouchable.  The Lord even fashioned a grand gate of steel and stone, and there was only one in his kingdom that could open it, a giant of immense size, the last of her kind named Onra. To all these the Lord promised that he would double any bribe offered them to betray him, and he meant every word.  

For a time things were as they had been at the village.  At the end of the day, Songbird and her lantern would head down to the court of the Lord.  There she would set her light at the highest step below his throne and she would tell tales.  She told a tale of warring royal families amidst the deadly encroaching Northern winds.  She spoke of the fall of the last great city and the two men who fled across the desert in the wake of its ruin.  She recited the story of a boy and his wizard, and how they tamed a warring nation.  She told the stories that royalty needed to hear.  For her troubles each day the Lord granted Songbird one audience in private at the end of her tales.  Each audience she would ask for but one thing, to be allowed to leave the capitol.  To this the Lord had but one reply.  “So long as this city stands, so shall you remain.”

For a time it was thus, day after day.  Finally one day Ashpatch came before the Lord’s court and claimed he was unable to cheer up Songbird despite his best efforts.  He was unsure if he was fit to even be called a jester any more.  “I throw myself to the floor as so!  I tug my ears and make faces that would make even my old shriveled grandmother cry with hilarity!  I tell the most lewd jokes about the Lord’s wife that I can conjure and still that girl sits there sullen without so much as a smile in her eye!”  

Among the commotion of the Lord calling for Ashpatch’s head, none in the court heard of the clamor coming from Songbird’s tower.  Ashpatch had intended this, for Songbird had once told him a story of a fool who was wiser than his king, and for this Ashpatch loved Songbird.  The clamor was Serna From the Sea and her deadly spear, slaying any samurai or knight that came between Songbird and her way out of the castle.  By the time the Lord made his way down from his throne room to the slaughter in his city, Songbird was well on her way to the gates.

“Who bought you??” He cried to Serna From the Sea as she cleaved through his court one after the other “How much was your loyalty that I could not retain it??”

“She told me a story” Replied Serna From the Sea “Of a goddess who cut off her fingers and cast them to the deeps so that there would be whales, otters, and fish for my people.  Double that.”

The Lord could not, so Serna From the Sea slew him.

When Songbird came to the great gate of steel and stone, she found it open, with Onra the giant standing there smiling.  Songbird had been the only person in the city who had ever talked to the last of the giants.  During their talks Songbird had told her a story about a giant who befriended a girl in the land of dreams, and for this, Onra loved Songbird.  Thus did Songbird leave the capitol, no longer standing, but burning in her wake.  

She returned back the way she came, her lantern bobbing all the way down the road to the ashes of her village.  Long since abandoned, the shrine crumbling, and the forest withering, Songbird found but one man down at the beach.  He tended a small boat, and wore a crumpled hat, his hair was the color of salt.

“Who are you?” She asked.

“I am the Ferryman.” He said.  

“Do I know you?” She squinted and held up her lantern, there was something familiar about his face.

“No longer.” He turned his face away. “I was once the captain of a ship, but the lie of gold tore us apart.  Now I ferry people to the other side.”

She nodded, remembering now where she had seen him. “I will tell you a story if you ferry me to another land.”

For the first time in her life, someone frowned at her and shook his head. “I know plenty of stories, could you forgive me instead?”

“No.” She said quite plainly. “However if you take me to another land, you may have my lantern.”

“Will you not need it?”

“Not where we are going.”

And so it was thus.  Songbird was never seen on that shore again, and though stories continued to be told without her, none were quite the same.

[nighttimepixels]

which of the ladies would most visibly self combust at a tender hand cradling their cheek,,,,,, who needs a windows reboot right then and there,,,, who goes excuse me and then its cuts to them like screaming in the woods,,,, who turns into an anime the possibilities are endless and very very gay

Trick question, part two: literally all the ladies are liable to combust if you do this with the right timing ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Buuuut if it’s in that sweet sweet tropey haze zone of pre-relationship but post-Oh No I’ve Caught A Case Of The Feelings, then you’d probably have a split like this:

SapphicSkel.Exe Has Stopped Working, System Overheat & Freeze, Please Reboot: Serif, Vellum, Amber, Crimson, Blade, Twist,

Time to Calmly Yeet Myself Into The Forest And Then Yell About How Gay I Am And Totally Handling It GREAT, T h a n k s, & Startle A Flock of Birds Into the Sky: Sapphire, Scarlet, Pepper, Cinnamon, Alpha, Glyph

Oooo I’m a sucker for sleeping partner questions Σ(°▽°)! ♡♡♡

Luckily, none of the ladies snore - however, if you’re a snuggly sleep partner to them….

several of them purr in their sleep.

Purr in their sleep if you snuggle close: Serif, Amber, Crimson, Cinnamon, Blade, Glyph

Now none of them steal the covers, but some of them do have an obscene number of fluffy blankets pillows, so-

You’ll have to commit to burrowing into their nest to sleep with them, good luck if you need to leave in the middle of the night: Vellum, Sapphire, Scarlet, Pepper, Twist

As far as spoons go:

Only Big Spoons: Sapphire, Crimson, Pepper, Blade

Secretly Love Being Lil Spoons: Vellum, Scarlet

Whatever Spoon You Want Them To Be, So Long As You’re Close To Them: Serif, Scarlet, Amber, Cinnamon, Glyph, Alpha

And, a bonus:

Sleeps in Proper PJ sets: Vellum, Scarlet, Pepper

Sleeps in a Loose Shirt/Hoodie/etc: Amber, Twist

Sleeps in Sweats/Shorts… only: Serif, Sapphire, Blade

Sleeps in nothin’: Crimson, Cinnamon, Glyph, Alpha (technically;;;)

[idanwyn-et-al]

Release. ((FFxivWrite2019: Prompt #9: Hesitate))

“Sonorous River, my most beloved of nephews, singer of singers...you have got to put your heart into it!” Leaping Fountain crooned, his cultured Capitol Hannish dialect enriching each pleading syllable with honey and incense. “Today, the strings of the dulcimer do not sing for your fingers; it happens to all of us, River. But your heart...” the short, stocky Hellsguard clutched his hand to his breast, “...that is what will carry your song on the days the chords will not rise to your fingertips.”

River’s brows knitted in frustration as he looked down to the hammered dulcimer, its last chord still ringing faintly within its framework, as if it, too, was waiting for proper guidance. He had spent the better part of the sennight practicing, following the sheet music etched and inked into vellum rolls, defying the naysayers who said his fingers were too thick and clumsy to play such a delicate stringed instrument. He’d gotten to the point where he could manage the glissandos with grace, and his cadenzas flowed freely without being overwrought. He could certainly earn his keep anywhere the caravan stopped for the night, setting up beneath careless lengths of embroidered silk blustering in the desert winds and using the sounds as percussion, as a backdrop to his strong, clear voice and silvery stringed runs. However, to the trained ear, there was something missing from his set; a lack of depth, a certain sort of perfunctory skill in his performances. It left him greatly disheartened each evening as he packed up, rolling into his hammock and refusing to speak to anyone as he fretted over this emptiness, the conviviality around the fire-circle outside seeming to mock his frustration, his isolation.

“Dearest of my uncles, I understand your words, but...” the man sighed as he trailed off, rolling his broad shoulders under his patchwork tunic, turning his lavender eyes to the pacing maestro. “My heart, it skips beats in fear. These songs are a legacy, and I have not lived their stories. I have no heart for them, because my heart is...afraid of them.” He kept his eyes on Leaping Fountain, steeling himself for chastisement; he had long been preparing to have his uncles decide he was not fit to be a tale-spinner and relegate him fully to the mercantile side of the family business. 

Leaping Fountain regarded his nephew with an inscrutable gaze, then waved his hand dismissively. “Do not tell me of these fears, River. I am going to walk to the other side of the wagons, and I expect to hear what you are afraid of through your song.” Lowering his voice to a gentle rumble, he continued. “A legacy is not something set in stone, something complete; it is something that grows, River. Your feelings...they will become part of the songs, the stories. You must learn to play without fear, without hesitation; then you will connect to the past and the future, both.”

After his uncle tapped the dulcimer gently and strode away, River took a deep breath. Connection to the past and the future...yes, that was how traditions worked, wasn’t it? Somewhere down the line would be someone like River, struggling to master this esoteric trade, unable to let go of themselves enough to allow themselves to be included in the music, in the stories.

He released his breath, and began to play, adding his own touches to the written music and singing from the gut. A flock of nesting birds took flight from their perches on the wagons, carrying his fear and dreams both with them in a spiral towards the evening sky.

[cainemorin-blog]

Chapter One: The Beginning

It was some time before the young soldier awoke with a start; the cracking of a log in the heart snapping him out of a dreamless sleep. As his eyes began to adjust to the dim lighting, he soon realised that he was no longer where he once was. A feeling of dread and panic gripped his heart, a clammy sweat making his skin grow cold as the memories of the night before played through his mind. Where was he? Had the old man taken him? Had he been found by comrades and allies? Closing his eyes, he sought to calm a distressed heart, taking slow and even breaths. As he did, his mind began to clear.

It was clear he was safe; being taken care of. With the slightest shift of his leg, he could feel the rudimentary splint and wrappings around his ankle, resetting the bones so that it could heal. Even then it took him a moment to notice the fact he was in a bed; or rather a cot, covered in warm furs and a pillow stuffed with straw. The cabin itself was rather ordinary; made of dark, fitted logs, it was similar to many that could be seen throughout the world. Rough hewn furniture, including a table with a still steaming wood bowl and a handful of uncut gems, littered the cabin.

Suddenly ravenous, the boy stumbled from the bed, falling to the bowl of offered food set for him. It was a basic stew, heavy with rough cut meat and tubers, but it tasted as if it had been blessed by the Light itself to a tongue starved. Even the dark brown bread tasted beyond description, still warm from the hearth and smothered in a rich clotted cream. It wasn’t long until he had his fill, feeling his eyes once again heavy from exhaustion. As the old man was nowhere to be seen so that he could be thanked properly, the soldier gazed towards the bed again, pondering it’s welcoming embrace.

As he stared at the simple cot, something caught his eye on the floorboards beneath. Falling heavily to the furs and canvas, he reached beneath and felt the warm leather against his fingertips. Curious, he pulled the heavy tome from beneath and held it in his lap. There was nothing unusual or ominous about the book; a simple journal of vellum pages bound in leather. Embossed on the front in an iron-flecked ink held the letters “CM”. His inquisitive nature taking hold over his better judgement, he cracked open the book to the first page.

It is strange when a man puts his story to paper. I know not if it will ever be read nor if it will hold meaning to another, but with all I have endured, maybe… just maybe… another may learn the lessons of my life so that they do not make the same mistakes. Whether I am to become the hero of my own tale, or just a simple bystander in the grander story of another, that is for time and history to tell. As for me, I believe we should start where all great stories begin: at the the beginning.

I was born North of Lordaeron in a small village that no longer exists. Second son to an engineer and a baker, my parents were kind and loving. Peculiar, as I write this now, I cannot remember their faces for the life of me. I would love to compare my mother’s hair to fields of golden grain or the blue of her eyes to the floes of ice that would drift from the North, but I honestly cannot say that her eyes were blue or hair was blonde. What I do remember was her scent. Even now, well over half a century later, the smell of fresh baked bread or roasting of grains fills me with a sense of comfort and belonging. It’s funny how memories work sometimes.

My father, as I said, was an engineer by trade. While he did not invent or work on firearms or means of war, it did not diminish what he did for our village. There was not a mill nor wagon that had been built there without a touch of his hand. Whether by magic or some higher instinct, he always knew exactly what needed to be done so that the job could be completed as efficiently as possible. I was still very young when he died, a babe at my mother’s breast. She told me later in life that a wheel on the lumber mill had been damaged due to a sudden storm and that he’d gone out to make the repairs instead of risking the lives of those whom he worked with. A flash flood tore the wood and iron, sending the wheel careening down stream, carrying and crushing my father along the way.

It was not two days later when Old Crictor came by our simple hut. A farmer whom my father had become close with over the years came to offer my mother work, knowing she would not be able to keep her home on her own. So we left and went to live on his farm, my mother becoming one of the cooks in his kitchen. A kindly old man, I can still remember the bloodshot eyes and tender voice when he came to speak to my mother… as well as the simple prayer he offered up for my father’s soul. And there, under that devote old man in the warmth and love of his farm, was where I was truly raised.

Like all children, I grew quickly. As I grew, so did the number of chores that I undertook. None of them were outside my realm of capability; pulling a few carrots here, weeding a garden over there, or even just watching over the flock on the high hill, but Light knows I detested them. I felt sullen and put upon. Looking back now I realise how much good that farm did for me, but then, I wanted nothing more than to be gone from there and off in the world on my own. A farm as impressive in size as Crictor’s, of course, had its fair share of children. As much as I would like to say I fit in easily with them and held many friends for whom I still care deeply about today, that would be a farce. I found children my age foolish and lazy. They spoke of becoming farmers, woodcutters, and soldiers while I held grander ambitions than that. I sought knowledge and to make my mark upon Azeroth in a way that was meaningful. It was this determination that made me an outcast among my peers. Crictor was a kindly master, though, and took me under his wing. He taught me numbers and how to read as he was only one of a handful on the property that could. As time passed, he came more and more to rely on me to balance the books and keep inventory. And, for a time, I was content.

That contentment lasted for several years. Things, however, changed with a certain vagrant who appeared near my thirteenth year of age.

[yraelviii]

The Author of American Ornithology Sketches a Bird, Now Extinct (Alexander Wilson, Wilmington, N.C., 1809)

When he walked through town, the wing-shot bird he'd hidden Inside his coat began to cry like a baby, High and plaintive and loud as the calls he'd heard While hunting it in the woods, and goodwives stared And scurried indoors to guard their own from harm.

And the innkeeper and the goodmen in the tavern Asked him whether his child was sick, then laughed. Slapped knees, and laughed as he unswaddled his prize, His pride and burden: an ivory-billed woodpecker As big as a crow, still wailing and squealing.

Upstairs, when he let it go in his workroom, it fell silent at last. He told at dinner How devoted masters of birds drawn from the life Must gather their flocks around them with a rifle And make them live forever inside books.

Later, he found his bedspread covered with plaster And the bird clinging beside a hole in the wall Clear through to already-splintered weatherboards And the sky beyond. While he tied one of its legs To a table leg, it started wailing again.

And went on wailing as if toward cypress groves While the artist dew and tinted on fine vellum Its red cockade, gray claws, and sepia eyes From which a white edge flowed to the lame wing Like light flying and ended there in blackness.

He drew and studied for days, eating and dreaming Fitfully through the dancing and loud drumming Of an ivory bill that refused pecans and beetles, Chestnuts and sweet-sour fruit of magnolias, Riddling his table, slashing his fingers, wailing.

He watched it die, he said, with great regret.

-David Wagoner

Oh great and wise bunjy!

Is the news lying about the The ivory-billed woodpecker being extinct? Or is it official for wild populations? I don't even know if they'd have them in captivity/zoos. :(

no it's legit, the ivory-billed woodpecker is no more :(

there sadly were never any captive populations, so it's gone for good. there MAY be one or two stragglers out there in the wild swamps of the south, since there was a verified sighting in the early 2000's, but even if there are, the population has fallen below the recovery limit and any surviving individuals don't have enough genetic diversity left to keep the species going for more than a few more generations.

pour one out for the ivory-billed woodpecker!

[beaflower77]

Docility And Rank

She lifted the next vellum. And read, feeling exhaustion from doing so. 

The summer without you is cold. Excruciating cold. The winters are no better My Love. The winds searing down the paths, hitting, slamming against window panes. My sighs, my heart collapsing from the shear weight of sorrow without you. When will be the day of your return?

The next letter was similar. 

The geese and other flock have returned once again. The clouds billow and bust with new brushes of gales cascading down through the valley. I watch the swans glide by. They seem calm, happy, translucent even, floating past, dipping their bills in the shallow waters to pluck green stuffs to fill their endless hungry bellies. 

But my heart, My Love, it remains endlessly void of emotions without you. My nights are empty, still. The darkness finds me lost. Many nights I find myself weaving the paths of corridors searching for something, I do not know what. I know I will not find you. Until you return. Until you do, I will keep my vigil fast.

“Wow!,” Beatrice exclaimed. “So sad, so haunting. What are these?” She brought the lot of the letters to Master Maimen. “Master.,” Beatrice asked, showing him the little box of letters, “What are these?” Taking one look at the box, Master Maimen sighed. “Where did you find these Beatrice? These are..,” he began. And he smiled a sad, mournful smile of long ago remembrances. Unfolding another letter, reading “The halls are dank, fusty as I wander lost. My heart, my fae, my mind is lost. When will you return? I feel you yet within the shadows. Every hall, every bend, I seek you out. I find you not. I beseech you return. The hours, the days, they are long and lonely. No, stay, do your duty. Do not listen to such fooling meanderings of my mind.”  

Placing the latest letter down carefully on his desk, “These are long, lost love letters Beatrice. They were written by a lovely, yet lonely elf to his fair maiden.” Intrigue worked its’ way into Beatrice and she sat in the chair opposite the Librarian. “What happened?,” she asked. Sighing, remembering, Master Maimen slouched back against his chair, and began, “What didn’t happen. As the story goes, the ellon Saerdaer had a new bride, Duvaindis. He was a guard. A mighty guard, similar to Echthelion. Duvaindis, why she was beautiful and dark and extremely fair. All who looked upon felt blessed in her presence. One of the most kind of elliths. Saerdaer had waited long for her as his wife. And they wed. And were very happy for many years. But duty calls sometimes. And duty called for Duvaindis.” 

Picking up one of the vellums, Master Maemen unfolded, read another aloud. 

The orcs parade themselves long and hard past us. They think we know not they are here. They deceive themselves. They are but heavy, luggish stones, boulders against a dam. Breaking, trying to break it apart. And we, the soldiers of light. The warriors of good and just. We slay them, fouling the waters, spoiling the steams, the rivers with putrid, fetid waste of destruction. But you, My Love, my glorious wife, you shine and glitter above these ugly, living things. Oh, if you were but here. Your radiance would take my breath away. My heart would collapse and enfold upon itself if it were not for the sole responsibilities we each must endure till your return. Duvaindis, I will wait out eternity. I shall walk the dark and hallow halls of death but to see again the gleam of your heart overshadowing my love for you. 

Beatrice listened intently as the latest letter was read. She watched Master Maimen as he walked the room. Pacing was more like it. “Did they ever get together again?,” she asked. She wanted to know. Their love seemed so genuine, so heartfelt, so sad. Her heart was breaking just thinking of the two lovers. She knew the answer before Maimen said it. “No.,” he said. “They were meant to.,” Maimen started. “Duvanidis did return. The caravan, assembled, complete with hand maidens, soldiers accompanying Duvandis started out. They made it through the mountain passes unscathed. She even carried two small muskrats as pets back for her beloved husband.” Beatrice stopped him. “I thought elves did not agree with pets. Everyone here has such a difficult time with mine.” A certain irk went through Beatrice thinking that an elf would be so bold to have a pet and it be accepted. A smile reverberated with Maimen. “No.,” he agreed. “Elves are not known for their love of pets. However, for Duvaindis. All were willing to forgo that rule. Even Lord Elrond. Her intent, I believe, was to bring it home and set it free.” “So.,” again she insisted. “What happened?” 

Master Maimen paused in his retelling of the tragedy and shook his head. “A tragedy befell them both.,” was all Maimen let fall from his lips. Beatrice was not satisfied with that. “Tell me.,” Beatrice implored. He poured tea. Added a lump of sugar to hers. “The caravan reached the city. A rider was sent ahead to inform Lord Elrond and Saerdaer. Saerdaer suited up and rode out to meet them. But his horse, broke stride, lunged, and fell. From the bridge. Duvaindis saw it all.” Beatrice forgot to drink. 

“So overcome of grief and sorrow, she hurdled herself off her charge and gazed upon his lifeless body lying, broken on the rocks below. A wail you have never experienced before let loose from those lips of hers. As she painstakingly made her way down the cliff, hoping beyond all that he was still alive, she could see he was gone. In that briefest of moments of pain and suffering, Duvaindis drew her dagger and slit her own throat, befalling herself against her husband.” Beatrice was speechless. Such misery, such deep, sorrowful waiting and longing for the other, to be over in a moment of senselessness. 

As Master Maimen watched Beatrice, he stirred her pretty, teal cup of steaming tea for her. “And that, my dear Beatrice, was the end of their story. A senseless tragedy gone awry.” And he waited for her to say something. She couldn’t, but Beatrice did read silently some more of the letters, sipped her tea and wondered what they would have been like had they each lived to this day. “Oh.,” mused Maimen. “Saerdaer might have even been greater than our beloved Glorfindel. And Duvaindis, perhaps an elfling or two.” Maimen smiled a gentle expression of tenderness as he sipped from his own cup. “What happened to the muskrats?,” Beatrice asked, swallowing control over her wasteful tears. “Erestor coddled them for awhile before releasing them into the forests. Both it and its’ mate. All the kits you see running around the woods are the descendants from Saerdear and Duvaindis. So, in a way,” Maimen said, “They continue to live on in our hearts.” She could take no more and set her cup carefully down. 

Beatrice blew her nose rather noisily, stood, dusted off her indigo colored tunic and leggings, gave Master Maimen back the mahogany box and excused herself for the day. Walking slowly down the corridors Beatrice traced her fingers along the walls, thinking, down to the study Lindir was occupying. “Hi.,” she said, giving him a small, shy smile, interrupting his reading and penmenship. Looking up, noticing her pensive, troubled mood, Lindir slowly placed his quill upon its’ stand. “Hi.,” he replied, lifting his hand to meet her face and chin, pulling her closer, ending in a soft embrace. “What troubles you Sweatheart?,” Lindir softly begged. Shrugging, Beatrice only hugged him tighter, arms clasped about his neck, burying her head against his robes, smelling the way he was, “I just miss you.,” she whispered. A tight squeeze was his reply and her reward. 

[plusorminuscongress]

Fragments of History

Fragments of History By Neely Tucker Published May 22, 2019 at 09:00AM

This is a guest post by John Hessler, Curator of the Jay I. Kislak Collection of the Archaeology and History of Early Americas at the Library of Congress.

As a linguist obsessed with the earliest history of writing, I am used to dealing in fragments. A shattered chunk of engraved stone, a handful of shards of painted pottery, a surviving blot of ink on vellum – sometimes these are the only evidence we have of long-lost scripts and languages. Small and insignificant as they may seem, they give us glimpses into great works of literature and poetry that we will never really know.

You find such fragments in the world’s great libraries all the time. Pulled from the bindings of books, unearthed from archaeological digs, donated by antiquarians, they can, despite their incomplete nature, become critical pieces for reassembling puzzles of the ancient world.

Medieval manuscript fragments found in the binding of a Portolan Atlas by Placido Oliva. Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress. 

Historian and bibliographer Seymour de Ricci, born in 1881, knew this. Early in his career, he was a scholar of ancient Greek and wrote about the graffiti found in ancient Egyptian tombs – some of the world’s ultimate literary fragments. Later, he turned his attention to medieval manuscripts and tapestries. After many years of research conducted in places like the Library of Congress, he produced the landmark “Census of Medieval and Renaissance Manuscripts in the United States and Canada,” in 1935.

He also donated a small collection of rare papyrus fragments to the Library. They include pieces from two of the earliest works of literature known in the West: “The Iliad,” by Homer; and the book of Isaiah in the Bible.

The fragment of Homer that de Ricci collected is a section from Book II of “The Iliad,” which tells the tale of the Trojan War. This masterpiece of storytelling was, throughout the Greek world, told orally at first, and was later set down on papyrus, the medium of choice for ancient Egyptian, Greek and Middle Eastern scribes. The oldest complete manuscript dates from the 10th century, so any fragments from earlier versions help trace the poem’s history — and de Ricci’s fragment is from nearly 1,000 years earlier.

Fragment of Homer’s Iliad from the Seymour de Ricci Collection. Rare Book and Special Collections, Library of Congress.

It’s from a section of the poem in which Homer begins to explain the details of the Greek war on Troy. He introduces Odysseus and Nestor, who support the main movers and shakers in the story, Achilles and Agamemnon. The fragment is the center part of the text from lines 466-477 (approximately shown in red). The complete section, translated here, narrates the drama of the warring forces gathering on the plains outside Troy:

So tribe on tribe, pouring out of the ships and shelters, marched across the Scamander plain and the earth shook, tremendous thunder from the trampling feet of men and horses drawing into position down under the Scamander meadow flats breaking into flower—men by the thousands, numberless as the leaves and seedlings that flower forth in the spring.

The armies massing, crowding thick and fast as swarms of flies seething over the shepherd’s stalls in the first spring days when the buckets flood with milk—so many long-haired Achaeans swarmed across the plain to confront the Trojans, fired to smash their lines. These men who are as goatherds among the wide flocks easily separate them in order as they take to the pasture, thus the leaders separated them this way and that toward the encounter, and among the powerful Agamemnon…

The scribe who wrote de Ricci’s fragment spelled several words differently than we see in other versions, and inserted an additional word here and there. This can be expected in a poem that was repeated orally for centuries, and then written down by different scribes in different places. Fragments like these let scholars explore these differences and see what they might mean.

The Isaiah fragment of de Ricci is from the 4th century, or about 1,200 years after the original was written, perhaps by Isaiah himself. The fragment has writing on both sides of the papyrus, from Isaiah 23:4-7 and 10-13. It is a small part of a prophecy about the cities of Tyre and Sidon. The full section reads:

Be ashamed, Sidon, fortress on the sea, for the sea has spoken, “I have not been in labor, nor given birth, nor raised young men, nor reared young women.” When the report reaches Egypt they shall be in anguish at the report about Tyre. Pass over to Tarshish, wail, you who dwell on the coast! Is this your exultant city, whose origin is from old, whose feet have taken her to dwell in distant lands?

Any ancient record of the Bible is important, and this one allows us to conclude that the fragment was once part of a codex or book. Note the round dot, the hole in the margin, which was once used to sew the sheet into a binding.

De Ricci fragment, Book of Isaiah, from the early 4th century. Rare Book and Special Collections. Library of Congress.

History is the story of fragments—what survives and what does not. For many manuscripts, for which there are no surviving complete copies, or whose history we know little, fragments are sometimes all we have to go by. For texts like these, and for linguists and scholars like de Ricci and myself, no piece is too small to save.

Subscribe to the blog— it’s free! — and the largest library in world history will send cool stories straight to your inbox.

Read more on https://loc.gov

[goblin-gardens]

@athos-silvani you gave me an idea. an adoribull idea

“I can’t believe I’m being held hostage in my own home by a bird.” Dorian stares bitterly out the window. The day is perfectly warm and sunny, but there are swans in his garden.

Bull comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s waist. “Were you planning on leaving?”

“Not a second sooner than I have to, Amatus.” He accepts a kiss on his cheek. “It would just be nice to walk outside without having my ankles snapped at by a bad-tempered feather duster.”

“You just need to give it some time. At least they don’t let burglars anywhere near the house.”

Dorian sighs. “What heroic creatures they are. We should buy them golden collars and name our villa after their flock.”

Bull laughs. “You could change the Pavus crest to be a swan instead of a peacock. Hang a portrait of Melvin in your house in Qarinus.”

"You named the swan Melvin?” Dorian demands, incredulous.

“He comes when I call him.”

“He comes when you bring him corn.”

Bull pouts. “It’s not because I’m charming?”

“You are charming, Amatus.” Dorian turns to kiss him. “But kindly stop charming other men. I don’t want to fight Melvin or your attention.”

“Worried you might not win?”

"He bit me!”

Bull laughs again. He has to leave again tomorrow, and Dorian must go the next day. Their time together is precious, and Dorian far prefers Bull to birds, especially when they shit on his rosebushes.

He goes back to Minrathous, with only Bull’s voice in his sending crystal, and the weight of a dragon’s tooth hanging from his neck, to keep him company. His nights are long, candlelit and lonely, and the Pavus crest watches him with beady emerald eyes wherever he turns.

He sleeps less, as always, preferring to wander the grounds in the evening. If he’s not in his office, no one can bring him new problems.

There are plenty of problems that require his attention, of course. The Lucerni have survived the first crucial years, but there are still hurdles to overcome. Many junior members see him as a towering figure, half-legend already, a hero of the war to save Thedas, a sign that Tevinter’s corruption can be redeemed. They value his opinion so highly, it seems, that they can’t choose what clothes to wear if he hasn’t approved the fabrics. Influence is exhausting.

He sits on a stone bench in the back of the gardens, watching the peacocks scratch at the ground. They spend their nights in a pen, fed and looked after and counted carefully every morning.

There have been peacocks roaming the grounds of the Pavus house as long as he can remember-- likely since before his grandmother was born. She still tells him of the birds’ bloodlines, the uses of their feathers and claws and beaks in magic rites, how the Maker himself drew eyes on their plumage, whenever he visits her. His uncle jokes she married Dorian’s grandfather for his peacocks.

A thought occurs to Dorian as he watches a brown peahen through the wrought-iron bars of their enclosure. 

In the morning, he arms himself with precedent, reams of papers on family history, and most importantly, a bottle of her favorite wine, and makes his mother an offer.

“So, Kadan,” Bull says on their second morning back together. The sun streams through the curtains, gilding his horns. Not for the first time, Dorian revels in his good luck. “What do you have up your sleeve?”

Dorian, sprawled over Bull’s chest, looks down at their bodies. “I haven’t been wearing any sleeves for at least a day. Or anything at all, come to think of it.”

“You’ve got that look in your eye.” Bull kisses him. “Is it something from that chocolatier near the Vivazzi Plaza?”

"No,” Dorian says. “Would you like to have breakfast?”

He can feel Bull watching him, and he knows he’s doing a terrible job of hiding his sudden anxiety. It had seemed like an excellent plan until this very moment.

“Is everything alright, Dorian?” Now he’s gone and made Bull worried as well.

“I do have something--” he gets up before he thinks better of it, crossing the room to the bags he still hasn’t unpacked. The slim leather case is exactly where he’d put it, and the seal is still is still stamped onto it.

He brings it back to the bed, where Bull’s sitting up now. He takes the case carefully from Dorian’s hands and examines it without opening it. 

“I don’t know this coat of arms,” he says. “Who in the Magisterium’s a swan? Aurarius? No, they have their wings folded, not spread like this. And I’d remember an axe crossed over a staff. This crest at the top looks like the one over the Pavus peacock.” He looks up at Dorian. “You get a new cousin?”

“Something like that,” Dorian says. "It’s my coat of arms.”

“Yours?”

Dorian sits on the bed, and Bull moves his legs to make room. They face each other across the blankets bunched over his knees.

“My family’s accepted that my father’s line ends with me. My eldest cousin has four blood children already, and she’s always been in awe of my grandmother.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve named her my legal heir, and while I will continue to sit in the Magisterium, she is now my equal when it comes to Pavus family matters.”

Bull holds Dorian’s hands in his own, and waits quietly.

“I’ve started a new sprig on the Pavus family tree, as it were. She will continue the main branch, while I am relieved of that responsibility. My house-- my spouse and children, should I have any, are not heirs to the Pavus fortune."

“So what does this mean?”

Dorian opens the case with his coat of arms. “These are all the legal documents to do with my household. My certificates of birth and magical talent. My diploma from the Circle. My legal appointment to the Magisterium. The deed to this house. And this.”

Bull handles the vellum with care. It’s inscribed and illuminated, the text shimmering with an underlay of magic. It is, as all contracts of its type should be, a work of art. Above the text is Dorian’s new coat of arms: a swan, wings spread wide, a mage’s staff and warrior’s axe crossed behind its head. Below is space for the names of two signatories and a witness.

“This is my family crest now,” Dorian says. “And since you designed it, it’s only fitting that it be yours as well.”

[afangarblog]

Artist, Colleen Toledano

Meet in the Middle.  2012, Porcelain, balsa wood, rice paper, plexiglas mirror, 60"x24"x12"

Smoke Screen, 2012, Porcelain, balsa wood, rice paper, red LED light, 36"x14"X20"

Life Body Study #1, 2012, Porcelain, wood, plexiglas mirror, vellum, resin

36"x50"x15"

SLICE LIFE #2, 2012, PORCELAIN, WOOD, DECALS, HARDWARE

WALL FAT, 2010, Porcelain, plaster, paint, flocking, hardware, flocking

ENABLER AND DETAIL, 2008, PORCELAIN, PLASTIC, PAINT, HARDWARE

SMOTHER BLUSH, 2005, PORCELAIN, PEWTER, RUBBER, LEATHER, SYNTHETIC HAIR, GLITTER, 32"X4.25"X4.25"

NIPCURLER, 2005, PORCELAIN, PEWTER, SWARVOSKI CRYSTALS, 25.5"X4.25"X10"

Colleen Toledano is a mixed media artist with incredible ceramic skills.  Her work deals with body, architecture and beauty vs prettiness.  Colleen is also working on a project in Buffalo, NY that honors artists and craftsman making handmade objects.  The project emphasizes the importance of community building by bringing together local farmers, artists, and other Buffalo natives to share ideas, get to know each other and learn about one and other's creative outlets.  Learn more Here:  https://www.facebook.com/BHBPROJECT/info https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1932051299/bhb-project-build-handmade-buffalo The interview below is a discussion between the artist and I about her meticulous and awe-inspiring work: 

A:  Your work calls to mind artists like Paul Thek, Alina Szapocznikow and some influence of Rococo flourish.  Can you talk about your influences and art historical lineage? 

C:  I have always been influenced by opulence, excessiveness, and abundance. These are concepts that I think are both of personal importance when I make connections between one’s body and home. So making reference to the Rococo period and style only seemed natural. Maybe because I am a ceramic artist I seem to be more aware and influenced by other clay people, such as Nicole Cherubini’s work that I think also references abundance in our culture of mass consumption. Also Sara Lindley’s ceramic, skeletal furniture sculptures.  I admire her work technically because I know how finicky porcelain can be, but also the consideration to this and how using the clay gives her pieces an undeniable vulnerability and fragileness that I seek to have in my pieces.    But I attempt to simultaneously make them appear strong and in control.  I have been influenced by artist, Damian Ortega’s sculptures that have made me think about my relationship of my own body with the material world around.   

A:   I love the way that you weave surface/exteriors into the visceral body of an object.  The piece, Slice Life #2, for instance has this beautiful, subtle detail of a white and blue floral pattern that one might find on wallpaper or fine china, it runs in between a pink, marbleized shapes that are reminiscent of skin and tiles all at once; this all lives in a compact “slice” of a brick wall.  I’m so drawn to this piece because it is so full of contradiction and unity all at once.  The “decorative” flowery detail is also a network of veins breathing energy and life into the piece.  I feel like this piece is talking about the inside and the outside existing as one and being on an equal plane - as if to say the icing is not a mere topping but it is integral to the cake.  What is it that attracts you to surface details as well as the insides?

C:  I consider the duality between the exterior and interior of my pieces to be co-dependent of each other.  Without the other, one would not exist.  I can never ignore the “insides” of the pieces because for me it’s what drives the power of what I am talking about.  I enjoy assigning “decorative” elements to the context that can feel or can be considered as messy or grotesque.  This contradiction gives importance to the necessary role that it plays in the overall concept.  Creating beauty helps to draw the viewer into the piece and demanding consideration and introspective to the dialogue of the various concepts involved.

  A:   I notice that framing is a consistent element in your work.  Pieces such as Smoke Screen, Wall Fat, Slice of Life, Lux Luggage III and more all have a defined perimeter.  Calling attention to the fact that these pieces are on display creates a sense of distance while making them feel all the more tantalizing.  What role does framing have for you?

C:  This is my attempt to bring attention or give important presence to the piece.  By “framing” or giving a “defined perimeter” I am asking the viewer to mentally and visually enter my pieces.  This is allowing for investigation within a small and concentrated context. 

I am also interested in the rigid structure of architecture, comparing it to the skeleton of our bodies.  Without this integral component neither would be able to hold themselves up.  Making the framework vital to the integrity and strength of both.

A:  I notice your drawings have a “barely there” quality, delicate, yet precise like blueprints; while your sculptures have a real sense of weight.  What are the differences and/or similarities in the two processes? How does one influence the other?

C:  I spend a lot of time in my studio thinking and considering the various materials that I use and how they work together or against each other.  I try to create a dialogue between the different materials that contribute to the overall concept of the piece.  I enjoy pairing soft and delicate materials next to hard and sturdy materials because I believe they emphasize each other characteristics even more.  I am concerned that my viewer can experience the feel of the materials with out touch them.  That the weight of the material is apparent when considerably used. Lightweight, often translucent materials are used when I want to speak about a delicate, fragile, and/or sensitive situation.  Heavy weighted materials are almost always about strength and power.  Although there are times that I have tried to make contradictions, such as in the piece Meet in the Middle, the white paper fence is the component that demands attention and in the narrative is the most desired.  But by using the delicate material it is also perceived as the most difficult to attain.

A:  Some pieces with multiple components such as, Meet in the Middle, seem to be more narrative than a piece like, Life Body Study.  Is narrative an important element in your work and does it manifest itself differently at different times? 

C:  Presently my work has become more narrative as I attempt to visually communicate the complicated relationships and events in my life.  In the past I have discussed several ideas of how  “control” plays a role in my life, but I was always concerned with talking about it universally in order to make it more accessible to my audience.  As the work becomes more narrative I am interested in my viewer experiencing the way I handle control by conceiving of pieces that when in their presence an emotional and/or physically reaction occurs.  I want to the viewer to feel how I felt.

A:  I admire the way you defend “girliness” in your series Foxy Fuss, by embracing femininity while demonstrating an awareness of the sometimes wincingly grotesque means of attaining beauty.  Can you talk about what beauty means to you and if it relates at all to question 1, in regards to surfaces.

C:   In thinking about this question I remember using the word “pretty” often when I was making the Foxy Fuss series as opposed to the word “beauty”. The two words had different meanings and connotations to me and still do.  

In my mind I assigned youth and delicacy, and maybe a little weak, to the term “pretty”.  The series Foxy Fuss had much to do with how I could use my femininity as my power, giving me control in any situation.  Acknowledging that “pretty” was not always seen as powerful or strong, I tried to play against these ideas by making objects that were usually seen as aggressive and masculine.  I made these objects, such as weapons, ultra-feminine and desired by using qualities that were commonly associated with “pretty” like, curvaceous forms, soft pinks, and floral aesthetics.  

This use of attaining “beauty” was more relevant in the two series that preceded Foxy Fuss; Bodily Trays and Sufficient Stitchery.  Conceptually I was speaking about extreme actions that are done to attain beauty. I was thinking of “beauty” more in terms of aesthetics, what looks pleasing to the eye. Also how there is power associated in being able to make those decisions to attain this beauty and that one should feel good about it, never apologize for it.  This is a very third wave feminist viewpoint. There was still use of soft pastel colors, but there were a variety of soft and hard materials within the same piece.  I saw the use of a variety of materials gave more balance between masculine and feminine within the same piece.

[iiloridansunshard]

Your Affairs [Iiloridan Sunshard]

Iiloridan had hoped he was done with this...this depressing shit back during the second assault on Northrend.  Wills and letters and hypothetical death scenarios did not make for an optimistic start to a campaign. But then again, a few letters weren’t a full and proper legal will, either. Grumbling, the priest eventually sat himself down with quill, parchment, and penknife; grudgingly prepared to make a properly legal document so he wouldn’t have to worry about it again any time soon.

----

The document eventually filed with Aluriel Heartsong is stuffed in a fat parchment packet with copies of wax-sealed letters. The will all but gleams, words scripted in blood red and shining with mana interwoven and bound to both vellum and ink.

I, Iiloridan Sunshard, possessed of sound mind and body and under no duress, declare this document and its contents to be my legally binding Last Will and Testament; so sworn by my blood and magic.

I name Kalyanar Brightquill, my cousin and dearest friend, as executor of my will and assets.

In the event of my untimely death, Kalyanar Brightquill is hereby named sole guardian of my children: Bel’alah Sunshard, Iirinar Sunshard, Dalchirya Sunshard, and A’enlyndr Sunshard. I also name him administrator of their inheritance until they come of age under both Thalassian law and Brightquill tradition.  I trust him fully and completely to handle their interests in my stead.

I’m sorry Kal, but I know you’ll be able to do what needs to be done.

In addition, our previous agreement still stands and is to be formalized in writing: should Kalyanar Brightquill not produce a daughter and heir worthy of the Brightquill name, it has been agreed that one of my daughters - whomsoever is most suited to the task - shall take on the Brightquill name and serve as Kalyanar’s heir and future Matriarch to the Brightquill House.

Of my claim on the Brightquill home of Caravan Court and all it’s properties and interests, I leave in equal part to Kalyanar, my children, and our cousin, Maeldir Brightquill.

Of my monetary funds - all vaults, accounts, and their contents within - shall go to my children, divided equally four ways. Records of their accounting shall be attached.

Of special note:

To Kalyanar, I leave the glory chest in the shop, with two exceptions of the contents within.  You know the ones.

Of my knives, blades, daggers, and other weapons of my previous occupation, I leave to my eldest daughter, Bel’alah Sunshard.  While I suspect her life shall lead her in a direction of... far heavier weaponry, I feel that she find the most value in additional blades, if only that of sentimental reasoning.

My priest gear, tomes, staff, and all other items related to such, should they be recovered in the event of my untimely demise, should go to my son, Iirinar Sunshard.  Given his past interests and burgeoning talents, I suspect he of all my children would find the most value and potential use in them.

Of my corvid flock and future rights to the breed, and the records pertaining to their care, I leave to my younger daughter, Dalchirya, once she is old enough to hold the responsibility. In her fondness of animals, I feel this, one of my life’s works, is the most fitting gift I can offer.

Of my books, writings, published works, and manuscripts, unless otherwise noted to be destined for other persons, shall go to my youngest son, A’enlyndr.  Of all my children, Aen has valued both the tales of our family and our correspondence the most, and thus I leave our history to the one who shall carry it farthest.

To Kenren Taishou, goes the first exception noted above, contained within the glory chest in a labeled container. ...I am sorry it did not reach you while I still lived.

To Maeldir Brightquill, goes the second exception noted above, also contained within the glory chest.  So you do not forget our ties of blood, my dear cousin.  Your home will always be with us.

All other inconsequential items in my possession shall be divvied up between my children as they and Kalyanar see fit.

As for the property of Sunbreaker Coast; unless my sister, Aruenna Sunshard, has renounced her ties to the Silver Covenant and the Alliance at the time of my death, she retains no legal claim on our father’s lands.  As such, I leave sole possession of the lands fully to my four children in equal measure. Should the lands ever be reclaimed, they might find some use in the damned mana-pit.  

Of note, I request that if the lands are reclaimed or explored to the extent that records of the Sunshard family can be found, I ask that they be examined for evidence of links to other kin.  While my children retain full claim, the possible existence of other Sunshard relations-by-blood has been noted, and I feel my children should be made aware of such if there is any truth in it.

There are enclosed a number of letters, each of which should be delivered to their addressees only under the confirmed, irrefutable evidence of my demise.

Finally, under the event of my true death, if remains are recovered, I wish for them to be delivered home to Caravan Court and burned, ashes to be interred with the rest of our family alongside the Brightquill family shrine. My remains should not, under any circumstances, be allowed to be raised by the foul arts. Any such animated corpse baring my likeness is to be put down and burned in the same manner.

Signed and Sealed, Iiloridan Sunshard, Priest of Quel’thalas

The enclosed envelopes are addressed to each of the Sunshard children in turn, Kalyanar Brightquill, Maeldir Brightquill, Kenren Taishou- and one very thin, wobbly letter to addressed to a Shalyndr Brightquill.

@thesunguardmg @felthier | @littlesparklight @6thclone for mentions | @jessipalooza for an indirect mention

[nighttimepixels]

This is random but i’ll ask anyway. If the ladies were animals what would they be?

Serif: Red Panda

Nocturnal, creative, can be solitary but also does great in family units especially, surprisingly communicative and resourceful, escape artists, vigilant, secret trickster

Vellum: Horse

Energetic, social, spirited, bright, forms bonds even outside of normal social group, can have immense stamina, has a tendency towards looking fabulous X)

Sapphire: Arctic wolf

Intelligent, non-aggressive, and friendly with the ability to make strong emotional attachments. (the whole Alpha thing’s a myth, btw!) adaptable and team-oriented; super playful and has a long memory.

Amber: Alpaca

Clever, gentle, incredibly smart, avoidant of a fight (skilled at escape), highly personable and does much better around a herd/family/… alpaca friends, cuddly as heck

Crimson: Dog - Pitbull

Low maintenance (besides supplying means to burn off excess energy), high strength/ability to have high energy, very clever, secretly obscenely cuddly, super loyal, big personality and strong sense for good energy/causing high spirits, That Smile™, big heart under strong personality ♡♡♡

Scarlet: Cat - Sphynx

Street smart, long memory, highly inventive, strongly social with bonded family and secretly friendly, extremely athletic & agile, playful even if not easily read as being playful (d-danger…), fiercely protective of bonds, actually quite excitable, tend to not like sharing attention but will when strong bonds are formed

Pepper: Snowy Barn Owl

Fierce integrity, wise, patient in what’s necessary, strongly intuitive, individualistic, strategic fighter/hunter, vigilant, secret playful side, strong pair bonder & protective of family

Cinnamon: Raven

Creative, extremely intelligent, seemingly bad omen/portent, is actually capable of some of the highest levels of empathy, loves play more than work, highly adaptable, while seen alone often they’re actually usually a part of a gang/flock/family and are just exploring a bit when seen alone

Blade: Bear

Strong sense of family/friendship/loyalty, extremely protective, surprisingly gentle and tolerant, also obscenely strong and when they are crossed has a ‘temper’, strong communication via body language & touch, attentive, humorous

Twist: Otter

Highly engaged, curious, communicative, unassuming, strong sense of social bonding, deeply enjoys affectionate touch, likes ‘puzzles’ & play, surprising tendency to adopt/bring new members into the fold when they’re in need, secretly capable of ferocious behavior if what they care about is threatened

Alpha: Octopus

Obscenely intelligent, absolute chaotic energy, extremely adaptable, inquisitive, creative, questionable moral standards (thievish, really), trickster type, individualistic, can form positive mutually beneficial bonds with others unlike them

Glyph: Bengal Tiger (Golden)

Mostly solitary but will also form group bonds, travels great distances, playful, fierce when needed, also sleepy-seeming and likes curling up in a good spot, extremely curious and attracted to new (shiny/strange) things

[miss-bibliophile]

Character Intro (Unifnished)

A/N: This was part of an original character introduction blog posted on Reign of Blood back in 2018. I never continued it, but I have plans to explore it in the future. The character isn’t the man, by the by.

A man alone trudges through a valley of dense grass and weed. He gathers the pack hanging off his shoulders close for warmth. His teeth chatter and skin pales under the glowing sun. The signs of prolonged exposure to cold winds and rain set heavily on his face. He takes a moment to rub the unkempt shadow darkening the contours of his jaw. Each step he takes is carefully placed as he continues forward. The destination, the end of his journey is up ahead at the feet of the mountains. His attention is taken by sudden movement. He stops to view a dense gathering of small birds take flight from the treetops a short distance his right. The wind dies down to a solemn whisper. It is soon cut through by a guttural distortion far off in the mountains. The last of the anxious flock leave towards the south. Away from the man's destination. He adjusts the weight of his pack, and then continues on.

The last light of day watches over the man. Hours passed by before he reached the thick forest surrounding the mountains. Great and round, the trees have branches that get larger the further under the canopy he ventures. Sparse numbers have the beauty of a flourishing sampling. Many try to reach out hungrily towards him to draw blood. He comes prepared for the journey: a hatchet of unnatural strength to clear out these wretched and greedy branches, food and water to last a week, a harpoon as long as he is tall, and clothes made of material harvested from mithril and steel. He pauses at the sound of groaning wood. It becomes louder as he stays still. After the sound gradually silences, he retrieves a book from his pack. A little thing wrapped in weathered animal hide, bound with a sap mixture strong enough to make a demi-god struggle, and written in his own thin writing. The silence pushes down around him. He opens to a page, careful not to break each fragile piece of vellum, messily detailing the plans laid out; preparations for harvesting beasts, ways to steal into coveted hoards, and possible scenarios of death. None brought a chill to his spine. Not the obstructed way he came through to enter the forest. Not the somber drumming of unnatural sounds seeping up from beneath every tree. ------ ------ ------ ------ ------ ------ Time is lost in absence of light. Despite an ache in his bones, the man travels over damp earth and through shallow ponds. The only hint of life surrounds him in a dull hum. How long has he trudged? How long ago since he last ate? Thinking of it brings up a rumble from below his chest. He pauses to find the driest place to rest, and then takes out a limp bag. The tie meant to keep creatures out gives him some difficulty. All of his effort to finally open the bag reveals how fruitless he has become. What nibbles are left leave a chalky sensation at the back of his throat. A quick drink should be enough to moisten it, and for what little he has left suffices. He takes time relieve himself next to a tree. The sounds of the forest suddenly turn into deafening silence. As it lingers, the man rushes to retrieve something from his pack. Smooth, milky transparency, and cool in his fingers - the stone is held above his head. He focuses on gazing through it. The stone grants him some vision of the world outside the canopy. Pale in comparison to the shadows below. A weak disc of light glares at him before it is eclipsed by a large shadow. Branches lurch under a heavy wind that follows the shadow’s appearance. As soon as the world above is visible once again, the wind calms. A warning rips through the canopy. The guttural distortion has been amplified and sharpened. It sounds more familiar. The depth of it is enough to send short tremors through the earth. This close to discovery, the man hurries to sort up his pack, and makes for a marked trail ahead. ------ ------ ------ ------ ------ ------ The moon is queen now. Her open shawl of dark blue hues and sterling detail replaces the view of constricting branches. It is almost time for the intelligent life to set up a safe haven for slumber. The man, however, is determined to complete this stop of the journey. He wearily walks along a sharply formed wall of rock. His vision teters slightly to the left every other step. One hand braces against the solid earth for support. At this leg of his journey, the effects of starvation pick away at his fortitude. His dismissals are strong enough to tame hunger for a while. Until a savory smell of cooked flesh beckons him. It begs him to walk several feet further. Further until a dip in the solid rock gives way to a tunnel. At the entrance, his eyes drink up the sight of a freshly extinguished fire complete with a half-eaten carcass. The hog’s flesh is whole. Bits of skin, charred and shredded, sway with the calm night breeze. Embers of the fire simmer. Their hissing barely a threat to anyone. The man drops his pack and lunges for the remaining chunks of animal meat resting on the ashes.