#granite soil

[clipstone]

Casa de Mouraz

Casa de Mouraz Dão Branco Dão, Portugal 2022 Malvasia-Fina, Encruzado, Bical

A distinctive dry, natural white made from over 20 local grape varieties. These grapes grow in sandy granitic soils and enjoy an unique microclimate between two mountain ranges.

Dão Branco spends eight months on its lees with batonnage in stainless steel tanks which creates a creamy, full bodied texture. A crisp green-fruited start with a satisfying finish.

Deliciously textured, aromatic and moreish. High acidity, no oak, a light, mouthwatering alternative to Chardonnay.

Tasting notes: green apple, apricot, lemon

Pairing: baked fish, pesto pasta, pork, cheeses

Similar to: Chardonnay

[flying-potato2]

@thekinderwizard me an you infodumping to each other

the rant in the tags ended cus i reached 30 tags lol

pictured: nerd to nerd friendship

[davidtngbotany]

Wings for stems that don't fly - the Tinkling satinash (Syzygium alatoramulum), a Wet Tropics endemic

Among the native Syzygiums, there are a number of them that have very strongly flanged (or winged) twigs, making them rather distinctive at first glance, and the Tinkling Satinash (Syzygium alatoramulum) is one of those. Indeed, the specific epithet “alatoramulum” refers specifically to this (from Latin: alatus meaning “winged” and ramulus meaning “small branch”). The “wings” on the twigs are so…

[fashiontrends111]

Best Landscape & Turf Supplies

We help in providing the landscape supplies needs in Sydney such as top soil, turf supplies, fertiliser, seeds, mulch, granite, tools, sand, cement and much more.

We provide delivery services or you can pick up one from our premises.

Our turf supply is suitable for domestic use, offices, and sports areas and can be used for landscaping purposes by gardeners and other tradespeople. Ask about our tradie rates.

We offer a wide range of turf supplies in Sydney such as Sir Walter Buffalo Turf (DNA Certified), ST91 Buffalo Turf, Sapphire Buffalo Turf, Matilda Buffalo Turf, Velvet Soft Leaf Buffalo Turf, Palmetto Buffalo Turf, Kikuyu Turf, Wintergreen Couch Turf, Santa Anna Couch Turf, Windsor Green Couch Turf. We offer recycled, fully organic turf supplies to help the environment with the help of our various turf growers.

We always welcome your needs for turf and landscaping supplies in Sydney and offer the best products and service to assist you.

https://www.acelandscapes.com.au/

Ace Landscape & Turf Supplies 190 Forest Way, Belrose NSW 2085Phone: 02-9450 2215 | Fax: 02-9450 2214Email: sales@acelandscapes.com.au Trading Hours: Mon-Sat 7:00AM-5:00PMSun 8:00AM-4:00PM

[tenth-sentence]

Essentially it's just what the name suggests, grey stone, a form of granite, some of it crushed to 1 centimetre (half an inch) in size, most of it smaller.

"Soil: The incredible story of what keeps the earth, and us, healthy" - Matthew Evans

[tetigistuss]

I was so excited for an alternative to other fence pole seating techniques that I forgot we lived in a world where bad dragons exist

[licnheartedd]

geologist remus AU in which he has the largest rock collection known to man but it’s all granite and sandstone and other rocks that no one else thinks look cool

he has his rock hammer and his hard hat and he spends his days in stupid rural areas just looking through soil and in rivers for things he can break open or put under a microscope, and he takes samples home in his pockets even though it means there’s dirt and sand everywhere

queue sirius, who knows nothing about rocks but knows that some minerals are shiny, and he has a great time fidgeting with the pretty minerals that remus thinks are “too boring”

bonus points for remus doing a taste test on his rocks to determine what kind of minerals they are (because yes, that is a genuine way of determining mineral type)

[thebekerslegecy]

👑 MEDIEVAL MODS + CC | The BEKER LEGECY

I am currently playing Morbid’s ULTIMATE Decades Challenge. Below is a list of all of the Mods + CC I am using in my game🐝

🍯 MODS: Wicked Whims (+18) MC Command Center MC Woohoo More Traits in CAS Royalty Mod Medieval Interactions Ye Olde Cookbook + Stoves +Fires Require Wood  + Hunting & Foraging ModHome Region +Townie Demographics by Kuttoe Fashion Authority 2 by Lot51 Functional Broom Functional Loom Functional Pottery Wheel Archery Skill Blacksmithing Skill Historical Simolean Override - English Shillings Children/Toddlers Can Die of Anything Playable Harp + LuteFunctional Horses & Carriages, No Helmet Create Campfire Bonfire Anywhere Arranged Marriages Custom Farm Animals Purchase Custom Animals Zero’s Historical Mods (pickpocket, disease, etc.) Phone to Notebook Replacement Sippy Cup + Toys Default Replacements Stuff for Pets Natural Knitting Stuff PreTeen LittleMsSam Mods ( Pick what you want) Sims4me

🐝 CC:

🍯Build:

TSR Ye Medieval - Ligna Windows Set TSR Ye Medieval - Timber Frame Walls TSR Ye Medieval - Framework Walls TSR - Broken Wood Door TSR Ye Medieval - Soil Terrain TSR Ye Medieval - Hay Ground Terrain

🐝Objects:

Lili’s Palace - Folklore Set No. 1 Linzlu’s Frontier Items TSR Ye Medieval - Peasant Homelife 1 TSR Ye Medieval - Peasant Homelife 2 TSR Ye Medieval - Peasant Homelife 3 TSR Ye Medieval - Peasant Homelife 4 TRS Ye Medieval - Tristan Bathroom TSR Ye Medieval - Tavern Part 1 TSR Ye Medieval - Candle Holder TSR - Skara Stool TSR - The Old Garden Boat TSR - The Old Garden Quay Fish Market Decor Fish Rack Fish Crate V1 Fish Crate V2 Bohrium Vegetables I Old Rustic Well (“Eco Living” version) Stable Set by Moriel Rustic Animal Shed Rustic Chicken Coop Rustic Bee Box Bassinet + Infant Crib SimsHistoricalfinds tumblr (directory) SIMS 4 MEDIEVAL CC TheSenseMedieval Allhistorical cc tumblr Medieval & Fantasy Mods List | Notion Kosmic Hippie's CC Finds — 👑 MEDIEVAL MODS + CC | The Sims 4 antiquated plumbobs : Directory CC Finds Navigation

🍯CAS:

TheSimsResource (Ye Medieval) TheSimsResource (Sifix) Simverses  Melancholy Maiden | creating Historical Sims 4 CC | Patreon satterlly | creating The Sims 4 CC | Patreon

🐝 SAVE FILE:

Srsly’s Blank Save Map Replacement Medieval Windenburg Medieval Map Replacement

🍯MY SIMS 4 MEDIEVAL WORLDS:

How to change sims4 world names (for existing save)How to change sims4 world names ( for new save)

Kingdom of France – Willow Creek’ Mali Empire – Oasis Springs’ Kingdom of Norway – Newcrest’ Inca Empire – Granite Falls’ Holy Roman Empire – Windenburg’ Kingdom of Denmark– Magnolia Promenade’ Republic of Genoa – San Myshuno’ Kingdom of Hungary – Forgotten Hollow’ Grand Duchy of Lithuania – Brindleton Bay’ Aztec Empire – Selvadorada’ Kingdom of Sicily – Del Sol Valley’ Ottoman Empire – StrangerVille’ Hawai’i – Sulani’ Kingdom of Scotland- Glimmerbrook’ Duchy of Milan – Brightchester’ Maya city-states – Evergreen Harbor’ Tatooine– Batuu’ Goryeo– Mt. Komorebi’ Kingdom of England – Henford-on-Bagley’ Republic of Venice– Tartosa’ Duchy of Burgundy – Moonwood Mill’ Kingdom of Aragon – Copperdale’ Mongol Empire – San Sequoia’ Mamluk Sultanate – Chestnut Ridge’ Kingdom of Ayutthaya – Tomarang’ Kingdom of Castile - Ciudad Enamorada kingdom of Moldova - Ranvenwood

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 59

part 1 | part 58 | ao3

cw: canon-typical horror/gore (like for real this time), emetophobia, reference to minor character death. ty to @thisapplepielife for indulging my weirdly specific research about headstones

Steve tries to follow her — gets shot down before he even gets within speaking range, Max shouting at him to give her a minute the second she spots him coming over the hill. He backs off, hands raised in surrender, and then…

Well, then he’s already out of the car.

Well then his feet know where to take him.

His dad’s grave isn’t far. Maybe a football field away, close enough that he’ll be able to hear it if Max calls for help. He moves toward it without thought, his legs carrying him past simple overgrown markers in the oldest part of the park — crumbling remnants of civil war soldiers, farmers and shopkeepers and factory workers, people who worked the mines, people who died before his grandfather was born. People who might have been loved once, before time and moss and water stripped their names off of the stones.

Up the next slope, the markers get more elaborate, shift from bronze to granite to marble, to monuments and mausoleums and a fucking obelisk; ostentatious displays of the town’s oldest money. The coal barons, the oil tycoons. Rotten bastards, Wayne might say.

The Harringtons aren't that rich. They're further down the hill in a neatly manicured row of Indiana limestone; fresh flowers on each grave, the weeds plucked, the grass trimmed.

Dad's buried right next to Grandpa Otis.

It almost looks nice.

Crisp, clean, dry. Nothing to suggest the messy wet red of his father's demise. Steve shoves his hands in his front pockets and steps up to his dad's plot, toes the edge of it, the rounded lump of earth, sparse grass and loose soil where his father's bones are laid. The ground gives a little under his weight, the dirt compacting. Could he dig this up with just his hands? Could he claw through until he reached the bottom, pry open the box and peer inside? Unbidden, the image forms in his mind: worm food and rot, half a man left inside, somehow still frowning in disappointment with his jaw bone shining clean.

Steve's stomach turns. A sick shiver runs through him, saliva flooding his mouth, sweat beading at his hair line.

This isn't right.

Something's not right.

There's a sudden chill in the air, frigid wind carrying a smell like roadkill in the summer — heat wafting from the pavement, death clogging up his throat. Steve covers his nose and wills his shoulders down from his ears; tries to mutter words of comfort to himself under his breath. “Just a graveyard, Steve. Just a totally… normal…”

Ice on the back of his neck. Steve tenses every muscle, turns his good ear toward the sound of whatever's creeping up on him; something taller than him, something slithering and wet, its rasping rattles of frozen breath sending goosebumps down Steve's arms. His hands twitch inside his pockets.

Then, a voice — a voice that isn’t his, that can’t be anyone’s, because the man it belonged to is dead. “That Munson boy was right about you."

Steve can't fucking breathe. Dark clouds roll in around him, violent as a blooming bruise, and that voice behind him echoes — distorted, vicious; hungry.

"You are a black hole."

Steve grabs two fistfuls of his own hair and tugs; wills the pain to dispel the nightmare, his eyes swimming from the sting.

The thing behind him laughs. "Look how you ruined your mother," it snarls. "Look how you tore her apart.”

"Shut up!" Steve barks with his hands over his ears.

“Steve…” The voice deepens, beckons, thick with malice and rot. Steve slowly turns to face it, trembling all over, pulse thudding in his ears, and his shoes squelch in the dirt, and when he looks down he sees that the dirt has turned to mud that now turns to oozing red, a viscous river beneath his feet, flowing up over his ankles, pouring from his father's grave. And there, in front of him, a mangled remnant stands. The ruined corpse of Richard Harrington, his skin shriveled and gray, the torn parts of him held together by his clothes. There’s a hole in his torso where the exposed ribs glint like knives.

Steve throws up on himself.

The ground gives way beneath him, goes spongy like rotting meat, and the thing wearing his dad's face cackles as Steve sinks into the earth, the grave swallowing him whole, up to his calves, his knees, his thighs. "Join me," it offers, lipless smile full of teeth.

The glamor peels back to reveal a monster underneath, its scarred skin crawling in mucus-coated vines; naked, long-limbed, stitched together with burnt flesh.

Steve screams as he scrambles for purchase, up to his hips now in the muck, his feet on the lid of his dad's casket. He claws blindly at the loose ground but it’s all thick and wet with red, and the air itself is red; blood in the sky, in his eyes, in his lungs. He's going to die here. The voice tells him so. It's in his head now, a bellowing echo as the monster draws near, one hideous hand outstretched, an all-consuming join me, join me, JOIN ME—

“HEY!!!”

Max shouts directly in his face, shaking him hard by both shoulders where they're crouched on the cool ground, Kate Bush leaking from the headphones slung around her neck. Steve gives a startled shout and jerks back out of her grip, falling hard on his ass, landing harder on his elbows.

The world shifts back to blue. To dry, clean grass. To breathable air.

Steve pants up at the sky. His shirt clings to him where he's soaked it through with sweat. When Max offers him a hand, he stands on shaky legs, looks at the ground beneath his feet and screams again, scurrying back until his ass hits a stranger's headstone.

There’s a dent in the earth where he was standing. A smudge of packed dirt where he really did sink in. Steve stares at it; feels it reaching out for him, the dark patch thudding like a heart beat, spreading out like snaking vines.

He clutches at his heaving chest. Max’s eyes are huge on him.

"Okay, what the fuck?" she begs.

"What the fuck yourself!"

No heat behind the words, but they burn him, anyway, pushed out on a weak gasp. Is this what she was talking about? Is this what she calls nothing?

This doesn't feel like fucking nothing.

“Shit," she says, and her eyes go even wider. Steve can see the veins in them. "Shit, Steve, your nose…”

He swipes his arm across his face.

It comes back red.

—

part 60

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[houseofpurplestars]

On April 11th, 2019, Israel sends a space probe to the moon. It explodes on impact.

BORN of Holy Space, she is sister

to stone. knows each smooth defense

littering occupied Ground. Holy

Ground. she whispers stories of how we built

our homes / laying stone gentle atop one another

dabke hard on soil

sending stories of how children see if stones,

too, float in the dead sea.

israel sends a space probe to the moon & it explodes on impact.

LISTEN. the moon is pro-Palestine.

moon remembers when she was part of the earth / remembers when land was one / craters filled with water waiting to be named holy / a people knowing what it always was, tending to orchards with twisted roots older than sea level / sung prayers tucked into breakfasts of bread and cheese / throats uneroded / calling on our daughters / ya ‘amar ya ‘amar ya banat al ‘amar / asking of us beauty / strength

holy earth sends stories of children / gripping rocks so hard their life lines become granite rings.

Children scratching at empire / criminalized. what is a blemish to an empire? man-made death machines plummet into the surface of the moon / scratch for conquest.

o holy Ground. those who separated us will not be forgiven.

there is no blemish to her light. in eulogy of the Children who have joined the stars

she fights back

[naturalharmonicas]

Digging

Digging

Unearthing

Reaching for the soul

The root

The heart

Scraping and scraping

Soil and granite and grain

And if Mother Earth doesn't accept me

Then who will?

[clipstone]

A.A. Badenhorst

A.A.Badenhorst KilpKop Swartland, South Africa 2022 Chenin Blanc

What makes South Africa unique is its warm climate paired with some of the most ancient soils on earth - granite soils (over 600 million year old) - which results in bold red and white wines with high aromatic intensity.

A.A. Badenhorst work in Paardeberg, Swartland with low-yielding old vines on shallow granite soils that are handpicked with stems and sit on lees for 16 months. Kilp Kop means 'rock head' and refers to the original site of granite rocks on which the grapes are grown. The wine is deeply concentrated with aromas of pear, stone fruits and stem ginger. In the mouth, it is creamy, mineral and has exceptional length.

Tasting notes: pear, stone fruits, ginger, creamy, fennel, quince, dried herbs

Pairing: seafood, spicy food, lean fish, soft cheese

[jules-writes-stories]

I've always questioned the ethics of Feyre "wearing" Illyrian wings (particularly for aesthetic or sexual purposes). This post stayed with me, and inspired this little story. CW for mention of wing clipping/brief mention of violence/Rhys and Feyre critical

below or on AO3

Valkyrie

For every Emerie who has ever held the door open for another. Your wings are perfect.

Illyria, The Night Court

She woke at dawn and stretched her arms, rubbing at the aches of her shoulders and lower back that came from holding up the deadweight of her wings. If they had not been clipped, these wings would have the muscle and strength to hold their own. 

If they had not been clipped, she would spend hours in flight. They would stay aloft or tuck neatly between her shoulders in a symmetrical resting position, as the Mother intended.

(cw below)

But instead, at the age of fourteen, after her first bleed, she was held down as the village healer sliced through the central tendons of each one. Five incisions in a starburst pattern. These made certain no rapid healing occurred.

No second chances for female flight. 

She dressed in the simple shift and rubbed ointment along the jagged silver scars, like rivulets running down the maroon membrane. The morning was crisp, the sky blue as a Siphon and Ramiel gleamed granite in the distance. 

Nodding to the camp mothers, she found her work site, cauldron already bubbling, laundry in the basket waiting to be boiled, scrubbed and rinsed. This was her lot. The brown skin of her hands and wrists was calloused and streaked with several more scars from the boiling water and caustic herbs used to remove blood stains and treat Illyrian fighting leathers. She healed quickly, but not perfectly. Nothing about her was perfect anymore. 

She lifted the heavy basket with a grunt, shifting it to her hip for better support and dumped the soiled clothes into the pot. Stirring, she hummed low and watched as the young males trained on the western steppes. 

In a few weeks, the young females would be offered a chance to train, but only those who were not bleeding, and only those who had finished all their chores, and only those whose fathers and brothers allowed. And only those who were brave enough to weather the names, and the looks, and the cold shoulders…

Sometimes, on slow days, when there wasn’t too much laundry, she let herself imagine that her wings were whole. That she could climb the cliff sides and leap from the heights. In free fall, the air and wind would propel her body, and at the last minute, right before she crashed upon the steppes, her wings would snap out to their fullest and she would coast along the wild grasses, their blades grazing her face. Or maybe she would take off from the peaks and pass straight up through the clouds, tasting rain and smelling ether. She laughed at herself then, but the sound held no music. 

“It will be your skin when the çamaşır shrinks, Asli.” A camp mother called out from the next fire. Damn. She’d let the laundry boil for too long. The Illyrian used the long wooden paddle and pulled the steaming clothes from the cauldron, praying it was not too late. Her skin already blistering as the water splashed her legs and forearms, burning her hands. 

A shadow dappled the sky above. A peal of laughter followed. She looked up. And there, leaping from a cliff’s edge, to the east, was a young female with golden brown hair and moon white skin. She was not Illyrian, yet she possessed Illyrian wings. They were enormous, unclipped, and perfect.

And for a heartbeat, the laundress wished on every star that ever graced the Night Court sky that she could have those wings. No, she did not even need those wings. She would be content with the ones on her back. Before she was held down. Before they were taken from her. 

The female leapt from the cliffside and with a wild whoop, her wings caught the wind and she banked, one with the current and the sky. How free, how magical it must be. There was a male flying beside her. Not any male. This was the High Lord and his High Lady. They continued to fly off into the horizon until they were mere specks in the vast sky. 

And the injustice of it coiled like a snake and struck. Its venom coursed through her veins. This twenty year old High Fae who shape shifted wings on a whim, taking pleasure in a birthright not her own. The Illyrian's rage was a living thing. For this was her sky. The wind was a song thrumming in her blood. 

The High Lord had made it illegal to cut a female’s wings, but he did not enforce it. He tried to help females learn to fight, but did not enforce it. Most powerful in history, but not powerful enough to stop an Illyrian farmer or soldier from tying a fourteen year old to a chair and breaking her body. From stopping a mob of warriors from throwing rocks at mothers who wished to learn how to block a blow.

How could the High Lady take such joy in flight and not defend the very females whose wings were still being clipped, when she knew firsthand the pleasure and power, the joy and freedom, that was being denied them? Instead, she blithely coasted above those whose wings would never extend to their full span or feel the wind catching so perfectly. Did she not see how hurtful it was, how harmful, to overlook the suffering of the very fae race she was impersonating? 

The laundress lay the clothes on the rocks and furiously beat out the blood stains. Her back ached and her hands were on fire as she watched her daughter, Banou, collect firewood at the edge of camp. Her little velveteen wings were still uncut, youthful talons still rounded. Her body was unbowed and unbroken, for now. The laundress had a thought. What if she got her daughter out before she could be bowed, broken, and clipped? And what if other younglings, they too, could get out? For if their High Lord truly could not protect them from the blades and rocks and fists that would inevitably come their way, then they would have to save themselves. 

What if Banou could one day leap from a cliffside, her perfect laughter pealing from the skies? Why should joy only be free for the rich and the powerful? The sky and stars should be the birthright of every Illyrian. And now, the laundress wanted this more than anything. Tonight, she would walk the mountain pass and seek out the one whose name was Emerie. The Valkyrie. 

She continued to scrub the blood stains from white linen, and this time, when she laughed, there was music. 

[strangelittlestories]

The City of Statues had been burning for days.

The smoke wisped up past the faces of granite gods and marble monsters; by rights, their eyes should have watered from the ash (if not from grief). But they shed no tears, just stood in silent judgement as they always had.

The air was thick with the tension of violence that had not yet reached its peak. It clung to people’s skin like a heatwave. It lingered in the ear like a symphony layered with the quiet screams of strings and woodwind, while the percussion and brass waited with breath baited by thunder.

Three days ago, the Followers of the Lady Who Smiles Daggers had carved their demands into the doors of the Palace of the Son of Progress. 

(Those priests who guarded the Palace - it was, after all, built into the stone belly of their god - had tried to resist.)

The night before last, Those Who Dwell in the Shadow of Tomorrow had gone looking for these dissidents in the foundations that spread like roots beneath the city.

(They had kept at the hunt past the warning bells and many were lost in the rush as the statues pulled their faith-nutrients from the soil that was the city sewers.)

Yesterday morning, the Cult of the Crying Trickster Child had become involved, pouring literal and metaphorical oil upon the flames.

It seemed that the whole city would be tinder in the coming conflagration, leaving just a charred ruin of silent soot-stained stony deities behind.

On the day the heavens were ready to open, riots spread through the town’s arterial streets like septic blood. Militias clashed in a steady violent heartbeat. Priests of different stripes stood on high monuments and chanted and made both roofs and pavements tremble.

Everyone waited for the crescendo. The thunder. The cracking cardiac event of a body made of stone.

But when the rain fell, the sky did not break nor the walls fall nor the ground rupture.

It fell gently. Softly. Quietly.

The heat of flame and summer and anger had performed some strange alchemy to the atmosphere. It had thickened, not to burst, but to transform.

As the rain fell across the great monuments that were the divinities of the City of Statues … they opened their eyes.

They stared down at their home and saw its pain and tears joined the raindrops on their time-worn faces.

People would wonder, afterwards, what could have caused this. What could have undone the old curse the Star Basilisk had laid down on the city’s titanic founders?

They may never know. But I will reveal the secret to you. All that tension, the heat and flame and smoke, the malevolence and vitriol and pain that had burned in the city below - it did something quite unpredictable above.

What do you get when you burn up all your rage? You reveal the care that lies beneath.

The rainfall was simply all the anger that had simmered in the city, coming back down as the compassion it had once been.

[bongboyblog]

A walk through Bengal's architecture

Bengali architecture has a long and rich history, fusing indigenous elements from the Indian subcontinent with influences from other areas of the world. Present-day Bengal architecture includes the nation of Bangladesh as well as the Indian states of West Bengal, Tripura, and Assam's Barak Valley. West Bengal’s architecture is an amalgamation of ancient urban architecture, religious architecture, rural vernacular architecture, colonial townhouses and country houses, and modern urban styles. Bengal architecture is the architecture of Wind, Water, and Clay. The Pala Empire (750–1120), which was founded in Bengal and was the final Buddhist imperial force on the Indian subcontinent, saw the apex of ancient Bengali architecture. The majority of donations went to Buddhist stupas, temples, and viharas. Southeast Asian and Tibetan architecture was influenced by Pala architecture. The Grand Vihara of Somapura, which is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, was the most well-known structure erected by the Pala rulers.

The Grand Vihara of Somapura

According to historians, the builders of Angkor Wat in Cambodia may have taken inspiration from Somapura. Bengal architecture became known for its use of terracotta due to the scarcity of stone in the area. Clay from the Bengal Delta was used to make bricks.

The temple architecture has distinct features like the rich wall decoration, often known as the terracotta temples, which was one of the remarkable elements of Bengali temple architecture. The double-roofed architecture of thatched huts was replicated by Bengali temples. Square platforms were used to construct the temples. Burnt brick panels with figures in geometric patterns or substantial sculptural compositions served as the temples' adornment.

Dochala style

These served as models for many temples that were built in undivided Bengal. Construction materials used in ancient times included wood and bamboo. Bengal has alluvial soil, so there isn't a lot of stone there. The bricks that were utilized to build the architectural components were made from stone, wood, black salt, and granite. Bengal has two different types of temples: the Rekha type, which is smooth or ridged curvilinear, and the Bhadra form, which has horizontal tiers that gradually get smaller and is made up of the amalaka sila. Mughal architecture, including forts, havelis, gardens, caravanserais, hammams, and fountains, spread throughout the area during the Mughal era in Bengal. Mosques built by the Mughals in Bengal also took on a distinctive regional look. The two major centers of Mughal architecture were Dhaka and Murshidabad. The do-chala roof custom from North India was imitated by the Mughals.

Jorasako thakurbari

The Rasmancha is a heritage building located at Bishnupur, Bankura district, West Bengal.

Influence of the world on Bengal architecture: Although the Indo-Saracenic architectural style predominated in the area, Neo-Classical buildings from Europe were also present, particularly in or close to trading centers. While the majority of country estates had a stately country house, Calcutta, Dacca, Panam, and Chittagong all had extensive 19th and early 20th-century urban architecture that was equivalent to that of London, Sydney, or other British Empire towns. Calcutta experienced the onset of art deco in the 1930s. Indo-Saracenic architecture can be seen in Ahsan Manzil and Curzon Hall in Dhaka, Chittagong Court Building in Chittagong, and Hazarduari Palace in Murshidabad.

Hazarduari Palace in Murshidabad

The Victoria Memorial in Kolkata, designed by Vincent Esch also has Indo-Saracenic features, possibly inspired by the Taj Mahal. Additionally, Kolkata's bungalows, which are being demolished to make way for high-rise structures, have elements of art deco. The 1950s in Chittagong saw a continuation of Art Deco influences. The Bengali modernist movement, spearheaded by Muzharul Islam, was centered in East Pakistan. In the 1960s, many well-known international architects, such as Louis Kahn, Richard Neutra, Stanley Tigerman, Paul Rudolph, Robert Boughey, and Konstantinos Doxiadis, worked in the area.

The Jatiyo Sangshad Bhaban

This iconic piece of contemporary Bangladeshi architecture, was created by Louis Kahn. Midsized skyscrapers dominate the cityscapes of contemporary Bengali cities, which are frequently referred to as "concrete jungles." With well-known architects like Rafiq Azam, architecture services play a key role in the urban economies of the area. Overall Bengal architecture was influenced by various contemporaries of their time and continues to evolve.

Gothic architectural style seen in St. Paul's Cathedral in Kolkata.

Zamindar era buildings in ruin.

Belur Math in Howrah

[thewhumpcaretaker]

🝊 Curse in Two Bodies: Yule Special 🝊

Masterlist | Summary: With the curse evenly split between them, Adelais and Ninlen struggle through their respective holiday celebrations while pretending they both just have colds. But Adelais isn't doing too well.

Note that there has been a time skip! This is a month or two after we left off. Adelais and Ninlen have learned how to split the curse partially between them, and have started to work together to some extent.

Oh Ievenar, God of Justice, who holds the scales:

Today I come to you with gratitude. For these few hours, I lost myself in the joy of the season, sitting in an easy chair to watch flames consume the yule tree piece by piece in our hearth. What’s a little pain in my body anyway? At an approximately fifty-fifty split, the curse feels, for each of us, like one of the worst sore throats we’ve ever had, but it’s bearable. And it wouldn't work any other way, with the palace festivities happening at the same time as my family's party. I think it was a pretty clever solution. The flannel buttoned up to my chin hides what lacerations there still are, wrapped twice in gauze to prevent visible bleeding. And I am with the people I love, at the little cabin in the valley outside Korsaivar City, where the smoke rises against a golden sky while the sun slowly plunges into the longest night of the year. Home sits on good land, over a humble but deep mana well. I can feel the familiar, energetic strength radiating both from the people around me and from the soil below.

I do love these people, in spite of everything. We aren’t a peaceful family. We claw at one another in our desperation to rise above the circumstances we were born into. I am, at times, tired of being their meal ticket. But they’ve been doting on me all day. They think I have a cold, as an excuse for my raspy voice and my pain on swallowing. It has meant that I can’t hold my newborn niece, Esmerelda, but still, she waves to me across the room in a conversation of curious glances. They’ve wrapped me in quilts, and given me cup after cup of steaming hot chocolate and tea. I feel so cared for… Rarely have I felt so comfortable in every part of my body except the neck. It doesn’t stop me from drawing deep inhales of cedar smoke. Every burning breath is a reminder of how possible it is to be happy even in pain. I am happy, Ievenar.

But I don’t come to you for myself. I come to you, as usual, for Adelais.

It was about three o’clock when he appeared on the television in the corner, tuned to the news broadcast of the royal celebration and national address. Immaculate, as usual, in a pure white military uniform adorned in thin lines of gold, he stood on the balcony overlooking the south courtyard, flanked by his mother and father. Neither of them looked at him even once.

He, too, had made illness his excuse for the way his voice would sound when he spoke his piece on the state of the kingdom and the decrees for the upcoming year. I doubt anyone will question it. He looked positively ashen.

He rested on the cold granite of the railing sometimes, to stop himself from swaying. Those months spent on life support are still haunting his atrophied frame. He’s dizzy, and he’s in at least as much pain as me. Even now, I swallow, and feel that knife-like jab in response, and it makes me uneasy for him.

I don’t want him to suffer so much, Ievenar. It’s as simple as that, what I have to say to you today.

I texted him, because I couldn’t contain myself. “I can see you on TV.”

He was sitting by that point, mercifully, at some kind of long, marble table set up on the balcony. The feed kept cutting to close-ups of his father, who droned on about war bonds, and in those stretches, he was able to reply, “Lovely. /s” His eyes darted across the crowd from one news team to another.

“I’m seeing the feed on your left, from KNZ Daily. And sometimes the one across from you, centered.”

He looked down at his phone, then right at the camera, his face expressionless. “Do I look as bad as I feel?”

Should I have lied? I didn’t. “It’s definitely believable that you’re sick. I don’t know why they have you up there on live news.”

“Neither do I. It’s a PR disaster waiting to happen.”

“You’re doing well so far.” A small shake of the head, and he abandoned his phone pointedly enough that I didn’t bother texting again.

He managed to get to his feet to speak. I couldn’t hear him much over the sounds of the card game going on in my own home. I redirected my attention again and again to the cards on the table and the gingerbread cookies, away from the thready, stumbling rasp of his voice, underpinned with misery even as he forced himself to smile. The warmth and laughter surrounding me seemed to mock him. Just because I was born here, and he was born there, we suffer differently. Where is the justice in that, Ievenar? If it were me, working long hours in the fields, everyone would see the injustice. But because his suffering is the suffering of guilt, no one sees it.

I looked down at my phone again when the card game was over, and at the television. He was seated once more by that time, and the sun painted pink and gold across his bloodless face. A chill wind ruffled the platinum blond fluff under his crown, and he rubbed at his temple. “Ninlen,” he had texted me (some ten minutes prior), “I think I’m actually coming down with something.”

A strange, protective jolt went through my heart. I felt the unmistakable, intoxicating uprush of my body drawing power involuntarily. “Did you feel that?” my mother asked. “Ripple in the mana.”

“Weird,” I lied, and discharged it quietly, flexing my wrists and letting the veins glow under my sleeves until I didn’t feel like I’d explode anymore.

Under control again, I managed to type, “It’s cold out there. You’ll feel better when you’re inside.”

“No. My throat hurts worse and worse. I’m getting congested. And I feel so faint.” He was visibly frowning and sniffling. Did you see him, Ievenar? Were you looking at him? You made him so miserable. Why punish him now, when he’s already in pain? He’s sick. Just lift the curse for a little while, just…

I know that’s not how it works. But it’s how it should work. I’ll say it. That’s what I see. If his throat hurts anyway, why double it?

“Come back tonight. Please. I won’t be able to sleep like this.” The please, from him…that’s really something.

“I can’t. I’ve rightfully taken my paid leave, and I promised my family. I’m so sorry. But I’ll be there first thing in the morning.” He sniffed again and left me on read.

The press conference wore on. Outside the thick lattice of my window, snowflakes started to tumble out of the sky. Heavy and thick, good for a snowman tomorrow. It had started up at the palace too. Despite the overhang above the balcony, a dusting had started to settle on Adelais’ hair and his almost bluish lips. He was shivering too violently to conceal.

“Will they let you go inside, now that your speaking part is over? If you tell them you’re sick?”

“There’s not much chance of that.” But he leaned towards his mother while the mics were cut to focus on the choir performance in the courtyard below. He whispered something to her, and she shook her head. A moment later, she whispered back, turning her whole body for it, lips drawn tight and speaking forcefully. Adelais looked away. His eyes went…a bit dead. A scolding looks the same even in the royal family.

“I’m sorry,” I texted. “This is awful.” He stared down at his lap, at my reply, his face trembling dangerously.

“It’s fine. I deserve it.” It’s lucky I was glued to my phone in a near frenzy of nerves, because the message was deleted a moment later. I looked back up and watched him take deep breath after deep breath, fighting not to cry.

When I tell you I almost drew the entire mana well into my body, Ievenar… God, such a desperation came over me, to intervene. But we were setting the table for dinner, laying out the candles and the sprigs of holly.

I did the only thing I could think to do. I texted Steward Quincy. “The Prince is genuinely sick. Get him inside if you can. If you can’t, get him a coat or a blanket or something warm.”

“In the middle of the Yule broadcast? I don’t even have the authority to do that.”

“Do you want him to pass out on live television?” It was a bit of an exaggeration, but so be it.

A minute later, a member of the PR team stepped up behind him, speaking briefly to him and setting a thick overcoat around his shoulders. I have very been grateful today, Ievenar. But I was most grateful at that moment.

Another wave of emotion seemed to go through him, by the heavy way he was breathing, but he fought it down. He looked right into the camera then, and smiled weakly at me. At me, I’m certain, because a moment later he texted, “thank you.” But I’m also certain that the whole portion of the kingdom who happened to be watching at that moment found themselves thoroughly dazzled by the fondness there.

I’m laying in my childhood bed now, and I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s trying to sleep now and probably can’t. He told me afterwards, in his formal, matter-of-fact way, “It seems I have a fever. Everything hurts. Don’t be late tomorrow morning.”

And I won’t be late. But I also won’t be early enough. So please. Nature is hurting him enough tonight, Ievenar. Can’t you just give him a break, just this once? Before I go mad with protectiveness and draw every spark of power from here to Montagleo, leave him alone.