#funerary rights & practices

[serpentface]

This was going to be a panel of a little comic but I got too invested in drawing minute background details so, here.

[vounoura]

my special interest is death practices and I'm doing a dual diploma in funeral directing and embalming. and honestly once you start looking into the incredibly vast and fascinating subject of funerary customs you start to notice just how much of of what is considered weird and transgressive in stuff like fantasy is practiced by real actual people in ways that are significant

[asphodel-flowers]

I like big books and I cannot lie 🎶

some books I gave recently grabbed from the library.

I liked and wanna buy Do I Have To Wear Black? Lots of good info in there on funerary customs. I wasn't sure I was gonna like it because of the Wicca mentions at first but I was actually pleasantly surprised as I got into it. I sort of blew through it tbh because I'm not super interested in like the Kemetic or Wiccan customs, just the Norse/ heathen and Hellenic, but the very general parts at the beginning were really informative. Mortellus is a mortician and 100% definitely knows what in the heck they're talking about.

I skimmed through the Thrifty Witch book and Tarot Interactions before bringing them back because those I just need to have/ buy. I need to buy those. Thrifty Witch would definitely be more useful to me as a resource than something to read if that makes sense.

and similarly with Tarot Interactions, that is an absolutely fantastic excellent book from what I read of it, and I definitely absolutely need to have that as a resource. I also feel like that's something I wanna take my time with, not rush.

Werewolf Magick was meh. I soared through it. I was rolling my eyes at far too much of it to take any of it seriously, and by the time I got to what I was interested in/ what might have helped, couldn't understand it because of all the weird lingo/ jargon that he'd set up at the beginning. Admittedly that's my own fault obviously for trying to skip to the end, but the first part just made me cringe too much. There's too much mixing of different practices in a way that imo honors none of them, and then mixing it with crap like Wicca to boot. I just... no, I'm good, no thank you. I had gotten it out of curiosity, expecting it to not be much and... yeah, it was what I expected.

Witch Queens, Voodoo Spirits, & Hoodoo has been fantastic so far and I have got to finish it. I started it and got distracted and it went back on the shelf and I've gotta get back into it. It starts with Annie Christmas who is none of the things mentioned on the cover, lol, but I love the way it talks about our local myths and legends. Absolutely A+ 100% yes.

Weave the Liminal is... surprisingly better than I expected so far? I'm not quite sure what to make of it. We'll see as we go.

I've had the ones in that first three pictures checked out for a while and I really need to get to them. I was hoping the Shamanism Bible would give me some words to look up, a good place to start research into that but it feels like too much of a chore. The charm bag and ancestor books I just keep forgetting I have, and I expected the New Orleans one to be a quick read but again keep forgetting it's there.

Did I grab too many books? Yes, every damn time. I have maxed out how many I can borrow from the library. Oooops. xD

I absolutely had to grab The Holy Wild Grimoire though when I saw it on the shelf because that has been on my wishlist for a while and I love checking out books before buying them. I feel much better about purchasing when I already know I like them.

[nomairuins]

my tags on that went on for so long i had to go back and edit them to fit tag limit and i still had to delete a bunch of them. Its the autism it literally is

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Forspoken Photo Dump 28: Praenost, Opal Hills, Part 2

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

2,000-Year-Old Fayum Portraits from Roman Egypt: also known as "mummy portraits," these funerary paintings were often fastened to the coffins of the people they depicted

Above: Fayum portrait of a woman from Roman-occupied Egypt, c.100-110 CE

Fayum portraiture was a popular funerary practice among the upper-class families of Roman Egypt from about 50 CE to 250 CE. Given the high mortality rates for children during this period, many of these portraits depict children and youths, but adults were often featured, too.

Above: portrait of a youth wearing a golden wreath, c.130-150 CE; the wreath and the background of the portrait are both gilded

The population of the Faiyum Delta, where most of these portraits were found, largely contained individuals with both native Egyptian/North African and Greek heritage. The Greek lineages can be traced back to the Ptolemaic period, when the Greeks gained control of Egypt and began to establish settlements throughout the region, gradually leading to a cultural diffusion between the Greek and Egyptian populations. The Romans eventually took control of Egypt in 31 CE, absorbing it into the Roman Empire and colonizing much of North Africa, but the demographics of the Faiyum Delta remained largely unchanged.

Above: portrait of a man with a mole on his nose, c.130-150 CE

Many of these Fayum portraits reflect the same blend of ethnic and cultural roots, depicting individuals with both Greek and native Egyptian heritage (a claim that is supported by both archaeological and genetic evidence). Some portraits may also depict native Egyptians who did not have any European ancestry, but had been integrated into Greco-Roman society.

Above: portrait of a bearded man, c.170-180 CE

These representations of native Egyptians provide us with unique insights into the actual demographics of Roman-occupied Egypt (and the ancient world at large). Non-European peoples are rarely included in depictions of the classical world; it's also interesting to see the blend of cultural elements that these portraits represent.

Above: portrait of a priest of Serapis, c.140-160 CE; the man in this portrait is shown wearing a fillet/crown that bears the seven-pointed star of the Greco-Egyptian god, Serapis

As this article explains:

In the 1800s and early 1900s, Western art historians didn’t know what to make of these portraits. Scholars of Roman history labeled them Egyptian. Scholars of Egyptian history labeled them Greco-Roman. These binary academic classifications failed to capture the true complexity of the ancient (or, indeed, modern) Mediterranean. In reality, Fayum portraits are a syncretic form, merging Egyptian and Greco-Roman art and funerary practices. They reflect the cosmopolitanism of both Roman and Egyptian history.

Above: portrait of a man, c.80-100 CE (left); portrait of a bearded officer, sometimes referred to as "Perseus," c.130-175 CE (right)

Above: portrait of a young woman in red, c.90-120 CE

Nearly 1,000 of these portraits are currently known to exist.

Above: portrait of a man wearing a gilded ivy wreath, c.100-150 CE

Above: portrait of a bearded man, c.150-170 CE

Sources & More Info:

Curationist: Fayum Portraits

Harvard Art Museums: Giving the Dead their Due: an Exhibition Re-Examines Funerary Portraits from Roman Egypt

Getty Museum: APPEAR Project

Getty Museum: Faces of Roman Egypt

National Geographic: Ancient Egypt's Stunning, Lifelike Mummy Portraits

The Athens Centre: The Myth of Whiteness in Classical Sculpture

Forbes: Whitewashing Ancient Statues: Whiteness, Racism and Color in the Ancient World

[shiningsunlighthalation]

Red-Faced Beauty

Summary: Your beloved, one of the Fatui Harbingers, is a figure of grace and dominance. Those around her regard her with awe or terror, either response appropriate when interacting with someone who holds authority second only to the god of your nation. But surely, she isn't as unflappable as she appears. You can definitely catch her off guard and fluster her enough to make the heat rise to her cheeks, right? Right?

Signora may have been a proud and arrogant woman with a heart she had claimed had long frozen over, but she still had her moments of acting as the flustered maiden she used to be.

Often draped over her like a lovely shawl, you were never too far away from her side nor did it take too long for you to find her once she returned from an assignment.

And for as haughty as she was, Signora adored that about you, something she made clear whenever she would pepper your face with kisses and left lipstick marks on your face. She rather liked how flustered you would get whenever she showered you with affection.

But should you manage to fluster her, Signora's face would redden to a shade worthy of her real name.

And she's as "irate" as you expected her to be. For how dare you reduce The Fair Lady, La Signora of the Fatui Harbingers, to the state of a blushing ingenue?!

After you coo at this rare this display of embarrassment from your lover, you're practically "chased" away while Signora regains her composure.

After returning from a diplomatic venture, Signora had retreated to her quarters for some rarely acquired downtime. Setting her signature funerary mask down onto her vanity and selecting a tube of lipstick to apply as she sat down in front of the mirror.

As she touched up her makeup, she was not oblivious to the sound of her door opening or your footsteps approaching her. You typically arrived not long after she did, eager to spend time with her whenever possible.

Watching you through your reflection, Signora flashed you a smile, at least as much of a smile as she was able to form while trying to perfectly apply her lipstick. "You certainly didn't waste any time, did you? Not even a full ten minutes since I sat down and you've alrea—"

You didn't say a word as you walked up where Signora was seated and calmly took the lipstick tube out of her hands before setting it down on the vanity. Before Signora could ask you what you were doing, you took her face in your hands and greedily claiming her lips with your own. You smirked into the kiss when she made a muffled noise of surprise and pulled away, taking a second to marvel at her speechlessness before planting a kiss on her forehead and painting her brow with a smooch with the lipstick that had smeared onto your lips.

The Fair Lady's kiss abused lips parted and closed at your spontaneity as a crimson hue spread across her face.

You couldn't suppress your laughter. "That's a really lovely color on you!" You gently cupped Signora's face in your hands, even squishing her cheeks for emphasis, while slowly turning her face back to the vanity mirror.

Signora let out a scoff of indignation as she shook her face free from your hold. "Such...! Such nerve!" Her face ablaze, she refused to face you, instead summoning her floating white catalyst with a wave of her hand and sending a flurry of snow your way that caused you to flee her quarters while both laughing and squealing from the cold.

You really hoped to make The Knave lose her composure? How adorable.

She loved you dearly and by virtue of being her beloved, you saw her in ways most others would not, but not even you have been graced by the sight of Arlecchino's vulnerable side.

She was still a master in bringing out yours, however. Every gaze, touch, and hum of her voice practically carefully designed to have you purring for her.

And yet, the most you would be able to accomplish is bringing a lovely smile to her otherwise stoic face.

But you would not be deterred! Arlecchino may have been a collected woman, but she was not above feeling the burning heat of excitement that she often induces in her lover!

It didn't matter if you had never seen her blush before. Surely someone who had flames coursing through her body like blood would be capable of it!

...And if she was, you wouldn't be able to see. No matter what you did, Arlecchino would be able to turn the tables on you and leave you a blushing mess instead, confused but entertained by your antics.

It wasn't often that the Knave had spare time, but whenever it wasn't spent with you, she would spend it in the House of the Hearth with a book. With the older children away to complete missions and the younger children off playing, she now had some much needed time to relax. Though she enjoyed the company of her children, Arlecchino was grateful for the quiet she now had to enjoy reading with only the crackling hearth breaking the silence.

Eventually, the sound of the door opening further interrupted the quiet. Glancing at the entrance, she noticed a bouquet of rainbow roses coming through shortly before you did.

"Welcome back," she greeted, returning her gaze to her book while she spoke to you. "Would those be for me, perhaps?"

You merely giggled in response as you strode over to her, plopping down next to her on the couch. Putting the bouquet down in her lap, you grabbed her face, your fingers messily brushing through her hair as you did so, and planted kisses on both of her cheeks. "Of course they are! I hope you like them!"

You expected—or more accurately, you hoped—to finally see Arlecchino blush, hoping that your surprise gestures would have lowered her guard just a bit. You had hoped that the Knave would redden from your gestures, that she would be more willing to display such a "weakness" to you, her beloved, now that the two of you were alone.

But alas, things would never be so easy when dealing with the Fourth Harbinger.

Chuckling, Arlecchino set down her book, hooked an arm around your waist to bring you into her lap, and grasped your chin between her fingers to draw you into a kiss. Her blackened fingers had slipped under your shirt and traced a pattern in your skin before gripping your side. After she broke away, she took a single rainbow rose from the bouquet you had gifted her. "Feeling bold, are we? I wonder what I did to receive such affection today." She gently trailed the rose along your cheek before tucking it behind your ear. "I'm flattered, my dear."

She did it again. She had you right where she wanted you and left you too sheepish to speak again. You could only groan and bring a hand to your face in frustration over having failed once again.

But because you were too busy facepalming, you didn't notice that Arlecchino's ear, made visible after you had mussed up her hair earlier, was bright red.

The blush that you had been longing to see on her face had been on her ears the whole time.

Unfortunately, you wouldn't find out because Arlecchino was quick to her fix her hair to hide her little secret while she watched you bemoan your "failure".

To be honest, you weren't sure if Sandrone could blush. You weren't even sure if she could even blink.

So beautiful and doll-like, there were times when you'd wonder if she as an actual doll with her near perfect composure and eerie smile whenever something amused her.

As a reclusive woman who was greatly dedicated to her work, you and Sandrone being in a relationship was a feat in and of itself, so getting her to blush would be a miracle.

Even though, she would always thank you for them, gestures and displays of affection seemed to have no effect on her. It was often a smile or a nod to acknowledge you.

Sandrone would never understand why you'd seem so downtrodden after doing something nice for her or why you would inspect her face so intently, but surely a pat on the head would make you feel better?

You were careful to tiptoe around the scattered blueprints that littered the floor of the Seventh Harbinger's workshop. Even if she had tossed them aside, Sandrone would occasionally pick them back up if she could think of ways they could be worthwhile inventions.

With her ruin guard attendant, Meilleur-Seymour, standing dutifully by her side, Sandrone was seated at her desk, hunched over while drawing up a new blueprint. Her gaze was as unblinking as ever and her rhythm was completely unaffected by your presence.

"I have something for you!" Though her back was to you, you held up a cup of coffee. Being so engrossed in her research, Sandrone would often forget to eat or drink. And if she didn't forget, she would claim to not be hungry. But after seeing how that worried you, she would allow you to bring her little gifts while she worked so long as you didn't make a mess.

"Leave it here." She didn't even bother to turn around.

Rather than simply leave the coffee and be done with it, you made your way over to her and slowly removed the pencil she was using to draw her new blueprint from her hand. Most Fatui agents had never even seen Sandrone, but if they had, and they were bold enough to do what you just done, they would've lost their whole hand.

Thankfully, Sandrone would not do such a thing to her lover. Instead, she looked at you in stoic confusion, curious as to what you were doing. Her expression did not change when you leaned in for a kiss.

After pulling away, you smiled and put the coffee in her delicate hands. "You deserve to take a break, don't you think?" You stood there and watched, waiting for Marionette's face to become a lovely red color that would complement her doll-like features.

But Sandrone only smiled and said, "In a few minutes."

Frustrated, you gently cupped her face. Narrowing your eyes, you desperately searched for a rosy hue, not wanting your efforts to once again be in vain.

To Sandrone, your inspection came off as you being upset with her for taking too long to take a break. "In... one minute?"

With a sigh, you hung your head at yet another failed attempt.

Sandrone had no idea what was going on, but she could tell you were upset for some reason. She wanted to reach out and pat your head, but she was reluctant to put down the coffee you so kindly gifted her, so she looked to Meilleur-Seymour and jerked her head in your direction, silently ordering him to pat your head in her place.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Cyd Charisse (The Bandwagon, Brigadoon, Singin’ in the Rain)—LEGS LEGS LEGS I would sell my soul for the legs of Cyd Charisse - she oozed style and glamour and sex appeal!! And she could DANCE! She was dancing next to the greats - Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire but they are never who you're looking at because why would you when you can look at her. I will only sit through too long ballet breaks for her. If there was any woman who you could call sex on legs it was her. These dances are everything to meeee (she comes in at the minute mark) and this dance too of course is iconic. In the words of Fred Astaire 'When you've danced with Cyd Charisse you stay danced with'

Suchitra Sen (Harano Sur, Chaowa Pawa)—Suchitra Sen! She had a 25-year career in Bengali films, and was at the height of popularity for a solid two decades as half of the wildly beloved pair of Uttam-Suchitra, who were practically the entire romantic genre of Bengali films by themselves. She acted in literary adaptations, romantic comedies, (melo)dramas and inspired-by-current-events films. She was the first Indian actress to receive an international award at the Moscow International Film Festival. In 1978, after the release of her last film (a box-office flop) she pulled a Garbo and put herself out of the public eye completely. She made no appearances, gave no interviews, refused awards, all of it. She didn't even show up for her daughter's or grand-daughters' debuts! She was taken for funerary rites in a covered hearse! The glamour! The mystery! That blinding smile!

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Suchitra Sen:

Not to take away from her costars in Devdas (1955), but the great Indian cinematic tradition of Tragic Romantic Yearning would not, I argue, be what it is without Suchitra Sen's performance in that film. I root for things to turn out better for her every time, even though I know how things are going to go.

A Bengali cinema icon. Liked crows (per Gulzar, "It was an astonishing sight. The crows used to pick at the grapes from her hand").

Linked gifset

She once rejected Raj Kapoor's movie offer (one of the most successful actor and director at the time). She was quoted saying, “In men, I don’t look for beauty. I look for intelligence and sharp conversations. I had refused Raj Kapoor’s offer almost immediately. He came to my residence offering a lead role and, as I took my seat, he suddenly sat near my foot and offered me a bouquet of roses while offering the role. I rejected the offer. I did not like his personality. The way he behaved – sitting near my foot – did not befit a man.”

Legendary poet, lyricist, director and writer Gulzaar had this to say about her "Glad that my ‘Sir’—that’s what I call her— got the Dada Saheb Phalke award during her lifetime. Contrary to people’s perceptions, Suchitra Sen is an extremely warm and very very friendly person. I adore and respect her. But she has the right to choose her friends. Surely she’s justified in keeping away from every Tom, Dick and Harry. She’s the only example of such quiet dignity in show-biz. That’s why the media compares her with Great Garbo. Suchitra Sen is my Sir. I’ll explain. During the shooting of Aandhi she started calling me Sir. Everyone in Kolkata calls her Madame. Since I’m her junior I requested her not to call me Sir. But she insisted. (We always converse in Bengali). So I call her Sir and she calls me Sir.”

Linked musical number [won't let me display embedded for some reason]

Cyd:

Photos do not do Cyd Charisse justice, unfortunately, because she is at her hottest while dancing, which she was exquisitely good at. Just go watch her first number in Singin' in the Rain, in that green dress; nothing I could say here will be more convincing that that.

She had amazing legs, and she knew how to use them! You probably know her best from the dream sequence in Singin' In The Rain. She was such a stunning dancer, and all her dance scenes are hard to look away from.

Dancing in the Dark clip:

She's an amazing dancer and my favorite from the period. Here's her and Fred Astaire in the Band Wagon:

I just like a woman who's there to be really incredibly good at dancing.

One of the most talented female dancers in Hollywood history, but what sets her apart from other competitors for that title is that she...umm...well let's be blunt, she was the dancer who put sex into it. The one who said "Hey, you know that A+ leg tone that naturally develops from doing this for a living? Why don't I let people see that? Like at every opportunity?" She reportedly insured her legs for five million dollars after hitting it big, which just goes to show that fame makes you crazy. It should have been ten million.

Arguably the Best female dancer of her time, she supposedly insured her legs for $5 million dollars. Stole the show whenever she had a dance number, even if she went uncredited. Musicals started to go out of fashion so unfortunately she didn't have as many big roles as she should have, but those she did are unforgettable. The Broadway Melody number in Singin' in the Rain - the green dress!

She could pirouette in pointes or tear it up in taps. Fred Astaire called her "beautiful dynamite" and wrote, "That Cyd! When you've danced with her you stay danced with." Gene Kelly partnered with her three times. Her legs were (reportedly) insured for $5 million in 1952 ($57.8 million in 2024 dollars)! Everyone in this poll will be iconic, but for raw physical grace, Cyd is up there with the best.

Legs for days, beautiful dancer in the most iconic scenes of Singin in the Rain. She's glorious. As some guys sung to her in It's Always fair weather, 'baby you knock me out!'

Incredibly, Cyd Charisse only started learning to dance as a rehab exercise to strengthen her body after a childhood bout of polio. She was in high demand as a dance partner, Fred Astaire called her beautiful dynamite and said "When you've danced with her, you stayed danced with". She was one of a few leading ladies to dance with both Astaire and Kelly, declaring them both delicious. Kelly apparently was stronger, while Astaire was more coordinated. She also said her husband would always know who she had been dancing with because Kelly left her bruised, while Astaire didn't leave a mark. She's better known for her dance numbers today, but she was a leading lady in her time! Her Scottish accent in Brigadoon leaves a lot to be desired, but compared to the other actors in the movie, it's almost good. She appeared in The Harvey Girls alongside Judy Garland and Angela Lansbury in her first speaking role, but she really burst onto the scene with Singin' in the Rain and her infamous Broadway Melody Ballet number with Gene Kelly (no one could handle a length of fabric like Cyd Charisse). She was brought in because Debbie Reynolds wasn't really a dancer and Kelly was notoriously a stickler about his Vision. After that she starred opposite Astaire in The Band Wagon, which was a bit of a flop but created some enduringly incredible dance numbers. She went on to star in a number of MGM movies, and was one of the last of the Studio era stars to remain on contract. Since we've got up to 1970, I'm including her opening routine in The Silencers (1966) to show just how long she was making a splash - she's into her 40s here and still a siren:

and of course, the iconic Broadway Melody Ballet -

[katakaluptastrophy]

So we all know how Ianthe became a Lyctor for “ultimate power—and posters of [her] face.”

And I'm sure someone made a nice icon.

But you know who would have definitely gotten a poster of their face? Coronabeth.

Think about it: every House but the Ninth has lost a scion. In a culture that thrives on melodrama and the conspicuous consumption of death, there is a wave of hysterical funerary fervour to mourn their lost leaders. And the Third - the House of glitz, trendsetting, and political intrigue - has lost its beloved Crown Princess.

We don't know a huge amount about funerals in the Nine Houses, but we do know a bit about Third House funerals:

The front coffin is distinguished from its fellows by its gorgeous arrangement of flowers and wreaths. The flowers are all in hues of gold or violet, and are fake. The coffin is hinged open at the front, with its contents hidden from view by the flowers. A tray of meat is rested on the closed bottom half of the coffin. A queue of gaudily masked mourners process past the coffin, slowly, each one taking a strip of meat, then stopping by the head to lean within—kissing or feeding; we can’t be sure. - TUG

Apparently, a Third House funeral - unsurprisingly for flesh magicians - focuses on the physical. The reverence of/fear of/(lust for?) the body. A wake on steroids. But they received no body for Coronabeth. So I can only imagine larger than life posters of Corona decked with flowers, the weeping crowds surging through the streets of Ida, etc etc... Poor Ianthe, second place once again to a 'corpse'.

Moving past Ianthe to House funerary customs in general, and to the awful aftermath of the Lyctor trials in particular, it seems especially unfair that neither of the flesh magic Houses got a body back to mourn. Obviously Corona wasn't actually dead, but for those who believed her to be, the lack of a body for such visceral funerary rights must have been traumatic.

We don't have as many details of Seventh funerals, but the House famous for it's "beguiling corpses" likely also focuses much of its post-mortem ritual around the body. Dulcie suggests that the deceased might even leave specific instructions in their will about the appearance of their corpse:

That drawing looked nothing like me. I loved it. You don’t know this so it doesn’t help, but I included it in my will and put down that I wanted to look like that after I died. I thought maybe it would give you a laugh at the funeral, you know? - TUG

Meanwhile, the Fourth, Fifth, and Eighth receive their perfect pairs of "statuesque and incorruptible" bodies, preserved beyond the wildest dreams of the Seventh. These Houses are all spirit magicians. The Fourth, for whom thanergetically detonating oneself on a battlefield far from the rays of Dominicus isn't unheard of, almost certainly have funerary rites that don't presuppose a body. And the Fifth, whose necromantic practice is far more concerned with the spirit than the body, likely centre their most significant funerary rites around the ghost.

Y'know, the bit they don't have? Just as the flesh magicians of the Third and Seventh would have been unable to mourn their lost scions with rites around the body, the Fifth would have been unable to call their ghosts, trapped in Harrow's River bubble.

So amidst all the grief and awfulness, and the Emperor refusing to answer any questions about what happened (why are they all dead? Why are so many bodies missing? Where are the ghosts? Why are the bodies so creepily perfect?), half the Houses can't even mourn their dead in the way they normally would.

[mothiir]

all is fair in love and war, part i

In which our favourite diplomat faces an assassination attempt, and Sicarius and Roboute must address some feelings.

Cw: gore. No sex. That’s in the next part.

—

—

An Inquisitor is aboard the ship. An Inquisitor is aboard your ship, in your space, they are here. Fear pulses through you; the instinctive dread of a prey animal learning that the wolf is just around the corner. You have no firsthand experience of the Inquisition, but by the Emperor you have heard stories — colleagues who were threatened into taking part in the cruellest of traps, luring rebellious worlds into an accord, only for the Inquisition to burn the planet to cinders. Worse than this: you have heard stories of those who refused — lobotomised, servitorised, and not just them but their families, their friends, punishment that runs along the most tenuous of connections until everyone who heard the name of the would-be hero was dead, or wished they were. It cannot be chance that the Inquisitor has arrived now, when the Primarch has taken all of the battle-ready ships and most of the men to deal with a section of the webway benighted by daemons, coming to the assistance of their Eldar allies, a comradeship that you were instrumental in brokering. Aboard the diplomatic vessel the Hestia, with nothing more than a barebones crew, sheltered deep in Ultramar’s space you thought yourself safe. And you are — but only from external threats. 

The rot within the Imperium still finds you here, apparently. 

As the most senior civilian official here, you join the welcoming party, standing beside Captain Icarus, a now-retired guardsman who — having served decades on the frontline of the Imperium’s battles — knows the ways of the Inquisition all too well. There are no Astartes aboard the ship, only baseline humans — formidable foes, practiced veterans all — and yet as the Inquisitor and her retinue board your ship (the continent-sized bulk of her ship dwarfing your own, blotting out the stars) you find yourself possessed by the mad urge to gather the men beneath your non-existent wingspan, to shelter them. 

“My lady Inquisitor,” you say, with a deep and respectful bow. “It is an honour —“

”Are you really the most senior diplomat here? Hm. I suppose you will do, until the senior officials arrive,” says the Inquisitor. Oh, what a promising start. What a truly excellent start. You straighten up immediately. “I am Kagha, of the Ordo Xenos. I was under the impression that the Lord Primarch was resident here and came to offer my services.”

You take a moment to gather yourself, trying your utmost to keep your eyes fixed on Kagha — and not her Deathwatch bodyguards, looming like obsidian-wrought gargoyles; nor the cherubim hovering behind her, fleshy abominations with blank, unsettling faces. The other woman is a little shorter than you, hard-featured and haughty, but possessed of an ageless, sharp beauty that speaks of those rejuve treatments the upper-classes so love. Her copper hair is swept up in an elaborate braided style, ornamented with gold skulls with glowing red eyes. You would wager your life’s savings on those hairpins being secret, deadly weapons. Her outfit is equally impressive: a long black leather coat, embroidered with a motif of heretics burning in a flaming pit while an impassive angelic figure watches; skin-tight trousers; an elaborate lacy blouse that closes at her throat with a ruby the size of your fist.

She’s wealthy. Well-connected. Experienced. And yet there is something not right; an itch under your skin. 

You look to the Deathwatch marines, as briefly as possible. There are five of them — more than enough to annihilate the paltry crew here, should they wish — and all are helmeted. Two carry shields slung over their shoulders; huge oblongs of metal longer than you are tall, ornamented with strange milky stones, like opals, and yet somehow familiar —

Your blood turns to ice. Spirit Stones. The funerary custom of Craftworld Eldar is to keep the souls of their dead in these psychic tombs, thus preserving their fallen comrades, and keeping them safe from the endless maw of She Who Thirsts. To break a Spirit Stone is to send the soul contained within to eternal damnation; it is one of the cruellest fates you can imagine. And to decorate your weapons with them — and to bring these weapons to the ship of a diplomat you know brokers peace with the Eldar —

You know then what is happening, and you would laugh at the flagrant arrogance of the Inquisition, if you were not so fearful. They are so used to having nothing stand in their way — why would they be subtle about an assassination? You make a quick gesture with your right hand, keeping it pressed tight to your side. In battle-cant it means call the Primarch. Bring him back. We are in danger. 

To Kagha, you beam, trying to appear every inch the young idiot she appears to think you are. “Would you care to join me in my quarters for tea? I can send a vox to my senior — he is currently aboard a ship in the Ultramarine’s fleet, and will answer as soon as he can.”

A bluff, of course. You have no senior. And yet Kagha — arrogant, stupid Kagha — nods tersely. “This is acceptable.”

—

You do not think it arrogant to claim that you are more that a little adept at the finer points of conversation — it is, after all, much of your job to be personable and engaging. Indeed, this talent is in such short supply across the Imperium that you sometimes wonder if you count as a prodigy, just because you can engage in small talk without threatening anyone, or going on a half hour diatribe about the Emperor’s endless benevolence. You once even made a Harlequin laugh! Yes, it was because you fell over — but it still counts. 

And yet Kagha is a brick wall — no, that is an insult to masonry. She either does not answer your questions, or does so in a way that suggests she considers you the stupidest woman alive for even raising the point. Still, she is kind enough to pour the second round of tea, so you sip, and resign yourself to silence. 

After around twenty minutes, the ring on your index finger — a nondescript circlet of silver, set with a tiny little sapphire — tightens minutely. Thank goodness for that. You offer Kagha a bright smile. 

“If I were you,” you say. “I would have a word with your sources.”

Her brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

”Well — they’re clearly quite out of date. I did have a superior diplomat overseeing my work here — her name was Sara Buchanan, and she was wonderful — but she returned six months ago to be with her grandchildren. I’ve been running the show here ever since.”

Kagha’s brow furrows. “If you are suggesting —“

“I am not suggesting. I am telling. Do you really think you are the first member of your Order to come calling to the Primarch’s fleet, thinking that they can disrupt our mission here? Granted, you are the first one to approach myself directly — but we know your sort. The arrogance of you! You’d see the Imperium remain steeped in shadow and ignorance if it kept your position safe.”

Genuine anger bleeds into your voice, and your throat tightens. You cough into your hand, cursing the sudden flare-up of — what? Allergies? Gunshots echo outside; lasgun facing lasgun. The Primarch has returned home, and is not best pleased with what he finds. 

Kagha’s lips skin back, showing her teeth. “You stupid xenos loving bitch — you have no idea what you are doing here.”

”I know exactly what I am doing here. Following my Lord Primarch’s orders. You are the heretic who claims to know better than the son of the God-Emperor —“ you break off into another bout of coughing, this time more strenuous. It feels like something is clawing up your throat. The door to your chambers crashes open, Cato Sicarius storming in, wreathed in smoke, spattered with blood. 

“Careful!” you yell out at the gunfight outside. “Don’t break the stones on the shields!”

”We know that,” Sicarius snaps at you. “We are well-aware of the Deathwatch’s tactics —“

Whatever he was about to say is amputated as you double over and vomit. A dark grainy substance puddles at your feet, like recaf-grounds. Behind you, Kagha sniggers. 

“So, so clever — but didn’t think to check the tea, did you?”

Oh for the love of the Emperor’s left bollock — you curse your oversight. She’d poured the tea. Ample time to slip poison into it, even though you had been watching her the whole time, because Inquisitors are nothing if not swift with their petty, lethal blows. You choke on another upsurge of bile, pain now radiating from your stomach, and collapse onto the floor. 

The next two things happen so swiftly as to be synchronous. Kagha reaches for her hairpin, presumably to activate some kind of suicide device, and Sicarius leaps towards her. Before she can complete whatever last-ditch resort she was planning, Sicarius has flipped her upside down, holding one scrawny ankle in each of his gauntleted hands. Kagha shrieks in astonishment — a shriek that soon turns to a wordless, senseless wail of agony as the Astartes moves his forearms, just a little, and rips her in half. Gore showers him, and you avert your eyes, but you can still hear the wet slop of organs falling to the ground in a bloody puddle; the popping and breaking of bones, rent apart like matchsticks. 

“That is my woman,” growls Sicarius — or, at least, you think he does. The world is starting to blur at the edges; the pain is receding — or perhaps you are receding, falling away into the dark. Your last image is of Sicarius bending down to you, reaching out. And then it is all black, as black as the void between stars. 

—

You blink awake to cool white light, and soft white linen. For an absurd moment you think you’ve perished, and this is the Emperor’s rest — an endless bed, where you can sleep as much as you wish (sleep being the one resource you were always so scarce of). 

Then —

“Ah, the wench awakes. Good. I was getting sick of looking at your sleeping face.”

Cato Sicarius sits by your bed, a paperback book open on his knee. The title reads Duty and Love: The Steamy Romance of a Kriegsman and a Sister of Battle — but before you can comment on it, he’s whisked it away, hiding it in one of his armour’s many compartments.

”How long — how long has it been?”

Your voice is rough; your throat aches. Sicarius tosses you a canteen of water. 

It’s metal. It’s Space Marine sized. You can’t catch it; it hits you in the chest and bounces off, leaving another bruise to deal with. 

“Next time, catch better.”

You have no idea how to respond to that. With shaking hands, you unscrew the lid and gulp at the icy water. 

“The poison ate through your oesophagus,” says Sicarius, conversationally. “Just as well it spared your tongue — a mute diplomat is no use to anyone, and we would have had to get someone new aboard. Can’t be doing with that.”

Perhaps it is your drug-induced delirium, but you smile at him. “Are you saying you’d miss me?”

”Absolutely not. Give me that.”

He snatches the canteen back, spilling water over you both. It’s his canteen. There’s a jug of water on your bedside table, and he gave you his canteen — but before you can dwell on that , Sicarius is back to grumbling. 

“We had to divert our entire mission because of you. Lord Gulliman was not best pleased that the Ordo Xenos was causing trouble for him and his, so we had to go halfway across the galaxy to Kagha’s home base. He’s spent the last five days putting every Inquisitor he can find to the sword. Burned a couple of planets that were still perfectly useful just because they wouldn’t tell us what we needed to know.”

There is far too much there for your sluggish brain to process. You manage: “Five days?”

”Yes. You’ve been out for six. That poison almost killed you. It didn’t. Fortunately.”

You stare down at your hands. They are almost as pale as the sheets: sunless, drained. “And the Primarch —?”

As if in answer to your question, the door opens, and Roboute himself enters. You immediately try to greet him properly — stand, curtesy, even salute — but your body won’t obey, and you just manage to tangle yourself up in your sheets, tumbling from the bed. The Primarch catches you before you hit the ground, swaddling you up in your linen like a newborn babe, settling you back onto the bed. His armour is tarnished, swathes of it stained rusty with old blood, and he reeks of smoke. Deep shadows hang under his eyes. He looks like he has come fresh from the battlefield. 

“There,” he says. “Better? Glad to see you with us.”

Your arms are pinned to your sides, which is just as well, since you suddenly want to stroke his tired brow, comb your fingers through his hair. 

Roboute looks over at Sicarius. “Thank you for your watch, brother.” To you, he adds: “Sicarius stayed —“

”Here because I was ordered to, and now I must leave to attend to proper business,” says Sicarius, all in a rush. 

Gulliman stares at him. And stares at him. Then looks at you. Then back at Sicarius. 

“…is that really what you want to say,” he says, in a tone of infinite, weary patience. “Really. After all this. That’s your parting riposte.”

Sicarius stands up straight, throwing up a parade-ground salute. 

“I fulfilled your orders, my lord. Watched her for the five days and nights. But now I have to return to my battle brothers for my actual purpose.”

Gulliman stares at him for another long, long moment. You twitch in the cocoon that Gulliman has forced you into, feeling deeply awkward but not entirely sure why. 

“Last chance,” says Gulliman. Sicarius frowns. 

“Not sure what else I should say, Lord Father.”

”Right,” says Gulliman, and sighs, turning back to you. He tucks you in more firmly — clearly intending it to be a comforting gesture, but managing to strait-jacket you to the point where you think your fingers are going numb. “Theoretical: the potential of losing you drove me to depths of fury that I had not felt in quite some time. This was in part due to the Inquisitor’s meddling, but largely to do with the prospect of not having you by my side.”

He strokes your hair gently.

”Practical: when you are well enough to stand, you will come to my quarters and we will have nice non-poisoned tea. And we can talk. And enjoy one another’s company.”

You squeak. “S-sounds like an excellent strategy, my lord. Yes. Please. Would like to play my part for you and the Legion and —“

”Perhaps not the entire Legion,” says Gulliman. “Not yet, anyway. Oh, and Sicarius? Why are you still here?”

Sicarius’ face is frozen in a rictus of pure, delirious rage. “No — no reason at all Lord Primarch. I will…I will take my leave.”

No one can say Gulliman did not give his idiot son a chance. He leans forward and kisses you gently on the forehead, pausing to inhale the scent of air. It smells of home. 

[sohrleas]

Guess who made more art for @lennjamin-o7 's Death Shall Come?

Me! I did!! Look at it!

(honestly, I could probably do better, and there's half a dozen details I want to add, but if I delay showing this until I've got all those details done it'll never be posted.)

This time we get to see the Besties together, dressed fairly casually.

Fun little facts with this one: I mentioned in the previous art post that Sumerians loved Carnelian and Lapis Lazuli, and thought that Techno would wear carnelian more and Philza would wear Lapis more...but they're both wearing necklaces with the other stone. I thought about making the large pendant-gems that they're wearing Emeralds instead, but I couldn't find any examples of that from reliable sources, and I got a bit stubborn about trying to be at least a little accurate. (I can always go and change it later anyways). Also, Phil's eyes are Lapis, Techno's Carnelian. Because I can. and colors are hard sometimes

The Jewelry is based off of Pu-Abi's funerary jewelry; I have more notes at the other post I made as well as sketchy-bits: https://www.tumblr.com/sohrleas/752839783945994240/new-session-archive-of?source=share

Also, have the site I used as reference because it pleases my magpie-brain: https://sumerianshakespeare.com/117701/118101.html

I don't imagine that Techno would be the biggest fan of long robes because mobility, but the length of clothing was directly related to the status of the individual. Since he's King, I imagine that the people who make his clothes for him would make the majority of his clothes look as high-status as possible in order to avoid offending him/getting straight-up smited. Smote?

Philza's wearing clothes that lean a little more to the feminine styles; the wraps that spiral up like that and drape like that I mostly saw on women, but saw similar on men as well. I figured it'd be easiest for his wings. As for the colors, I tried to keep to similar to what natural dyes of the region could do; the gradient is maybe a bit of a stretch but not impossible, it'd mostly be really annoying to get right.

I've been working on this while Lenn's been streaming hardcore, it's been pretty fun! I definitely recommend hopping on if you get the chance.

(little details I want to add but want to practice first: texture to the lapis and gold. Techno's hair shade?? Phil's hair shade?? Wing shading. Better texture for the cloth (I used to be good at this, what happened?). Wing Jewelry! Background.)

[aledethanlast]

Any more snippets of David Wesninski au ? I adore everything about it. I love how it rebrands relationship between Kevin and Neil and Kevin's bit of jelousy over Neil's apparence

Three days into spring break, David gets a phone call.

"Mr. Wymack," Agent Browning says. His voice is too familiar at this stage, to the point David can even pick out cadences. In this case: tired and confused. "Do you have a minute?"

"I get on a plane in fifteen minutes," David says, checking the departures board one more time for good measure. "Is it urgent, or can it wait until our scheduled meeting?"

Once the initial yelling had settled back in Baltimore, the FBI very quickly tried to shove David into the nearest interrogation room, only to discover that David had plenty of experience with law enforcement, and the best counsel a college exy coach could afford. (Which wasn't quite as much as the football coaches, but still plenty, and he'd managed fine with much less in the past.)

Wymack was scheduled for an interrogation, with his lawyer present, in two days; he had until then to straighten his story, get any piece of paperwork he could think of to back it, and recruit the next year's lineup while he was at it. If Browning was calling now, it had better be good.

"It will come up at the meeting anyways," Browning says, "but I wanted to give you a heads up. There's no easy way to say this, but somebody needs to consider the matter of Nathan Wesninski's funerary rights. I'm not here to get into matters of inheritance or estate, but somebody needs to make decisions about his remains."

David stops walking. The moving walkway won't let him stand still. Browning keeps going. "Initially I wanted to spare the kid the trouble, considering what he's been through, but we've already run your background, and you are officially the next of kin. For whatever value is holds to you, I am sorry for your loss."

David does what he does best, then; he wraps his fist around those words and shoves them in his pocket, where nobody can see how much they hurt him.

He stumbles as the walkway dumps him back on solid ground. "I'll think about it," he tells Browning. "Thank you."

On the plane, he takes those words back out of his pocket, puts them on the folding tray. Loss. Did he really lose anything, when he gave it all up years ago? Does he have any right to presume to know a man he hadn't seen or heard of in twenty eight years?

As is habit, his mind turns to practicalities. It wouldn't be his first funeral, nor the first he arranged. Christ, Seth was this year. But a funeral is a play to an audience, and David thinks he fears anyone who would want to attend. Would Neil even want to hold a funeral? Does he harbor any last words, final taunts, final tears?

If David decided that he wanted to mourn his twin brother, would Neil judge him for it?

[thisisallthehattersfault]

I'm so intrigued by ritual behavior in animals. Many animals practice what we can only describe as funerary rights and veneration of the dead, while certain species of ape and elephant have displayed behaviors not unlike sun-worship, being aware of and showing some kind of reverence for celestial bodies.

I like to think, if the Straw Hats were ever to worship Luffy, Chopper would be the first to do it. It would be an instinctive thing, and maybe worship wouldn't be the right word for it. Reverence doesn't fit -- he has been elbow-deep in his captain's chest, he has seen Luffy (seen all his crew-mates) reduced to sweat and blood and vomit. He has washed the filth of survival from their faces and tipped water to their lips and held death at bay with sutures and splints and antidotes. The flesh is not a holy thing; the body is not be sanctified (except of course that it is, it is, and no one knows that better than a doctor.)

Chopper is less animal now than he was before he ate his fruit, but he is nature’s creature still. He can feel the seasonal climate of a new island in his bones as they approach. His fur prickles when danger is near. When his crew forage for supplies in strange new places, Chopper follows the scent of clean water and green, growing things until it leads him to resources he can bring back to the herd.

And when the sun rises, he tips his face into its light and feels the warmth seep into him.

There is a profound gratitude winter creatures feel towards the sun. Nights on Drum were always so very long, and the snow so thick. In deep winter even the evergreens had a hard time catching enough of the gray, watery light to keep themselves alive. It wasn’t uncommon for Chopper’s original herd to spend hours or days foraging and only find barely enough to eat. When the sun emerged enough to melt the snow and pull tender, edible shoots up from the earth, coax sweet green leaves to bud on the tips of barren branches, it always felt like a gift to be cherished.

After he ate the fruit and became something that is neither reindeer nor human and not quite a proper mix of the two, something that is maybe not only difficult to classify but downright incorrect — when he became whatever he now is, and gained the ability to perceive a world so much greater than himself, he felt that was exactly what the sun was: something greater than himself. Something greater than his herd, or the human settlements, or either of the good Doctors that raised him. Something greater than the evergreen forests or the snowy fields. Greater even than the long, dark winter. Doctor Hiriluk taught him, of course, what the sun is made of, but that didn’t make it seem any less like magic to Chopper. This huge, burning thing, so far away and unimaginably powerful and yet it reaches its fingers down and down and down into the snow and tugs up plants for the reindeer to eat. Ancient and unreachable and unapproachable, but still it warms his fur. Still it melts the snow caps into streams of clean, clear water that teem with life in the summertime.

Right from the beginning, Luffy does for Chopper what the sun does for the snow fields. He gives warmth and persistent, blinding light until the icy top-layer has gone to slush and everything beneath sprouts anew, growing strong and reaching up towards the sun. Chopper boards the Going Merry for the first time and his bones ache like spring has come, and under Luffy Chopper does as all green things do in the sunlight: he grows. He learns and trains and overcomes, until he feels less like those tender spring shoots and more like the evergreens, standing tall, unbowed by the winter.

It makes sense to me for Chopper to be the first of the crew to look at Luffy and understand that he is something else. Something more. Something greater than himself. Maybe not consciously, but instinctively, not in mind but in gut and marrow. If Luffy is to Chopper what sunlight is to the snowfields then it’s only right the rest of the world, too, should get to tilt their faces to the light of the sun and feel it’s warmth seep into them. The crew learns about Nika and Joyboy and ancient prophecies and Sun Gods given form, that Luffy is something that is neither human nor god and not quite a proper mix of the two, and Chopper tucks his nose into Luffy’s hip and digs his horns into Luffy's belly until Luffy reaches down to pat him, and thinks, I could have told you that.

[nomairuins]

i wish there was a way for me to likeee. semi change this one thingin this one mod. but 1 im not a modder 2 i feel like thats disrespectful. i just want sort of an inbetween between the game and this mod but that is not a thing that exist... sigh

[scourgeblooms]

COMMANDER WEEK DAY 2: PROFESSION

Scourges channel their life force into the desert sands to summon biddable shades that damage enemies and create shields for their allies. They use punishment skills to torment their enemies, and wield torches to light the path to their destruction.

Living and the dead are united at the Necropolis. Bodies are brought from all over the domain to be preserved and judged.

Azi spent a lot of time at the Necropolis in the Domain of Vabbi after getting absolutely obliterated by Balthazar*

While healing/otherwise incapacitated, he got to know the Vabbians, their funerary rights, and the general vibe/ideals tied to necromancers/scourges.

He poured over tomes, scrolls, books, etc and did a good deal of his scourge training/practice within the grounds.

*(listen I know Vabbi wasn't discovered until after the events of PoF but I get a little sillay and loose with the exploration timeline during the events of PoF and LW4)

[hovershiplogos]

Guess who's doing rewatches again? It's me, and well, not entirely a rewatch:

Yes, that's right, it's Enter the Matrix. Because it's criminal that for a blog named for the little ship that could, I've haven't actually done a deep dive on the game itself! So I'm going to fix that!

I'm also going to play through as both Niobe and Ghost, as depending on who you're playing, the missions play out slightly different, and the cutscene dialogue varies as well. Also, not going to do like a  blow by blow kinda thing. Only going to comment on things that caught my  interest, or seem rather amusing to me.  If you want a little more context, I suggest checking out the couple of playthroughs/cut scene compilations on youtube.

Also of note, the game picks up right after the Animatrix short Final Flight of the Osiris.

Anyway, let's get to it!

AND IT'S THE MAIN REASON I'M STILL HERE, BECAUSE OF THIS PESSIMISTIC SNARKY COWARD RIGHT HERE. And he's self aware about it as well.

Also interesting to note is that according to this cutscene, Sparks has been operating on board the Logos for 3 years. Now, a standard US navy tour of duty (and I'm going with Navy rather than Army as Zion's army is referred to as a Navy fleet) is between 2-3 years. Not really going anywhere with this, but it's interesting to note.

Niobe is a 'my way or the highway' kinda person. No wonder it didn't work between her and Morpheus. It's also telling that Ghost has known Niobe for long enough to know that this is what she's like. I wonder if Ghost is the glue in this ship dynamic? As in, he knew Niobe and Sparks separately before they knew each other, if that makes sense?

And it's the little hovership that could, the little lightning bug of the fleet! Those red lights on the ship look like they're the same as the ones on the sentinels. I wonder if a bulb blows or something they scavenge one from a deactivated squiddie as a replacement?

It's not particularly clear, but I never realised that Niobe's hair is tied with what looks like string with gold in it? Maybe a metal band with gold on it? I'm not sure, but it's pretty!

Also, I appreciate that they give a reason why Niobe is going after this drop, rather than waiting for someone else (ie: Neo) to go get it.

Also, saying are you red or blue on this is a very cool in universe way of saying are you with me or not?

The subtitles are missing here, but what he says:

"You know me Niobe. It's not a choice, it's a way of life."

Ghost, you're awesome, you know that, right?

I get Sparks' complaint here, there are only two of them, and it would be a lot safer to wait for back up to help them out. But nope, you know what Niobe's like, get it done.

Also, as I remarked earlier, the fact that Niobe is willing to risk going in without support , especially given what she says about Thaddeus not using the drops unless he had no choice? And now they're all dead? They definitely need to get that package before the agents do.

I personally love Niobe's little eye roll here.

I also love that Ghost is more chill and amused by Sparks than exasperated like Niobe is. Yeah, Ghost is the glue holding the team together.

Also, a little mention of Zion funerary practices. As someone pointed out to me years ago, I suspect that the gardens is similar to the Exodus fleet's method of burial, but who knows?

Yup, words to live by!

Once again, Niobe is rolling her eyes behind the sunnies. This is what she has to put up with. Also, I would love to think that one time Sparks pranked Ghost by running some program that sent his guns soaring upward.

I always used to think that Ghost was the serious, no nonsense one in the crew, but I'm beginning to think I'm wrong on that front.

Sparks, why do you want his boots? They're too small for your big feet!

Niobe has great taste in old muscle cars. Good old 1967 Pontiac Firebird, in eggplant purple instead of black. Very stylish!

That's all for now, next up will be the post office. See you then!