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ace-in-a-shopping-cart · 3 years ago

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Accents

Summary: Reader needs to pose as a Fjerdan for a heist. They go to Matthias for accent advice. Hijinks ensue Word Count: 1,397 CW: food mention, alcohol mention,

“Matt! Talk to me!” Y/N sat down next to Matthias and put their head on their hands.

He glanced up from his woodcarving, eyes bored and hands stilling. “Why?”

“So I can copy your accent, Matthew,” Y/N sassed back, shifting into a more comfortable position.

Matthias shook his head, going back to his activity. “That is not my name.”

“I know, but it got you to talk. C’mon, Kaz needs two Fjerdans for a heist and you’re obviously one of them. He wants me to be the other one. So, got any good stories?”

Matthias sighed but, in the end, started telling a children’s story. Y/N listened with rapt attention, sighing and laughing in all the right spots. At the end of the story, they struck up a conversation with him in an attempt to slip into his accent.

Jesper walked into the room sometime later and took a double take, pointing at the both of them. “I’m sorry, why does it sound like no one in here is actually from Kerch?”

Y/N looked up at him, still speaking with a heavy Fjerdan accent that sounded halfway decent. “I’m from the Wandering Isle, bozo.” Matthias laughed so hard he cut himself with his carving knife. They looked at him, unimpressed. “What? It’s true. I promise you, it’s true.”

Matthias was bent over, laughing and clutching his hand that now had a small cut. “I know, I know. You talk about it enough.”

Jesper just shook his head and wandered over to another chair. “Are you pranking me? Is that what this is?”

Kaz’s cane tapping on the floor heralded his arrival. “I sent you here for a job but it seems all you’re doing is anything but. Are you actually working?”

Y/N turned to him, a fake look of shock on their face. “What? You don’t believe I’ve been working?” They were still using the Fjerdan accent but it was starting to slip. “Kaz, how could you?”

Jesper laughed, voice strained through his laughter. “What are you using now?! I’ve never heard that kind of accent before!”

Y/N’s accent had turned closer to a random one they’d heard from a vendor in the market once, a smaller dialect of Ravkan. “I’m so sorry, my accent isn’t working properly right now, it’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”

Matthias finally got a hold of himself and managed to put his carving knife and the block of wood, which was starting to look decently like a wolf, down on the table in front of them. He chuckled. “Alright, little snow fox, I need to get this seen to before Nina accuses me of trying to die. You have fun trying to become Fjerdan. Tell me how it goes.”

“I will, thank you.” The accent was back to being closer to Fjerdan now that Matthias had spoken.

He laughed again, shaking his head as he headed out. Jesper turned to watch him go. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh that much. Or at all.”

Kaz sighed and turned to Y/N. “Will the accent be ready by tonight?”

Y/N shrugged. “I don’t know. Possibly.” Their eyes widened in excitement. “Possibly. Possibly. That sounded a lot better. Possibly.”

Kaz shook his head, a fond look in his eyes as they kept repeating the word. In Y/N’s defense, the way they said the word was a spot on Fjerdan accent. He nodded. “That was good. Keep working on it.” With that, he turned and walked out.

Jesper sat down. “I think I’m having a stroke. Am I having a stroke?”

“Why do you say that, comrade?” Y/N’s Fjerdan accent was getting better by the word.

Jesper counted off on his fingers. “Matthias laughed, Kaz gave a compliment that wasn’t backhanded or used for something else, and your accent is starting to scare me.” He bent his head to focus on cleaning his guns.

Y/N laughed. “Fine, I’ll go practice on Nina.”

Jesper’s eyes widened and his head shot up to look at them. “That was literally the exact way Matthias always says her name, minus the whole love hate thing they’ve got going on.”

Y/N shrugged and walked out, heading to Nina’s room. They sat and talked with her for the rest of the afternoon, getting into character along with their accent. Their talk devolved into random small talk, as it almost always did. Y/N dropped the Fjerdan accent halfway through the small talk and instead used their regular one to give their voice a rest.

Before dinner, they went back to Matthias. “It’s slipping. Quick, talk to me!”

Matthias shook his head but, sitting at a table in the Slat, he talked about their roles in the heist as Jesper and Inej brought the food they’d prepared from the kitchen and the rest of the crew slowly gathered around. It was halfway through the meal that Y/N spoke again, this time in a very nearly authentic Fjerdan accent. Wylan almost fell out of his chair and Matthias laughed again. “That’s pretty spot on. You could definitely pass as a true Fjerdan now if you keep it up.”

Nina tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Just wait until they get dressed to look like one.”

The meal finished quickly and they split off to get ready for the heist. Soon, they all met up again in Kaz’s office. “We all ready?” He surveyed his little crew. Y/N definitely looked like a high ranking Fjerdan and Matthias was in a drüskelle uniform from the Emporium Komedie. Wylan had enough explosives on him to decimate a large fishing boat. Jesper was decked out in a guard costume that matched Kaz’s and looked completely at ease. Inej, as always, was in a hooded tunic and leggings, perfect for sneaking around and being their eyes.

They were all chatting quietly to each other as they walked and Y/N couldn’t help but glance over at Kaz every once in a while. Once they got there, they muttered, “Probably,” under their breath a couple times in the Fjerdan accent before going in.

The heist went off without a hitch and they all cheered when they got back to the Slat with the diamond necklace in hand. “This deserves a party! I’ll be back with drinks!” Dashing out the front door, still in their fancy clothing, Y/N headed for the Crow Club.

Soon enough, they heard a set of familiar footsteps behind them and slowed down, turning to walk backwards. “What, can’t trust me to get the right alcohol?”

Kaz shook his head. “Just wondering when you’re going to drop the Fjerdan accent.” He caught up with them, running his hand over the backs of their knuckles before walking beside them.

Y/N shrugged. “Eh, it’ll fade now that I’m not deliberately keeping it in place.” It wasn’t as good as it was before, their natural accent slipping through.

Kaz chuckled. “I’m glad. I like your actual accent.”

“Y’know, to me, you’re the one with the accent. Everyone thinks they don’t have an accent because it’s all they know when in reality, everyone is the one with the accent.” Almost as if to prove their point, Y/N’s accent shifted from Fjerdan to one that more closely resembled Kaz’s Kerch accent.

Kaz shook his head, choosing to remain silent. Y/N smiled at him, brushing their hand over his again. “For the record, I like your accent too,” they said in their usual voice. “In fact, I like your voice in general. It’s kinda soothing, in a weird way.”

Kaz smiled at them, a small thing that was barely more than a quirk of his lips but it was one only meant for them. “That’s been made evident by the many times you’ve fallen asleep during meetings.”

Y/N shoved his shoulder playfully as they approached the lit up Crow Club. “Jerk.”

He chuckled lightly, briefly wrapping his arm around their shoulders.

Y/N smiled at him, feeling content in that moment. They were tired and about to grab alcohol, but they were happy to be with the man they were crushing on, to be about to party with their friends after a successful heist, and to be able to annoy as many of those friends as possible with their weird accents.

Taglist (Check out my masterlist before sending an ask to be added!): @lou-hadrian-gardna26, @brekkers-desigirl, @nyx2021,

#ace writes #the crows & reader #crows & reader #reader #matthias helvar #jesper fahey #kaz brekker #nina zenik #wylan van eck #inej ghafa #crack #crack treated seriously #fluff and crack #kaz brekker x reader #pre-relationship

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anchoredheroes · 3 years ago

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CHARACTER OUTLINE

FULL NAME: Ashawen Davhalla Lavellan

TITLE(S): Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor

NICKNAME(S): Asha, Bunny ( don’t ), Inky

╳ FLAWS.

♔ STRENGTHS.

🖌 SKILLS & HOBBIES.

TAGGED BY: @musamulta (stolen)

TAGGING: whoever would like

#character study

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the-unaligned-player · 3 years ago

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Team ADHE (Adhesion)

Ava

“I have nothing to lose.”

Alignment: Neutral Good

Race: Human —> Tiefling (Asmodeus)

Str: 15, Dex: 13, Con: 14, Int: 10, Wis: 12, Cha: 8

Background: Hermit

Classes: 3 Barbarian: Storm Herald

Skills: Athletics, Intimidation, Medicine, Religion

Tools: Herbalism Kit

Languages: Common, Infernal, Primordial

Dream

“My eggs are gone.”

Alignment: Chaotic Good/Neutral Evil

Race: Aasimar (Scourge —> Fallen)

Str: 10, Dex: 15, Con: 8, Int: 13, Wis: 14, Cha: 12

Background: Knight

Classes: 3 Fighter: Battlemaster

Skills: Acrobatics, History, Persuasion, Survival

Tools: Smith’s Tools

Gaming Set: Dragonchess

Languages: Common, Celestial, Draconic

Hazou

“All I do is kill and dream of better ways to kill!”

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Race: Warforged

Str: 12, Dex: 13, Con: 10, Int: 15, Wis: 8, Cha: 14

Background: Sage: Researcher

Classes: 3 Artificer: Artillerist

Skills: Arcana, Deception, History, Investigation, Perception

Tools: Thieves Tools, Tinkers Tools, Calligrapher’s Supplies, Woodcarver’s Tools

Languages: Common, Primordial, Draconic, Deep Speech

Edelgard

“I have only made an enemy of the church, not of the faith.”

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Race: Genasi (Fire)

Str: 14, Dex: 10, Con: 12, Int: 13, Wis: 8, Cha: 15

Background: Noble

Classes: 3 Paladin: Vengeance

Skills: Athletics, History, Medicine, Persuasion

Gaming Set: Three-Dragon Ante

Languages: Common, Primordial, Deep Speech

Una

“Definition in goals, and flexibility in methods is the path to success.”

Race: Homunculus (Dex)

True Neutral

Str: 10 Dex: 13 Con: 12 Int: 14 Wis: 15 Cha: 8

Background: Faceless

Classes: 6 Cleric: Unity

Skills: Deception, Insight, Intimidation, Religion

Tools: Disguise Kit

Languages: Common, Celestial, Infernal

Feat: Empathic

#Team ADHE #dnd #ava ire #dreamwastaken #dream #c!dream #edelgard von hresvelg #JAAP League

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forbidden-sorcery · 4 years ago

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Important interactions with crows and ravens probably began when our nomadic ancestors hunted and fished. Indeed, the earliest expressions of humankind recorded thirty thou-sand years ago in the caves of Lascaux, in modern-day France, feature a crow-headed man and a totemic bird form thought to represent the external soul. We imagine that it didn’t take an enterprising Common Raven long to associate the triumphant early European hunter or fisher with the possibility of sneaking in to take its share of the carnage. Maybe we shooed away this thief; more likely, we offered food in homage to a kindred spirit associated with the successful kill. Nomadic hunters surely took note of the raven’s distinctive calls, savvy, and persistence. Similar interactions must have been common wherever ravens ranged. Aboriginal Australians, for example, were flanked by Australian Ravens, which still scavenge around towns and camps to this day. Some evidence of the raven’s influence remains. The Hän people of the Yukon, in Canada, for example, mimicked the raven’s calls to attract bears to their hunting areas. Likewise, Eskimo hunters in Greenland associated ravens passing overhead with nearby caribou. Over time, the nearly constant contact among hunters, fishers, and ravens affected our early folklore and spiritual beliefs. Crows and ravens were integral to Tibetan funeral rituals until the 1950s: a dead loved one was ceremoniously cut into small pieces and placed on an altar; crows, ravens, and other scavengers then carried the departed to the next life. Eskimos tied the foot of a raven around their new-born babies’ necks so that as adults they would be able to endure long periods without food. Indigenous peoples of North America viewed the raven as a creator, trickster, and messenger. Clans were formed in the bird’s name, and its dramatic shape and demeanor inspired carved totemic images, myths, dances, and song. Europeans, too, formed a mythic relationship with ravens. The Nordic god Odin learned about the world from ravens. His corvid connection is evident today in Stockholm, where the Hotel Oden is adorned with raven art, and in Oslo, where a woodcarving outside the city hall depicts Odin in the company of ravens. Good luck was expected by the Irishman who saw a raven croaking as it flew to his right side. Scottish Highlanders stalking deer considered a calling raven a sign of good luck. Heraldic figures of ravens and crows were often chosen to represent medieval families and clans. Over time, people roamed less, settling down to farm. In turn, we started interacting more with Rooks , Western Jackdaws, and various other species of crows. They shared our crops and cities, and benefited from the conversion of forests to fields. Crows seemed especially suited to capture our ancestors’ imaginations. On the Faeroe Is-lands, in the northern Atlantic, an unwed girl would throw a stone, a bone, and a piece of turf in quick succession at a Hooded Crow to find out who her husband would be. If the crow flew toward the sea, her husband would arrive from the sea. If the crow flew toward a town, then he would come from the town. But if the crow did not fly, the girl would not marry. The ancient Greeks often associated crows with the god Apollo. Apollo’s unfaithful mistress, Coronis, is the source of the word “corone,” Greek for “crow” and the modern scientific name for the Hooded Crow. Greek culture mirrored Native American culture by portraying crow as a clever liar who was eventually banished to the sky. The crow can still be seen as the constellation Corvus in the night sky riding on the back of Hydra, the water snake. Roosting crows signaled the start of the Sabbath to early Hebrews.

John M. Marzluff & Tony Angell - In The Company of Crows and Ravens

#John M. Marzluff #Tony Angell #crows #ravens #corvids

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lionsongfr · 5 years ago

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Flight Jobs: Ice Flight

-Judge, Jailer, Warden, Prison Guard, Bounty Hunter, Tracker, Diplomat, Constable, Herald, Knight, Gatekeeper, Trainer, Bodyguard, Shade Hunter, Recruiter, Tax collector, Ambassador

-Archivist, Scribe, Historian, Scholar, Analyst, Accountant/Treasurer, Cartographer, Clerk, Lore Keeper, Hermit, Teacher

-Paleontologist, Meteorologist, Biologist, Geologist, Cryopreservation Scientist

- Explorer/Adventurer, Search and Rescue, Surveyor, Scout, Ranger, Forester, Gamekeeper

-Guides: Mountaineering, Nature/Wildlife, Fishing, Kayaking/Canoeing, Hunting

-Miner/Burrower, Builder, Mason, Carpenter, Ice Carver, Woodcarver, Cartwright/Sled Maker, Lantern maker, Locksmith

-Hunter, Trapper, Furrier, Tanner, Logger, Scavenger, Forager

- Fisher, Sailor, Whaler, Shipwright, Fishmonger, Ice Fisher, Oil driller/ Roughneck, Deckhand, Captain

-Farmer/Herder, Weaver, Spinner, Animal Trainer/Breeder, Musher (sled), Shepherd

-Barber/Hair stylist, Horn trimmer, Innkeeper, Merchant/Trader, Antiques Dealer

-Storage Keeper/Chef (preservation of food), Bar keeper/bartender, Drink maker/Brewer, Sommelier

-Radio Host/Broadcaster, Bard/Minstrel, Musician, Storyteller, Poet, Composer, Actor (I mean they need something to do on those long winter nights!)

-Weather witch/forecaster, Druid/Shaman, Astrologer, Mage, Wizard

-Herbalist, Perfume/ Incense Maker, Messenger (think Tundra ability to smell)

-Undertaker/Mortician, Necromancer (corpse preservation?), Cryosurgeon

-Brigand/Raider/Pirate

Feel free to add more!

#Flight rising #Ice Flight #fr headcanon #lore #my headcanon #jobs

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elsewhereuniversity · 5 years ago

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Wren and Not-Wren and their Story

This is the tale of the two young men who live in North Dorm, room 413. The Boy With The Swords, Befriender of Birds, Woodcarver and Charm-Maker. The Boy With Cat Eyes, Companion of Chaos, a Changeling Twice Over. Both of them are absolutely filthy fucking Homestucks and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.

But, before I can tell you their story, I have to tell you another.

Once, a long time ago, a young lady (we’ll call her Uther) had two wonderful little children, fraternal twins, a boy and then a girl. And then, and then.

Uther had promised away her firstborn for the ability to have children at all, and her deal was collected before her little daughter was old enough to remember to forget her brother. And then, and then.

The *now* only child grew up, strong and smart, a lovely little daughter. Uther was over-protective some days, absent some days, some days just barely balanced. And then, and then.

Uther’s deal was with a Gentry, raising the boy as a pet for his Queen. The boy grew up, strong and smart, a perfect little thing. And then, and then.

They both learned, in time, that they were not so very fraternal after all. The girl learned, and became only a teen. The boy learned, and became only a tool. And then, and then.

The boy became a tool, sent out to replace others taken like he’d been, so long ago. The ‘girl’ became a teen, learning and questioning ever so much more. And then, and then.

The teen grew older, becoming an adult, and there came a point wherein they’d learned too much. And then, and then.

The little brown bird with many pink eyes that appeared in the adult’s dreams heralded a letter of acceptance to Elsewhere University the very next morning. And then, and then.

Now I can tell you the story of Wren and Not-Wren, and how it started.

The adult read the acceptance letter and their mother wept, for she knew that they must go. Neither of her children knew how hard it hit to lose them both.

That is not the story that I must tell you, though. This is the story of Wren, and Not-Wren.

The adult took a room in the North Dorm, the Anchor-Shaped one, with Iron in its walls. They’d read about things like this, you know.

They’d read about Iron and Salt, and blood and handshakes, and how you mustn’t trade away your firstborn. But– they were a firstborn, and hadn’t been traded, had they? No, they must be safe.

They dyed their hair in honor of the dream-bird, and– well. The safest name to go by here is one you Know that isn’t yours, yes? They were used to answering to “Wren” after all.

Wren made friends, made allies, and would do most anything to help a friend. And they did, and spent many months in mundane time somewhere Else than school. And then, and then.

The mundane day after they left, a tool was put in place. They attended classes, looked like Wren, spoke like Wren, had the same accent and the same handwriting.

They were, of course, a changeling, and it showed. After all, they were Not Wren.

They dyed their hair in honor of the greenery of the court they’d left, and– well. The safest nickname to go by was something that wasn’t a name at all, but was nonetheless true. And then, and then.

The two were very different. Wren loved birds, and Not-Wren ate them. Not-Wren loved cats, and Wren feared them. Wren loved the courses in Woodshop and in Languages, while Not-Wren preferred not attending class at all.

They had their similarities, though. Both loved blades, both had *some* sort of interest in birds, and both knew nothing about them being siblings.

Both were also, despite outward appearances and upbringings, wholly human, and entirely folly to the human emotion called friendship.

They made friends with a book wyrm, with a chaotic little smith, with a whirlwind on skates. A man who speaks in hands and a monolith of stone. A witch of ink, a stargazer. A boy with a lyre and a girl made of flowers.

Of course, they’d made enemies too. The court of Not-Wren’s upbringing. The forces who fought the monolith. The court of silvered glass. A corner-witch with a grudge. And then, and then.

And one day, Wren pulled a Sword from a Stone, and they were allowed to keep it and train, defending others. And one day, Not-Wren went home to his court, and was given leave to stay in the mundane realm, to stay and train, in case of need.

Time went past. Wren made more friends, saved more friends, acquired more swords. He gave the truth of his Dead Name and the truth of his new Name to the best of hands.

Time went past. Not-Wren made more friends, made more chaos, ate more birds. He was given the truth of his Human Name, and the truth of his family, by the worst of mothers.

And one day, the brothers were both in the same place, at the same time. They rejoiced, they learned, and they lived. They attended school, and they worked on projects, and Wren saved more friends and Not-Wren wriggled free from his court.

Or, he tried. Which he? Both, you could say. A mother, taken in place of a firstborn. A firstborn, trading himself for his family. A swordsman, fighting his way to save them both.

But before I can tell you that story…

[x]

#stories #long post #Wren and Not-Wren and their Story #wren #not wren #HOMESTUCK WREN #(s)#changelings #stolen away #firstborn #submission

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writingquestionsanswered · 5 years ago

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Hi! I'm sorry to bother you but maybe you can help me. I'm writing a story in a magic setting and I need help choosing names for jobs. I tried Google but most names that come up are just "healer" or whatever and that doesn't cut it because not everyone is a doctor. So I was wondering if you have any ideas or knew anyone that could help me. If you can't, that's ok! Thank you for your help!

Fantasy Occupations & Quest Roles

I’m not sure if you’re looking for occupations for a village or for a group, but here are some possibilities besides healer...

Quest Roles -- leader-- fighter/mercenary -- spy-- scout-- sorcerer/magician/witch-- scholar/sage-- archer-- knight-- shaman/priest/priestess-- hunter/trapper-- assassin-- thief-- bard-- servant/slave-- cook-- noble (sometimes an investor)-- lawyer (sometimes sent by an investor)-- messenger/courier-- adventurer/explorerFantasy Occupations

-- alchemist -- alewife -- apothecary/herbalist -- archivist -- artisan -- bailiff -- baker -- banker -- blacksmith -- boatman -- boatwright -- brewer -- brothel keeper -- butcher -- carpenter -- cartwright -- chandler/candlemaker -- chimney sweep -- clerk -- cobbler -- constable -- cook -- cooper -- falconer -- farmer -- farrier -- fisherman -- fishmonger -- furrier -- gamekeeper -- goatherd -- gravedigger -- greengrocer -- guardsman -- hayward -- herald -- hunter -- innkeeper -- inventor -- jailer -- jeweller -- judge -- laundress -- leatherworker -- maid -- mapmaker -- master of hounds -- merchant -- messenger -- midwife -- miller -- milkmaid -- miner -- minstrel -- monk -- nun -- ostler -- oysterer -- peddler -- physician -- pie seller -- plowman -- potter -- prostitute -- reeve -- sailor -- scrivener -- scullery maid -- seamstress -- servant -- shepherd -- sherrif -- shoemaker -- silversmith -- stablehand -- stonemason -- summoner -- surgeon -- tailor -- tanner -- tavern keeper -- tax collector -- thatcher -- toymaker -- trapper -- watchman -- weaver -- woodcarver

Since these occupations could be found in medieval times, to learn more about each one you can Google “what was a medieval [occupation]” and see what comes up. :)

————————————————————————————————-Have a question? My inbox is always open, but make sure to check through my post master lists first to see if I’ve already answered a similar question. :)

#writing #writing tips #wqaadvice #wqaworld

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elerosselavellan · 5 years ago

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𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻

repost, don’t reblog !

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

full name. Elerosse Feynlassan Lavellan

pronunciation. El-eh-ross Feyn-las-san La-vel-lan

nicknames. El, Ele, Inquisitor, Herald

height. 5’4”

age. 23

zodiac. Gemini

languages. Common, Elvish, just enough Antivan to sort of barter.

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

hair colour. Black, takes on reddish tones in direct light

eye colour. Bright golden green

skin tone. Deep, warm-toned brown with lots of freckles.

body type. Extremely thin and bony, little muscle definition.

accent. Definitely influenced by living in the Free Marches, but not especially distinct

dominant hand. Right

posture. Pretty good, he thinks it makes him look taller.

tattoos. Vallaslin, pale gold in a design honoring June that extends down on to his chest and back.

most noticeable features. Ears, tattoos

CHILDHOOD.

place of birth. Inland plains near Ostwick

hometown. Wildlands in the far eastern Free Marches

birth weight / height. Small and underweight due to being premature.

first words. Aside from the usual mama/dada it was probably something simple like halla

siblings. One half-brother in Antiva City

parents. Assan (Father), Leana (Mother)

parental involvement. Both of his parents were somewhat absent in his upbringing and much of his early care was given by his paternal uncle, the clan’s craftsman, instilling a love of crafting in a young Elerosse. His mother chafed against the nomadic, traditional culture of the clan and the struggle of having a perpetually sickly child, eventually leaving when El was about six. His father was always distant, even before his wife left, and highly preferred to spend his time hunting rather than raising his son. Naturally, there’s a fair amount of resentment on El’s part, but his relationship with his father has slowly begun to mend recently.

ADULT LIFE

occupation. First to the keeper, Inquisitor

current residence. Skyhold, though he does keep a modest apartment in Kirkwall, especially after Trespasser.

close friends. Select members of his inner circle, very few others in Skyhold.

relationship status. Verse dependent (Romanced Iron Bull in-game)

financial status. Relatively poor, but comfortable, growing up with his clan. Significantly wealthier as Inquisitor.

criminal record. None

SEX & ROMANCE.

sexual orientation. Homosexual

romantic orientation. Homoromantic

preferred emotional role. submissive | dominant | switch | unsure

preferred sexual role. submissive | dominant | switch | sex repulsed

libido. Medium-high

turn on’s. Size differences, light restraint, slow and drawn out exploration of each other’s bodies

turn off’s. Excessive roughness without warning, racially-inspired dirty talk

love language. Lots of just casual touching and being close, small gifts of trinkets/flowers/interesting rocks or shells he’s found

relationship tendencies. Elerosse is a champion at crushing hard, pining, then not making the first move. He’s terminally shy when it comes to speaking up about his feelings. Once he is involved, though, he’s intensely loyal and highly prefers monogamy.

MISCELLANEOUS.

character’s theme song. Hero by Family of the Year or Wooden Nickels by The Eels

hobbies to pass the time. Studying different forms of magic, woodcarving

mental illnesses. Anxiety, PTSD after the conclave

physical illnesses. Chronically underweight, mostly deaf in his right ear

left or right brained. Left brained

fears. Failure, disappointing the people he’s close to, not living up to his own expectations.

self confidence level. Even though he’s gotten pretty good at projecting confidence and self-assurance, he’s an anxious mess inside most of the time and constantly second-guesses even the smallest of decisions.

vulnerabilities. Physically, pretty much everything. He’s a stringbean who could probably get knocked over by a stiff breeze. Emotionally, he’s extremely sensitive to anything that might be perceived as disappointment, belittling or speaking down to him. It’s something he’s aware of, and does his best not to let it get the better of him, but that’s one of the quickest ways to upset him.

tagged by: @kaaras-adaar

tagging: Everybody!! :D

#about elerosse #meme

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sky-scribbles · 6 years ago

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Laughter In The Fade

Happy birthday, @norroendyrd!

For my birthday, Norroen wrote me this beautiful fic about her Maedhros using his woodcarving skill to assist my Elera; for her birthday, I wanted to write something about Elera returning the favour (this time set in a universe where Maedhros is Inquisitor and Elera is an agent of the Inquisition.)

His fingers moving with the ease and confidence that only years of practice can create, Maedhros sets his knife to the wood. Curled shavings fall to the grass, and the solid block melts into shape. The soft scrape of the blade is one of few sounds in the Skyhold garden – the place is still and quiet, with only a few gardeners and Chantry sisters wandering its paths. No one seems to have noticed his presence in the corner of the cloister, enjoying the solitude and the sunlight as he whittles away at the woodwork nestled in his lap.

Clamping his pipe awkwardly between his lips – he doesn’t have a free hand to steady it – Maedhros examines the emerging form. Four legs and a head. It could become any kind of animal, and he’s debating whether to debating thin the legs down to a deer’s delicate limbs or chisel them out firmly into the stocky form of a bear, when he becomes aware that he is not alone.

It’s the whisk of wood against grass that gives her away. Maedhros looks up to see her coming, feeling the way before her with her staff, the rounded end sliding over the ground to guide her path. He coughs, partly to clear the pipe smoke from his throat in case she intends to speak to him, and partly so she can use the sound to pinpoint his location. At the noise, she turns her head towards him, and while her eyes – sky-blue, blind – don’t focus on him in the way those of a sighted person would, they still gaze in his direction.

‘Aneth ara, Inquisitor,’ she says, dipping her head.

Maedhros can’t help but purse his lips. Not that he’s displeased with her presence – no, there are admittedly few people whose company he doesn’t mind when he’s seeking some peace and quiet, but this girl is one of them. He and Elera are not close, exactly, but she’s quiet, undemanding, doesn’t waste time on small talk. No, his lips curve towards each other instinctively because hearing himself greeted in Elvhen is alien to him. It reminds him of old days – long-gone, shining days when a clan followed behind him, before he – he, in his thoughtlessness, his negligence –

Well, that’s part of it, isn’t it? It makes his skin prick to hear the words aneth ara because that’s how his clan would have greeted him. And he no longer has a clan.

But he pushes down the feelings of mingled pain and guilt and discomfort, and removes the pipe from his mouth. ‘Something I can help with?’

She shakes her head. ‘Something I can help you with. Perhaps. Only if you want.’

Maedhros frowns, but waves to the bench beside him, indicating that she can sit down. He then realises that this gesture has no meaning for her, so he thumps the bench instead. She seems to understand, and lowers herself into place.

For some time, they sit there without speaking, which Maedhros appreciates. Sometimes, the young people around Skyhold – well, young people in general, really – seem to be in a dreadful hurry to blurt everything out, which rather makes them resemble excitable mabari, leaping around in circles and barking fit to burst. It’s pleasant to have people around - like Blackwall, like this Elera, and like… a certain ambassador who Maedhros shall not allow himself to dwell on, for fear that he won’t be able to stop – who are willing to let silences unfold, to linger in them cosily.

‘I was dreaming last night,’ Elera says at last, and Maedhros knows she doesn’t mean dreaming but Dreaming, using her near-unique abilities to shape the Fade around her and control its twisting paths. He’s gained some measure of power over his own dreams, since the Mark, and it’s been a blessing. At last, he can steer his mind away from unpleasant memories. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes, like the previous night, the dreams are too overwhelming. They scream so loudly in his mind that it seems like a miracle everyone in Skyhold can’t hear –

Maedhros’s whittling hand goes still. His throat is dry, and not from the pipe. He knows what Elera is about to say.

‘I lost focus,’ Elera goes on. ‘Without noticing it, I strayed out of my own mind, and into…’ Her hands tighten on her staff. ‘Ir abelas. I didn’t mean to wander into your memories - I didn’t even realise they were yours until after I had finished watching.’

Maedhros slices at the wood again, perhaps a bit more vigorously than he intended. ‘I suppose for a Dreamer, my mind was like a beacon on a mountaintop last night.’

‘Yes. But that was no excuse for… intruding.’

‘Cole does so all the time.’

‘But that is part of his nature. For me, it was only curiosity. Curiosity that I’m now ashamed of. I’m sorry.’

Laying down his tools – he can’t focus on them – Maedhros turns toward her. ‘How much did you see?’

Her face is very clear in the bright afternoon light, from the halla-pale hair to the weaving turquoise lines of her vallaslin, worn so boldly, so confidently. So differently to how he wears the tired, faded patterns at the fringes of his cheeks. ‘I saw what happened to your clan. I saw how the demon possessed your Second, while you were away. I saw… everything that followed.’

Maedhros grips the edge of the bench so tightly that his knuckles hurt. What must she think of him, this child who is so… so everything he isn’t? She has never failed her clan. And now she knows what he is: a failure. The bedraggled, ageing mess of a Keeper who could not get anything right, not for anyone. Not for his own daughter – dear, sweet Minaeve, cast out into the forest and guided to the Templars at the demands of his clamouring clan. Not for his clan, butchered by the demon of Envy that snaked into the mind of his Second while he was not there to prevent it. Not for the Inquisition, who call him Herald, Inquisitor, leader, hero, and who, perhaps, he’ll let down as badly as everyone else.

He closes his eyes, waiting for Elera to tell him that he is not worthy of any of his titles: Keeper, Dalish, Inquisitor. Instead, she says – and very softly, too – ‘May I show you something? It will only take a few minutes.’

Maedhros blinks at her. ‘Show me what?’

‘Something that may help.’

His initial reaction is suspicion. You can’t help memories like these. They… they are things that happened, things that twist around your past like thorns, and there’s no undoing them. He starts to say how, but the word seems to get lost on the way to his mouth, and what comes out is, ‘Why?’

A smile flickers across her lips. ‘Cole told me I should.’

Maedhros’s suspicion fades a little. Cole. Cole stood beside him when he confronted an Envy demon again, when he had to face the worst of his memories and the darkest promises of the future. Cole, who can tease even the thorniest tangles out of people’s hearts. If Cole thinks Elera needs to speak with him… well, perhaps he should listen.

‘Very well,’ he says. ‘What... what is it?’

Elera smiles again, and lowers her head as if in intense concentration. Maedhros starts to ask her what she’s doing, but then –

Then the world blinks out of focus. And suddenly Maedhros is no longer sitting in the garden, but standing in the Hinterlands, listening to wind brush the pines and footsteps slapping on cobblestones as refugees bustle about the Crossroads. Frost coats the ground in a shimmering silver layer, and if the edges of the scene are a little fuzzy, as scenes in the Fade so often are… well, it doesn’t make it any less beautiful.

‘Solas did this once,’ Maedhros says. ‘Brought me into the Fade to speak to me.’

‘It wouldn’t be possible without your Mark, even with the aid of a Dreamer. It’s quite extraordinary.’

Maedhros feels that he should make some astute, scholarly remark, something about the nature of the Fade or the abilities given to him by the Anchor, but as so often happens when he needs to engage in conversation with others, his brain fails to supply him with anything. So all he says is, ‘What was it that you wanted to show me?’

Elera beckons, and he follows her. She walks confidently, assuredly – for here in the Fade she can see as well as he can – across the dirt pathways and through the trees until they reach the place where tents have been set up, ragged patchwork things clinging halfheartedly to poles, tired faces peering out from under the flaps.

Here, Maedhros takes a step back as a man brushes past them as if he can’t see them – which he probably can’t. This is a Fade memory, after all, a memory that they don’t belong in, a memory they can only visit and watch. Maedhros turns to watch the passing man and recognises the thick fur coat and the soft tread: this is the hunter who sent himself and his fellow Inquisition agents into the hills for ram meat. And he’s not alone. Inquisition scouts flank the hunter, helping him to heave a heavy iron pot towards the tents. Even though it’s only a memory, the scent of the stew is thick and enticing.

And then everything bursts into sound and movement. Tent flaps burst open. Children squeeze out from every corner, eyes alight, mouths open and laughing. Small figures crowd around the pot as the hunter and the scouts set it down, batting at the steam rising from it and grinning from ear to ear as the bowls they hold out are filled with rich chunks of meat.

‘You did this,’ Elera says, raising her voice over the bustle of noise. ‘You went into the wilderness and brought food for them. And the children who saw their homes burn and their friends slain under demon claws – those children laughed again.’

Maedhros stares. His throat feels tight.

The image flickers, falters, changes. Everything goes dark, and then shapes meld out of the darkness. This is a place he’s never been to before, a small wooden house – Fereldan, by the look of the woodwork – where a young human woman sits at a table, kneading a ball of dough. Flour dusts her face, and there are wet marks in it, like she’s been crying. A boy of about eight sits in a corner, pretending to read a book, but mostly glancing towards a window.

‘Who are they?’ Maedhros murmurs the words. Even though they can’t hear him, it feels important not to disturb them.

‘I don’t know their names,’ Elera says. ‘But her wife –’ She nods towards the baking woman – ‘is here in Skyhold now. She’s a scout under Harding’s command. The Avvar took her prisoner in the Fallow Mire.’

A thump at the door. The young mother glances up, fear and anticipation stark on her face. She pulls the door open, not bothering to wipe the flour from her hands, and a man – a friend, perhaps, a brother – stumbles inside. ‘She’s safe,’ he says. The words can’t spill from his mouth fast enough. ‘She’s all right. She was taken prisoner, but the Herald found her and set her free, and she’s safe, she sent a message – ’

And the boy lets out a breathless laugh of delight and runs to his mother, who sweeps him up and spins him in a circle above her head, her dull eyes suddenly filling with life and colour and the messenger beaming to watch them.

‘He thought his ma wouldn’t come home,’ Elera whispers. ‘And now look. He’s laughing, and he thought he never would again.’

Another image, materialising in place of the little family – and this time, Maedhros sees himself. He’s kneeling in the Skyhold courtyard, barefoot on the grass, and he’s holding out a wooden toy. It’s a delicate thing, hand-carved: a halla with gracefully interwoven antler-tines, and little flicks of the chisel forming a swirling pattern of hair on its back. Reaching out fat hands to take it is a little dwarven girl – the daughter of one of the quartermasters’ assistants, Maedhros thinks. She runs her fingers across its flanks, her smile too big for her face. Then, squealing out thanks, she rushes away across the grass, lifting it up and down as she goes as if she’s imagining the wooden legs bounding over the courtyard.

‘You made that,’ Elera says. ‘Not just the halla. You made her laugh.’

And then they’re sitting in the garden again. Maedhros blinks the unexpected nap from his eyes, and looks at Elera. ‘I... I’m not sure I understand.’

She shakes her head, smiling. ‘It isn’t enough for you, is it, seeing the Rifts seal under your hands, or the nobles write letters thanking you for all you’ve done? It’s not enough to see the Inquisition’s banner flying from every settlement whose people can finally go to sleep without fearing that demons will bear down on them. And it’s not enough to hear people saying you’re a good person, and we’re so glad you’re here. I thought this might be enough, or... something close to it.’

Elera gets to her feet. ‘Ir abelas. I am… so sorry for your loss, hahren. I know I can’t even imagine how hard it must be to carry that weight. But... if you really doubt your worth... remember that you’ve done something beautiful. Something that only someone truly good, and kind, and brave, and special, could ever do. You made the children laugh.’

She gets to her feet, takes up her staff, and makes her way across the garden, tapping out her path as she goes. Maedhros watches her until she’s out of sight, then clasps his hands together and closes his eyes.

She’s right. He’s been told a great many times that he’s a good man, the hero who saved the lives of everyone in Haven, the one who faced down Corypheus and led the survivors to Skyhold. He’s been told, by the few who know the truth, that he’s not to blame for the fate of his clan. And yet… it’s hard to feel the truth of that, when he has so much to regret.

But now… now, perhaps, he has things that he doesn’t regret. He doesn’t regret that his life has led him here, to a place where he could make those children happy again. He’s glad he made them laugh. He’s… proud that he could, and pride is something that he thought had died a long, long time ago.

He feels comfortably as though his eyes have grown wet. Dear Creators, they have, haven’t they? And that, bizarrely, makes him smile, because… well, when was the last time he cried over something good?

‘Milord? Inquisitor? Are you all right?’

Maedhros’s head jolts upwards. Elgar’nan’s mercy, he didn’t hear her coming, and he’s probably got wet cheeks – not to mention tousled hair from his unplanned snooze – and there are wood shavings everywhere and this is no way to appear in front of Josephine, and what must she think of him, she –

She – she’s looking at him with concerned, gentle eyes, and the afternpon light is glittering on that golden dress she always wears. She looks like she’s made from sunlight. And everything about her is so beautiful, and perhaps there’s a reason why the dawn lotus planted in the seeding pots behind her is suddenly blossoming in bright gold flowers that are very much not the natural shade for that plant, even though Maedhros should be experienced enough by now not to lose control of his magic. And maybe, oh, just maybe, if he’s a man who makes children laugh, he deserves to think about how beautiful she is.

So he smiles at her.

‘Yes, Josephine,’ he says. ‘I’m quite all right.’

#hope i could get him in character!#i just wanted to make him happy :)#and happy birthday #to my amazing friend who deserves all the love #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor lavellan #inquisitor x josephine #josephine x lavellan #birthday gift #sky's writing

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ornamental-wood-carver · 5 years ago

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Impression of the day, not finished yet. Carving a helmet and crest.

#familycrest #familycoatofarms #woodcarving #heraldry #heraldiek #familienwappen #stemmadifamiglia #custom woodwork #heraldic woodcarving

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ruki-the-hunter · 6 years ago

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Here's another one for ya! 38. “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes..

@shiverpeakstraveler OMG This one was a toughy but I nailed it! Lavellan/Cullen

My how the tables had turned. It was rare for the Inquisitor to be left in Skyhold and her darling Commander to be out on an adventure. The normally circumspect Cullen had rode off into the night on his horse to Gods know where and his mission was hidden in secrecy in her two other tight lipped advisers. The Dalish woman wondered Skyhold aimlessly, looking for ways to entertain herself.

She dabbled in woodcarving with Warden Blackwall, the man was patient and had father-like pride in the rough halla she attempted to carve. She had tea with Solas in his rotunda, she knew the other elf detested tea but admired his willingness to choke it down to humor the Inquisitor. Drinks with Dorian in the library, plenty of horribly dressed nobles to judge from the rims of their wine glasses. Playing the violin with the Iron Bull and his Chargers while they drunkenly sang tavern songs. Sat on the roof of Herald’s Rest with Sera as they laughed about posh nobles and ate more of her “pride cookies” that were much better than her previous attempt. Finally finished that halla mural in her private quarters she started when they had first settled in Skyhold.

Ruki sat on her bed with a prideful smile. A day full of activities to distract the lovesick knot in her stomach. She glanced over at her grandfather clock against her wall. A pained frown adorned her lips as she threw herself backwards onto her pillows in a huff. “Ma ghilana mir din'an!!” she cried. She had managed to cram what felt like days worth of activities in a mere three hours. She knotted her fingers in her platinum hair and rolled over to her side. This was it. This was her fate. She was going to die of boredom in bed waiting for her vhenan to return to her. Wherever he went. The elf blinked before sitting up in bed. Perhaps there was more around Skyhold to do?

Played a round of chess with Dorian,and won mind you, and could confirm her Commander was right when he blamed Dorian for always trying to cheat. “I let you win,” the man protested. “Cullen would never let me hear the end of it if I won.”

Sat with Cole over the battlements, their feet dangled from the edge as she asked Cole to read her: “You’re too bright, like counting birds against the sun. The Mark makes you more, but past it… you reach across. Mindful. Meaning. You pull it through to this side, and make it real here. Past that, the weight of all on you. All the hopes you carry. Fears you fight. You are theirs.” Cole never made eye contact with Ruki as he spoke, but a faint smile happened to cross him. “You are a flickering flame. Wrath and warmth. Sanctuary to your allies. Destruction to your enemies. Brilliantly beautiful and bright. I hope I helped.” The friendly spirit perked up. “I need to see her, where is she? But first I must hide it.”

“Cole?” Ruki started as the clicking of the main gate snapped her attention. When she looked back at Cole he had vanished into the wind, she only shook her head in amusement as she peered down down the battlements. Her eyes lit up in glee.

Her Commander had dismounted his stallion and handed the reigns to the horsemaster, he clutched something small to his chest as he glanced about as if trying to see if someone was watching him. He made his way up the steps of the Keep and disappeared into the doorway of Solas’ rotunda. Taking the shortcut to the library to speak with Dorian, she hoped. She doubted Cullen would be seek council with Solas willingly.

While her Commander was out of sight, she bounded down the stairs, two at a time, and skidded past Varric with a “Got somewhere to be?” tease from the dwarf. The Inquisitor waved him off as she ducked into her private quarters, failing to close her door behind her. As she jogged up her steps, in the quiet throne room the voices of Cullen and Varric echoed off the walls.

“Varric have you seen the Inquisitor?”

“I don’t know what you’ve done but she ran into her quarters like her ass was on fire, Curly!”

Like a the graceful halla she admired so she slid onto her couch and picked up her copy of Hard in Hightown and started to read as the door shut and the clanking of Cullen’s armor started up the stairs.

“Darling? Are you up here? Varric said you rushed in here in a hurry.” Cullen’s voice was heavy with concern as he finally appeared at the top of the stairs. His wavy hair was disheveled and his face bore his exhaustion from his ride but he still mustered a smile for his Inquisitor.

Ruki beamed as she bounded to her feet. “Cullen! You’re–”

Cullen held his hand out to her. “Not so quick now, if you’re feeling ill I don’t want you to make it worse.”

Great. Cullen had somehow convinced himself that she was ill, what an adorably worrisome little shem. Ruki bit her lip in thought. She was craving attention from Cullen all day, and if she were ill he’d ask Cassandra to catch up on his work and would spend the night with her. Her plan was wonderfully deceitful and somewhat stupid but it was a plan regardless!

“Oh… yeah…” she whined. “My head has been hurting all morning, vhenan!” she was no actress but Cullen was adorably gullible when it came to her antics. Surely the two would cancel out. The elf made her way to the Commander. “Oh my,” the elf intentionally slipped and was relieved in her Commander’s quick reflexes to catch her. She theatrically draped her arm over her face and sighed. “My head,” she whimpered. “I think I may have a fever.”

“A fever?” Cullen questioned as he used his teeth to pull off one of his gloves and pressed the back of his hand to his Inquisitor’s forehead. He exhaled through his nose and shook his head, his lip switching in a playful smirk as he tossed his glove aside. “Are you sure about that?”

Ruki opened one of her eyes and removed her arm and draped it around the neck of her vhenan. “Not theatrical enough for you, love?”

Cullen couldn’t help it but to smile as he chuckled. “My dear you fainted straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention after being gone all day you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” He dipped his head down and kissed his silly elf passionately. He smiled against her lips and purred. “Please… don’t ever change.”

#lavellan #cullavellan #cullen rutherford #look at my dork go!#ruki writes

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documentaryfilmnapier · 4 years ago

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The Great Ecstasy of the woodcarver Steiner:

The documentary looks into Walter Steiner'sSteiner's physiology, an accomplished ski-flyer who is at the top of his profession. Being at the top for Steiner is an exciting paradigm; he is adored by people worldwide for his impressive skill; however, he experiences isolation due to exceptional talent. Steiner is pushed, perhaps by those less informed than himself, to do jumps and test boundaries which he is not comfortable with. The exile he feels causes him extreme frustration as he has proven time and time again his prowess in the sport but when he brings up his concerns about the sport he is ignored by officials and his word seems to count for nothing.

The whole film seems to flirt with this idea of the two sides of the same coin or a double-edged sword. Steiner is heralded as a star of the sport; however, his knowledge is undermined when he wishes to confront those in charge. He wants to effect change within the sport to help make it safer but is seen as a successful athlete who has thoughts above his station. In the film we see Steiner in his isolation, he is competing at an entirely different level as his peers, he is surrounded by fans and reports who want the chance to say hi or get a quick interview but do not care to exchange with him but want to say that they have met the most famous ski-flyer in the world. I think the film plays with the exciting idea of fame and how it creates isolation; when a person becomes famous for something they become known by so many people worldwide, they function differently in society. In comparison to the worldwide population, only a small handful of people are known and loved by thousands and thousands of people; therefore, they are propelled to a higher place in society and become isolated.

The imagery in the film is breathtaking and clearly illustrates the double-edged nature of the subject matter. One moment you can feel at one with nature as you sore through the air and then in the blink of an eye, you could be hurtling down a hill at inhuman speed after a poor landing. It cuts to the core of Walter Steiner'sSteiner's frustration as it demonstrates the danger he is putting himself in and as he puts it "do I have to break my skull before they start to listen to me".

Overall, I thought the film was profound and exciting it wasn't just about the success of an accomplished ski-flyer but how success can be a lonely thing.

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fa210 · 5 years ago

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Wednesday, 15 April

WEEK 11: MAORI: Ta Moko

Additional Articles:

Ta moko - significance of Māori tattoos (New Zealand Tourism)

TA MOKO: Libraries on the skin (New Zealand Geographic)

Myth and the moko (Waikato Times)

Sacred Ink: Tattoos of Polynesia

Body Arts: Tattooing (Pitt Rivers Museum)

Rihanna's Maori tattoo helps her overcome past pain (NZ Herald)

Questions & Comments (below)

If the women who receive the chin tattoo, get the tattoo when they feel they are ready to pull it to the surface. Then when do men get their first tattoo in their culture? What is the typical first tattoo they receive?

A: It varies from person to person -- as I understand it, it’s always an individual decision in consultation with other family members

My question for this week is does the meaning of the tattoos make a difference if it’s tattoo’d on different parts of the body?

A: Yes, absolutely. I don’t know the details, but I do know that there are specific meanings -- and specific types of markings -- for different parts of the body. There are also differences in where and what kind of markings different people may receive.

I am loving learning about this culture, especially today's lecture that discussed the power behind Maori women and traditional tattoos. My question is about traditional chin tattoos on Maori women and how it relates back to my question last week on Maori Mythology and the importance of ancestors. The reading discussed how Tā moko represents the wearer's family heritage and social status as it is believed that the receiver visits a spiritual realm where they encounter their ancestors. Does the same apply for the artist that constructs the house posts? Do they too visit a spiritual realm to encounter their ancestors in order to receive a sign of what they should carve into the post as the carving will be a reminder of what they've achieved and how they are making their ancestors proud?

A: Going back to the articles posted earlier about wood carving, I would say yes, they are definitely looking to establish a connection with their ancestors -- with the addition that they are also seeking to encounter & express a connection to the natural world.

After watching the videos and reading about the process of Ta Moko, the forms and designs of the ta moko reminded me of the carvings on the house post figures and in/on the meeting houses. I also read in the article about womens' chin tattoos that the designs represent a certain story and meaning to their tribe and ancestors. Are the designs used for the ta moko the same designs they used on the carvings we looked at the last couple of weeks to represent their ancestors? And are there generic designs for the culture that everyone can read and understand, or are they each individualized? Also, after watching the video on George Nuku's ta moko, the chisel process of the tattooing reminded me of how someone might carve wooden post figures. Could the wood carving have been an inspiration for the ta moko?

A: I’d say that wood carving and ta moko, as well as jewelry, textile patterns and many other art forms, are all related, but different. The patterns and formal patterns are part of what I call a cultural aesthetic -- a long-established preference for a “language” of art and meaning. So the woodcarving and tattooing are part of the same approach to art, rather than one first and the other second. (I hope that makes sense!)

I found it very interesting that the Ta Moko is used on facial features despite its scary look, to appeal to the structure of ones face to emphasize its beauty. Not only are facial moko tattoos used for men but also women. This shows me that this culture really appreciates the beauty of all of its people and emphasizes the beauty of everyone. They get these facial moko tattoos not only to symbolize their cultures ideas of beauty but also to support their culture and express their beliefs.

I think it’s really neat that Ta Moko is such an important part of Maori culture. I’ve always been told by my parents that tattoos are bad, gross, ugly and that I should never put something like that on my body. As someone who enjoys art, I don’t see tattoos that way at all. I think it’s really beautiful to see how this art form connects the Maori people to each other and to their ancestors.

A: It's definitely a complicated thing! I think one aspect of it in our culture, in the US, is that it's also a class thing. There's an association between tattoos and the working class. Some people believe that being tattooed permanently limits the way other people see and judge you, which could limit how far you could rise. There are similar associations between clean skin and purity. So in a way, your parents are trying to protect your future (which is their job) according to the rules and associations they know. But when you think about it, we link ourselves to our ancestors with heirlooms like jewelry. Does that make sense?

It’s crazy how tattoos are huge significant to the Maori culture. The tattoos represent either family or status. Like the girl in the video where she is getting her first tattoo which is a big thing in that culture. The tattoos she is getting is based on her grandparents and she wants to honor them. This makes me wonder why our culture is disgusted by tattoos all together but in most cultures it is socially acceptable? (For a bonus I might to mention a tattoo I got recently with my sister. Both tattoos represent us being sisters, our interest and our constellations.)

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