#imperial granite

[rkmarblesindiaa]

Imperial Red Granite manufacturer & supplier

In the world of natural stone, Imperial Red Granite stands out for its striking appearance and durability. This premium granite, with its deep red hues and intricate patterns, has become a top choice for various architectural and design applications. As a result, the role of Imperial Red Granite manufacturers and suppliers is crucial in ensuring that this remarkable material is accessible to clients and meets the highest standards of quality. This article explores the significance of Imperial Red Granite, the responsibilities of manufacturers and suppliers, and the factors that contribute to its growing popularity.

The Appeal of Imperial Red Granite

Imperial Red Granite is renowned for its distinctive appearance, characterized by its rich red base interspersed with dark speckles and veins. This granite’s vibrant color and elegant texture make it a favored choice for high-end applications, including countertops, flooring, and wall cladding. Its deep, warm tones add a touch of luxury and sophistication to any space, making it an ideal material for both residential and commercial projects. Beyond its aesthetic appeal, Imperial Red Granite is valued for its durability. Granite, as a natural stone, is known for its hardness and resistance to scratches, heat, and moisture. This makes Imperial Red Granite an excellent choice for high-traffic areas and surfaces subject to heavy use. Its longevity ensures that it maintains its beauty and functionality over time, providing a lasting investment for any design project.

The Role of Manufacturers and Suppliers

The journey of Imperial Red Granite from the quarry to the end-user involves several key stages, each managed by specialized manufacturers and suppliers. Their role is essential in ensuring that the granite meets high standards of quality and reaches the market efficiently.

Manufacturers are responsible for extracting and processing Imperial Red Granite. This process begins with quarrying the raw granite from designated quarries known for their high-quality deposits. Once extracted, the granite is cut into slabs or tiles and undergoes finishing processes to achieve the desired polish and texture. Skilled craftsmen use advanced technology and techniques to ensure that each piece of granite adheres to the highest standards of quality and precision.

Suppliers, on the other hand, handle the distribution and logistics of Imperial Red Granite. They work closely with manufacturers to source and stock a diverse range of granite products. Suppliers manage the transportation and delivery of the granite, ensuring that it arrives in excellent condition. They also play a crucial role in providing additional services such as custom cutting, edging, and installation support, which help clients achieve their design goals.

Factors Contributing to Popularity

Several factors contribute to the growing popularity of Imperial Red Granite:

Aesthetic Appeal: The striking color and unique patterns of Imperial Red Granite make it a visually appealing choice for a range of applications. Its bold, warm tones can enhance the overall look of any space.

Durability and Longevity: The granite’s durability ensures that it withstands daily wear and tear, making it a practical choice for both residential and commercial projects.

Versatility: Imperial Red Granite can be used in various applications, from kitchen countertops and bathroom vanities to flooring and feature walls. Its versatility makes it suitable for diverse design styles.

Competitive Pricing: Advances in quarrying and manufacturing processes have made Imperial Red Granite more accessible, with competitive pricing ensuring that it remains an attractive option for clients seeking high-quality materials.

Conclusion

In conclusion, Imperial Red Granite is a remarkable material known for its vibrant color and exceptional durability. The role of manufacturers and suppliers is vital in bringing this luxurious granite to the market, ensuring that it meets stringent quality standards and is delivered efficiently. As the demand for premium materials continues to rise, Imperial Red Granite’s combination of beauty and functionality ensures its place as a sought-after choice in the world of natural stone. With ongoing advancements and a commitment to excellence, manufacturers and suppliers will continue to play a key role in making this exquisite granite available to clients around the globe. Imperial Red Granite is a dark Red Granite with blushing black, blue, golden and white color specks. This granite is one of widest choices of red granite.

[ben69solo]

Transitional Home Bar - Wet Bar Wet bar - mid-sized transitional wet bar idea with glass-front cabinets, medium tone wood cabinets and granite countertops

[streetsofdublin]

THE STONE OF REMEMBRANCE

The sunken Garden of Remembrance surrounds a Stone of Remembrance of Irish granite symbolising an altar, which weighs seven and a half tons

GARDEN OF REMEMBRANCE IN ISLANDBRIDGE The sunken Garden of Remembrance surrounds a Stone of Remembrance of Irish granite symbolising an altar, which weighs seven and a half tons. The dimensions of this are identical to First World War memorials found throughout the world. During the construction phase in order to provide as much work as possible the use of mechanical equipment was restricted,…

[ninibeingdelulu]

His biggest fan ✧

Plot: You’re Michael’s girlfriend, cheering him at one of his games.

A/N: It’s so bad I hate it😓

The roar of thunderous cheers flooded the stadium as Michael unleashed another stupefying display of lethal precision and brute physicality that defied mortal comprehension.

You watched with breathless awe seated front row as that signature blue mohawk wove a hypnotic cyclone of calculated ferocity carving apart the helpless defense trailing hopelessly in his wake.

Each savage yet eerily choreographed burst from Michael's heavyweight strides reverberated across the pitch warping the boundaries of space and time itself directly proportional to his gravitational soccer supremacy.

Until the entire cosmos distilled into that infinite singularity split-second with just your striker boyfriend, the ball and the yawning maw of the goal awaiting its inevitable oblation.

You bit down hard stifling the visceral shudder trying to escape as Michael's rocket-powered thunderbolt smashed past the defenseless keeper and ignited the back of the net in a blaze of cosmic glory.

Celebrating with that bone-chilling sovereign roar staking his unchallengeable dominion once more before this mortal realm of sporting conquest still so far beneath his transcendent plane of greatness.

Even after the final whistle sounded you remained spellbound observing Michael bask in those rapturous post-coital moments savoring his ineffable feat.

Utterly transfixed upon the hyper-masculine sculpture of your man still slicked with the spoils of carnal supremacy while casting that chiseled nordic profile against the floodlit heavens he reigned sovereign over.

Until his peripheral laser focus abruptly snapped in your direction lancing directly through your aura with a telepathic tractor beam manifesting into actual physics-warping forces.

Almost like each molecule surrounding Michael compressed and bent inward before being shunted aside clearing his path towards you with terrifying inevitability.

You barely had a chance to brace yourself as the unstoppable tsunami slammed into your front row section without mercy or resistance.

The concussive shockwave blasting through your senses while those titanium bulwarks materialized around you scooping your diminutive frame against Michael's furnace-stoked musculature with crushing intensity.

"My sweet empress…I could only hear your voice back there. It motivated me, thank you.”

His rough-hewn bassline resonated against every nerve ending vibrating at some untapped primordial stratum while you strained to surface through the endless whitenoise overloading your synapses.

Only Michael's low gravitic pulses penetrating the oblivion flooding your faculties from that unholy cosmic union now peeling away every layer keeping you distinct individualities during submersion into this event horizon state of indistinguishable polarities collapsed together.

Until finally resurfacing from that singularity after an eternity compressed into nanoseconds - though still deliriously consumed by the aftershocks rippling across your intertwined vessels smoldering in the embers of rapturous conflagration yet still ravenous for more extreme escalations eternally rebirthing from the expended remains!

Only the roaring crescendos from those frenzied supporters still filling the stadium slowly penetrated the vacuous void reverberating between you both savoring that suspended infinitesimal post-orgasmic bliss together.

You felt Michael's stern facade gradually reassemble while withdrawing from your interiors just fractionally enough to restore individuation-yet sense his alpha dominion expanding throughout your reconstituted synaptic matrices cementing his reign over your fused polarities once more.

Then with a subtle shift his smokey granite stare cleaved directly through the veil drawing your reawakened senses under that spellbinding trance spellbinding instantly.

A hushed imperious rasp now caressing your essence from that primal domain where all worldly laws bent to his sovereign decrees:

"Why don’t I reward you tonight, huh, meine liebe ?”

Just experiencing the infinitesimal microcosm of his supreme essence bleeding into your rematerialized corporeal vessel already whiplashed your senses through multiple clinical deaths and resurrections beyond this plane's dimensional limits.

His seismic vibrational frequencies triggered endorphin avalanches detonating every neurotransmitter into frenzied paroxysms anticipating the ineffable escalations still awaiting together...

[souldagger]

All songs from the Imperial Radch audiobooks (part 2)

(as sung by the wonderful narrator, Adjoa Andoh)

PART 1

Memory is an event horizon What’s caught in it is gone but it’s always there.

Oh, tree! Eat the fish! This granite folds a peach! Oh, tree! Oh, tree! Where's my ass?

Here is the soldier So greedy, so hungry for songs. So many she’s swallowed, they leak out, They spill out of the corners of her mouth And fly away, desperate for freedom.

I am the soldier So greedy, so hungry for songs. So many I’ve swallowed, they leak out, They spill out of the corners of my mouth And fly away, desperate for freedom.

Oh you, who live sheltered by God, who live all your lives in her shadow.

Who only ever loved once? Who ever said “I will never love again” and kept their word?

Jasmine grew In my love’s room It twined all around her bed The daughters have fasted and shaved their heads In a month they will visit the temple again With roses and camellias But I will sustain myself With nothing more than the perfume of jasmine flowers Until the end of my life

A thousand eggs all nice and warm Crack, crack, crack, a little chick is born Peep peep peep peep! Peep peep peep peep! Nine hundred ninety-nine eggs all nice and warm…

[porcelainpocketfighter]

the Flight Rising dragon breeds as Jerma quotes

Fae: The whole moral of the story is, even little guys- even big guy- little guys got some big stuff in their- in their brains. Guardians: Be my Charge, or take this at least two months' supply of chips. The choice is yours. I stand you will make the correct one. Mirrors: Cheeseburgers? Byeah. Hotdogs? Byeah. Donuts? Byeah. Bar fightin'? Byeah. Bug collections? Byeah. Tundra: AAAUUGH- I forgot I was playing a game and I forgot I was streaming and I forgot I was sitting in a chair and I forgot where I was. Pearlcatchers: Why am I so short? Because God doesn't fucking love me. Ridgebacks: I eat more seafood than fruit. I eat more seafood than dairy, I eat more seafood than flour and bread. I don't eat all these other things, I eat SEAFOOD. Snappers: What would you like to say to the scientist a hundred years from now? Seeing a lot of 'Fuck you's'. Now, this scientist is gonna look at this and be like, 'What- how primitive were they? They must have been very primitive. They, immediately on talking to a potential scientist in the future, went right to vulgarities. Primitive species.' Spirals: If you had a fucking battleaxe and you were gonna try to get me with it, you are NOT gonna get me with it. I'm too fast for you. Way too fast. I am fast as FUCK and I have lightning-like reflexes. Bogsneaks: [crawling out from under a log] ANY SCRAPS FOR ME? Obelisks: This is a, um- this is a smoky… a smoky granite.​ ​Oh, I can tell by the flavor.​ Skydancers: I'm telling ya, I- I can like feel- I can like sense it, I can like sense the world around me. I can like feel the fucking world around me. I think I might be claymation. Clairvoyant. Imperials: 'At least they're handsome'. [chuckles] I appreciate that. Nocturnes: Hello, yes, may I come in your house? Thank you. I'M A VAMPIRE, YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT. Coatl: [agitated beatboxing] Wildclaws: What animal do you think I would be? SERIOUS ANSWERS ONLY. I think I'd be a wolf. I would be a wolf-lion hybrid mix. King of the junj- junjle, but still social and with it and ferocious. Aberrations: [10 seconds before being swept into the Wyrmwound] I am as safe as you can possibly be! It's never gonna happen! You'll never dunk me, you fuckers! Fuck all'a ya! It's not gonna ha- Aethers: We're just a bunch of dragons. 'Are you an alien?' …I am. Banescale: Why clean, when you can burn your house down? Gaolers: Global warming? Global warming my ass! Sandsurges: Did somebody say 'next game'? [wind howling in the bg] 'Yeah, let me load up Yakuza'. I'm in the middle of the damn desert, man, what are you talking about? Undertide: There are plenty- plenty- of fish in the sea, you understand? Some of them are small, some of them are big, some of them have- some of them are very mean, some of them'll dump ya. But as you can see, there's plenty of good fish too. Look, you see? There's this fish right here that's VERY good potential, like, spouse material. Veilspun: I'm not tiny, I'm compact!

[whencyclopedia]

Temple of Saturn, Rome

The 4th century CE Temple of Saturn is situated in the north west corner of the Roman Forum of Rome and has eight majestic columns still standing. Built in honour of Saturn it was the focal point of this ancient cult and stood on the site of the original temple dedicated in c. 497 BCE, which itself had replaced the god's first shrine, the Ara Saturni. In addition, during the Republic the temple also housed the public treasury (aerarium), a function it kept, albeit in a more limited function, in the Imperial period.

Saturn is something of a mysterious figure in Roman religion. Depictions of the god in surviving art have him wearing a veil and brandishing either a sickle or a pruning knife. Perhaps a version of the Greek god Kronos, he was especially worshipped in the Saturnalia festival held every 17th of December (from at least the 5th century BCE) and which lasted several days. This was a festive occasion when people gave gifts to one another, slaves had the freedoms enjoyed by ordinary citizens, more informal clothes were worn instead of the usual toga, and there was a general round of partying and merrymaking which made it the jolliest Roman festival in the calendar; a fact which led Catullus to describe it as 'the best of times'. In later centuries the festival would metamorphose into the Brumalia festival and the similarity of its features and timing - pushed later into December in subsequent centuries - suggest an influence on the Christmas celebration.

The surviving ruins of the temple stand on a pediment of travertine blocks and are themselves composed of pieces recycled from earlier temples. The columns are of the Ionic order and eight still remain on the northern facade. The shafts of the columns are made from Egyptian granite, the two on the side from pink Aswan and the six facade ones from grey Mons Claudianus. Indicative of their differing history, three are monoliths and the others are composed of two pieces fitted together. The Ionic capitals are, in fact, the only parts made specifically for the temple and are from Thasian marble and carved in typical Late Antique style. The architrave carries an Ionic frieze of acanthus leaves and palmettes and came from the previous temple on the site, commissioned by one of Julius Caesar's generals, Lucius Munatius Plancus, in 43 BCE using spoils from the campaigns in Syria.

Within the temple once stood a cult statue of Saturn which became the centre of attention during the Saturnalia when his feet were symbolically freed from the woollen bonds that tied him up for the rest of the year. This act has led to Saturn being associated with liberation, certainly a feature of the Saturnalia festival. The inscription on the exterior of the architrave relates to the reconstruction carried out in the 360s and 370s CE and reads as follows:

SENATVS POPVLVSQVE ROMANVS INCENDIO CONSVMPTVM RESTITVIT

(The Senate and People of Rome, restored following destruction by fire).

Continue reading...

[rottingfern]

strap the wing to me (death trap clad happily) || a Bad Omens fanfic

Pairing: fae!Noah x gender neutral reader (yes the smut is gn too)

Summary: He’s beautiful, so, so gorgeous, unless otherwise he’s completely grotesque, a scent of something eldritch you’d rather not acknowledge. When he kisses you, he tastes of burnt wax and antimony, straps candlewick wings to your aching back, and you don the death trap happily.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: unbeta'd trash. overly flowery written pretty much entirely in prose. smutty smut smut. oral sex. just a tiny whiff of dubious consent by way of fae trickery

A/N: I drank a lot of wine and listened to Hozier on repeat the other night and then saw a very mind-meltingly beautiful pic of Noah on the dash and had a really weird dream and this is the result. Enjoy the ramblings xoxo Fern

Brainrot Club: @familiarscarsxelectrichearts @throughwoodsanddirt @cowpokeomens

Masterlist here.

Title taken from Sunlight by Hozier; banner made by @throughwoodsanddirt; dividers by @saradika

“You lost?” he asks, and that is what ruins you. You’ve heard the old stories of wicked fae-men and how to avoid them - beware strange beings in the wood, don’t stray from the path - but in all the stories, none author had bothered to mention they’d peek around a tree with wide, irresistibly innocent curiosity and ask you, You lost?

There’s a flash of a glint in his eye, a bare twitch in his lip predating what might’ve been a smirk, but you can’t help but smile at the childlike confidence in his voice, and then he smiles back and –

That too is your ruin. There perhaps hasn’t been a sweeter smile - not in your years, not in the years of all of time, you reckon - to grace a human being, and it steals your breath sure as he’d picked it from your pocket. He takes it as an offering, slinking around the trunk with the air of something much smaller, more slight than he; gravity must be a friend, lover, even, with the grace she offers to his motion.

His eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as you take his tattooed hand - an imperious command, or perhaps a childish invitation - granting you the proof of satisfaction you hadn’t known you’d been waiting for, a breath of relief expelling from its locked chamber you’d ignored until now. 

You stare, because how can you not? He is beautiful, yes, but his visage flickers from soft to vulpine with a flicker of shadow and moonlight, something inhuman, dangerous, alien turning well-bred beauty, like the kind some are just born with, masculinity encapsulated by that rare softness. 

He’s beautiful, so, so gorgeous, unless otherwise he’s completely grotesque, a scent of something eldritch you’d rather not acknowledge. Within a breath, he moves from shy, soft smiles to something aloof, something dangerously mischievous, something terrifying when the moon shines just so and you’re reminded of that glint in his eye. You only need blink for that chipped granite of his cheekbone and hardened brow to give way to that downy smile once more, like it had never gone.

You walk over roots, vines and ivies and he is barefoot, feet uncalloused and unscarred.

The trek back to the path is as treacherous as he warned, for which he never lets your hand go - vines threatening to trip you up with each step, roots growing where there were none minutes ago. He regales you with faerie-tales - his childhood, he calls it - and you follow his younger self through burrows and glades and loss and loss and loss and to the rivers and all the girls (and boys) that live in them, the monsters that he’d fought and the girls (and boys) he’d had there after, and to the mountains and still you follow and –

And he pauses, and you’re overcome with the bodily realization that you’re exhausted. You’re not sure how long you’ve walked, but your legs burn. Your feet are torn, shoes and socks evidently long gone somewhere along the way. Your head swims, and he barely turns before you collapse into him. 

You don’t register the hawthorn he’s pressed you up against, solid as stone, until the bark digs through your shirt to chip and stab at your skin, oozing wet warmth down your back that’s conflated blood and sap in your mind. A tsk from his mouth - the sound forms so prettily on his perfectly formed Cupid’s bow - produces a golden fruit in his hand, taken from a bush or his pocket, or somewhere else entirely. You’re too dizzy to follow the movement of his hand. It’s so splendidly shiny, citrine flesh pulled so taught it aches for just the single prick to burst the saccharine juice within. 

Before he even presses it to your lips, the scent makes your molars ache to grind it to a pulp. He teases it, hovering it before your mouth, reveling in your fight against the strong thigh he presses to your core to reach it. 

His fingers brush your lips when he finally acquiesces, and he blushes with a bashful smile like it’d been a mistake, and between his smile and the alchemically intoxicating scent of the fruit, you forget all about the warnings of eating Fae offerings and - 

It bursts like an eyeball with just the barest graze of your teeth, blessed wet rushing to coat your throat liquid as the taste has done to you; it is the sweetest, sharpest flavor you’ve tasted, salty too - though perhaps that’s the tears streaming down your face. Your core throbs a drumbeat. You’re nothing more than meat and nerves and blood in a sac of skin, pulsing as the seeds and pulp slither down your throat. 

Your head dips - involuntarily - to suck the sap from each digit. You want to wrap your legs around him, to grind shamelessly until you too are nothing but sap. 

When he kisses you, he tastes of burnt wax and antimony, straps candlewick wings to your aching back, and you don the death trap happily. 

He draws you down to the bed of moss with kisses and gentle strokes, soft and spongy and earthen and cool and moist beneath your naked skin. His great coat envelops you both, secreting beneath it the dance of his nails (not nails, but claws, unpainted black and whispering a deadly promise) along the planes of your burning, overstuffed skin. He swallows down your whimpers and gasps, curiosity painting his face lent by innocence to understanding his touch is the cause; too light a touch, you think, you need more. 

The callus of his fingers speaks of handiwork as they brush you, painting you red hot and wanting. He watches his brushes as they stroke lower with open fascination, like you’re the one alien and not he. 

You arch into him, begging for your flesh to be flayed from bone, for him to sink those razors he calls teeth down to the marrow. There they are at your chest, dangerously grazing the delicate pebble of your nipple, plump damp lips suckling it as though it is the fruit itself. There is his hand at your thigh, hot palm pressing your leg up his waist, clever, spindly fingers teasing the apex, wandering but never finding home. 

He laughs when you reach for him, for the heat beneath his trousers weighing heavy in the cradle of your hips. “Later,” he tells you, swallowing down your indignant whine before it can burst forth. Now, you want to beg, but then his hand reaches the destination you desire most, shackling you to the singular sensation in short, strong strokes, and you think, okay, later.

Your skin burns, stretched taught and oversensitive as he probes you, knuckles bulbs as they puncture the precipice, only the cool damp of the moss beneath you granting reprieve. You paw at it helplessly, unmoored, gripping up great chunks of it in Sisyphean effort to ground yourself against the fullness.  

He chuckles. “Never said you couldn’t touch,” he mutters against your belly, words muffled by your skin as the vibrations run straight through your core. Something ragged wrenches from you as you dive your hands in his hair, pulling at soft and silky and ink-dark even in the twilight canopy of the wood; a slippery purchase at best as he journeys downward, leaving lush, slick trails in the wake of his mouth that nearly steam against the cool of the breeze. 

He laughs, exultant, and curls those clever fingers inside you hard, bifurcating within you, plying and playing, and teasing and then, then, finally, his head dives between your legs. A hot breath first, a nudge of that pointed nose, then his wicked tongue, licking and lapping and curling, and then those sweet lips wrapping and sucking around you, tongue pressing until you’re reduced to faint breath, until you can only cling with the white static tuned to the red-earthen-hot tune of want. 

You come, spread apart like a dam on the moss. He leeches to you, stroking and sucking and curling and pressing until there’s nothing left in you but shallow heaves and twitching limbs. 

The smirk spreading his mouth when you finally settle in the cradle of his arms is so absurdly silly, so endearing and human, so real, you can’t help but laugh, curling drunkenly into it, each breath a stabbing pain you receive gladly. He gathers you, watching as you laugh, seeming pleased with himself as a cat with cream. 

Together, when you’re once again able, you gather what can be salvaged of your clothes. It’s not much, so he cloaks you in his coat, the unstarched fabric simultaneously stiff and soft against your bare skin, sliding silkily with each step. He guides you along by his lithe arm, veins dancing up the tattooed lengths like sinew upon bark, hand now sticky from being buried within you. 

The fallen leaves ease your way, damp earth gathering between your toes, sluicing off the pain with the cool of it. 

He leads you where? There is no door, no hawthorn trees nor spiderwebs, no shimmering air to pass through yet for a moment you are distracted, and then you are in the woods no longer. The walls are earthen, ancient vines thick as elk climbing like supporting pillars, illimitably, impossibly, reaching for nothing but night sky. The stars, though far above, seem sharper, tangible, and close as you might reach should you choose as you stare into the boundless void between; a darkness luring so sweetly you’d tumble into it for a single unsteady step. 

For the first time since he found you, you do not struggle to look away from him. Walls give way to great earthen colonnades, thousand-story balustrades housing hanging gardens of lady slippers and cowslips and columbines glimmering in the light of torches tall as men. Above it all is still the fathomless, terrifying sky, and everywhere there are people, throngs of faerie folk in every direction as far as you can see. Most pay you no mind but those that do, do so with blessedly parlous curiosity, curling lips clueing teeth that’d bite. 

The sheer number of colors and shapes and bodies has your memory grow fading, evanescent. Some have hooves or scales or feathers, beaks or antlers, and others - just a face the wrong side of sharp, limbs lengthened just past that boundary of eldritch. A few stand out: a man, long-haired and goateed who’d pass human were he not nearly twice the size of a regular man, with sclera deep as bitter licorice; another, flat-faced with the lightest eyes you’d ever seen, veins and sinew and muscle coiling and rippling beneath transparent skin; a creature you struggle to wrap your mind around, a great wolf’s maw forced where the young man’s mouth would be, slitted pupils twitching as he watches you pass, hackles raised. 

Your skin erupts in gooseflesh, and Noah bends his head to nip at it. 

There are three girls standing with heads bowed together, faces painted in warm knavery, identical in all but where they split the embodiment of moon, sun, and void. One’s hands look capable of melting your skin off, and another’s claws drip an ichor you’d let run poison deep below your sluicing skin as you’re blinded by the radiant glow of the third. 

You imagine them spreading you apart, tasting you, tasting them. You’re acutely aware of the heady sourness of your arousal, a scent so human amid bark and earth and animal scent, among burning floral oils.

They are beautiful. They are all beautiful, and you’re struck with a pang of precipitous, desperate hunger. You want all of them. Blisteringly. 

“All of them?” he chuckles, nuzzling the side of your face, insectile fingers gripping your jaw firm with practiced precision. “Greedy.”

Your veins already are hot, pulsing iron, overstimulated and frazzled, but now they spill crimson across your cheekbones, hairline tightening at the tone of his accusation. But he only coos, bringing you in with tangling arms round your waist. 

“Spare me,” he sighs against your temple. “Greed is good. You’ll have it all and more later. But first, let us sate that hunger.” Yes, let us, you think. You never could refuse his command. You hope he will feed you more of those delightful fruits.

[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

[shiyorin]

Animal instincts

#Just romcom in 40K

#Today's menu: Leman Russ and Lion El'Jonson

#Primarchs x Reader, Reader is Imperial Agent

#Late Christmas gift and early New Year gift

Leman Russ

The endless snows of Fenris stretched as far as the eye could see, blanketing mountains and wilds alike under pristine powder. You found yourself overwhelmed at the awe-inspiring landscape, so different from your world upbringing. 

But greatest curiosity lay with one who called these frigid wastes home - Leman Russ, Primarch of the Space Wolves. You observed him now, surrounded by his warriors yet apart, a lone towering figure contemplating the white void. 

His austere features seemed carved from the very stone and ice encasing this planet, immovable yet holding untold depth and power beneath granite exterior. Thick fur-lined armor and coarse pelt draped his massive frame, like the predators ruling these inhospitable wastes.

But as Russ turned toward some comment, face transforming with gruff laughter at his pack's roughhousing, you saw not an impervious demigod but something familiar. Great shoulders shook in mirth like immense boulders slipping loose, blue eyes alive with warmth despite frigid surroundings. An involuntary thought slipped through, that in this moment, he resembled not conqueror but some canines, mighty and playful. 

Shaking off fanciful musings, you continued observant tasks, keeping distance respectful between yourself and the lords of this domain. But later as briefings commenced, Russ stopped his gigantic form before you, breath curling like frost wolves from a mouth curled in question. 

You blinked up into eyes keen yet gentle, all rational thought scattering like snow on gale winds. Impulse surged before discipline could rein it, and you found hands rising of their own accord to Russ' massive brow, carding gloved fingers through coarse hair as one might a trusted hound. 

Silence descended, thick as the powdery drifts. Russ' features slackened in blank shock, pale eyes blinking owlishly. "Lass..." he rumbled, uncomprehending. 

You started as if slapped, jerking hands back so swiftly your wrist protested. "My lord, I..." Words fled, face aflame to your hairline. What folly had possessed you so?!

Yet to your surprise, Russ laughed, a booming, resonant sound like glaciers calving. "By Fenris's ball, lass, yer got the spirit!" 

His tone held no anger, merely bemusement. But when you swallowed apologies, you glimpsed what may have been wistfulness flickering through feral eyes, gone as swift as the thought that spawned it. Had his invisible tail genuinely twitched to wag? Definitely you are crazy or something.

"Aye, lass. Well, if the fur satisfies yer hands, s'pose I'll oblige." 

To your shock, he leaned nearer once more, an unmistakable invitation dancing in blue eyes. Hypnotized, you carded soft locks obediently, finding they are softer than you think. Russ sighed, almost seeming to lean into your touch. An absurd image flickered of an immense wolf nuzzling against your hand, tail wagging invisible yet content. Smiling softly, you traced strong jaw and was rewarded with a look of such warmth and longing, all of your rational thought dissolved. 

Lion El'Jonson

Your survey of the growing threat in Caliban's wilds brought you regularly to the Lion's tower, poring over maps and missives seeking the root of corruption's spread. This eve found you and him yet at work as dusk deepened, twin flames bending over parchment and discourse. 

A lull arose as analysis hit dead ends once more, frustration mounting. You sighed and stretched tired limbs, risking a sidelong glance at your lord. The Lion remained absorbed, strong brows furrowed, stroking his trim beard absently as strategic mind raced. 

A strange thought struck then, in this dim shuttered space, with dusk masking Caliban's savage beauty, did he not seem every inch a great cat himself? Powerful yet graceful, thinking moves ahead with predatory cunning, alone yet bound to wilder instincts doubtless few witnessed.   

Before rational thought could intervene, curiosity overruled. Stepping softly, your hands found scratching points along Lion's bearded jaw and throat. Beneath your ministries his eyes slid shut, muscles unwinding with a contented sigh. Success! Like any feline such attentions soothed.

Encouraged, your nails lightly raked his scalp, eliciting a startling response, a primal rumbling purr trembled his massive frame. His relaxation vanished in an instant, eyes flying open to stare at your in wild-eyed alarm. 

You stumbled back several paces, own eyes round as moons. Had Lion just...purred? Like some overgrown house tabby? Your mind reeled, seeking logical explanations amongst unfathomable strangeness unfolding. 

Lion's pupils elongated before your gaze, resembling nought cat-like slits in green eyes gone feral-bright. His confusion melted into predatory stillness, fixing you with an eerie stare that raised all hairs standing on end. What strangeness possessed them?

For long moments you and him remained suspended, breathing halted, shock and unnamed sparks passing between hands dropped limp to sides once more. Then all broke at once, your stammered excuses and the Lion retreating to the shadows of his tower, retreating from… what?

That night, your sleep proved fitful, your mind restless with possibilities. Had you gone too far when crossed a line with Lion that afternoon, awakening forces better left slumbering? 

Morning comes, dread coiled cold and heavy in your gut. Open the tower's door with trepidation, you froze at the grisly sight awaiting just beyond threshold. A massive deer carcass lay splayed, crimson pool already attracting swarms of flies. 

Your breath caught in horror, had Lion's frustrations boiled over in vengeance? Was this brutal warning of what further torments awaited should your act overstep once more? Shaking, you backed hurriedly inside, thoughts whirling. 

Meanwhile across Caliban's wilderness, Lion admired graceful flickers weaving between ancient trees, oblivious to turmoil sown. Inhaling your lingering scent lost to the mists. Pride swelled that his token gained your notice, for what better way to proclaim your worth and pique your interest further? 

He would await your next visit, gifting further demonstrations of prowess to stoke your regard. In time, you would see none matched his prowess for providing and protecting what he deemed most worthy.

Extra:

Russ: Pat me, pat me, woof woof!

Lion: If I give a bigger prey, will the agent love me more?

[the-ossium-court]

"Lord Tenebris?"

The ancient man sat eerily quietly upon the makeshift throne, gazing out through the thick panes of diaglass, the swirling maelstrom of of the immaterium dancing across the hull.

"Numerous apologies for this intrusion, I will retre-"

{Stay Jorrun.}

Jorrun flinches midturn as he hears Tenebris' unfiltered voice. He does not feel that burning gaze from his leader yet, but has felt it before on more than one occasion. The armored Legionnarie adjusts his stance once more to point back to his master, doing his damndest to not make any sudden movements. To be in the presence of Tenebris Rex is one thing for most Legionnaries,, it's another thing to be within the same chamber as Tenebris when he is out of his armor.

{You may approach, Jorrun.}

The former Son of Horus steps closer, the violet eyes seeing at first only the back of his Lord's head and shoulders. The thick locks of oaken hair, flecks of gold and amber pockmark the hair, while the Black Carapace ports contrast against the golden tanned flesh. The loose folds of the robes hung haphazardly over His Lord's body, cream colored silks and crimson linens.

But then the reflection from the diaglass became clear, and those same violet eyes came into foc-

{What is it Jorrun? What brings you so far away from your Brethren?}

"My Lord, we are soon approaching Armageddon. Scrimshaw Atun has sensed the heavy Imperial forces,, but no Orks or Aeldari."

{Hmm,, Interesting.}

Jorrun does his outmost not to focus on anything particular whilst speaking with Tenebris, even if they are now within arm's reach. His Lord has built his outer image for millennia, no one knows the man behind the armor, no one. Save for either unfortunate victims who are long dead,, and Jorrun.

The enemies of The Ossium Court only know of the great and terrible poet warrior, clad in Terminator Armor and a voice that ever changes upon each sighting. Not often seen on the front lines, allowing his gilded words to coerce and persuade populations to revolt or overthrow Imperial worlds and colonies. That image cannot be further contrasted, by the man sat upon this throne, lazily staring out the wide windows,,

{Jorrun.}

"Yes my Lord?"

{Have our fleet come out of Warp early. Dark side of the moons.}

"Understood my Lord. We will set up some observation loqs once we have stabilized."

{Good,, good.}

Jorrun quickly makes his exit from the chambers, armored boots clicking over the granite floor, trying to not think of Tenebris' gaze,, and the Golden Throne that that gaze once held.

[eyeballjazz]

Wrote a nice intro for my game set in Hell, wanted to share it! See if you can find the very obvious Knowledge Fight reference.

Avernus… let's break the word down. 

A: Apple. The symbolic manifestation of man’s sin and loss of innocence, of willful defiance to God. Original sin, which if you’re Catholic, you’ll spend your life trying to pay back. The student debt of the soul.

Vern: The PC whose clutch Plane Shift spell from a different multi-shot one shot has inspired this game.

And Us: playing DnD together in the US*

We begin our story several hundred feet in the air over the city of Dis, on the second layer of Hell. Far below us is heat and light and the ceaseless rumble of the Pit. Hell is flat, its layers built one atop the other, and so the city sprawls out on all sides for miles. 

Towers of chrome, blunt brick and mortar, shambles of wood and bone. The streets spiderweb out, bright and electric and congested like thick, clotted veins. Dis is tall, foreboding, steepled with buildings of every era, heavy black marble, gray granite, lush, throbbing neon. 

The streets are clogged with grinding, clattering, shrieking machines, people, beasts, all spewing noxious fumes into the roiling clouds of smoke that never clear from the Pit’s sky. Far below us a radio drones as a thick necked announcer reads the names of massacred children, sweating through his sobriety, each red droplet turning into a single cent that will never pay down his debts. Nightclubs swarm with hypnotized dancers, flyers for war crimes stapled to their bodies in place of clothing. Flashing down epilepticly, neon columns and chorus girls and twiggy legged cartoon liquor bottles adorn every sign, every building, every flat surface and wet black pool in the street. In their glow, at the corners of each of the city’s imperious towers, statues of somber faced angels hold up their steel wings, soot smeared and forgotten.

But why are we several hundred feet in the air, you ask? In the dome of the Universe’s first and longest night, with stalactites dripping stars around our ears?

Because directly over our heads, the camera shaking to turn fast enough to catch it, a seam opens in the air. Skin soft, slitting open and pulsing and leaking, we see the golden ceiling of the Concordant Express, a crowd of dumbfounded adventurers looking on as two bodies fall through this seam in reality. 

Fall, and fall, into the smoky, clattering air of the Pit, the city an endless cement tumble waiting to, well, not catch so much as splatter their bodies. 

*and also Canada, I guess.

[lenniharrisonsims]

Four Year Anniversary Portraits

Holy Simsdom Empire, Granite Falls

Cedarworth Estate

HIH Prince Ygor Castille, Marquess of Cedarworth

Full Name: Ygor Adrik Castille Title(s): Prince of Simsdom Empire, Marquess of Cedarworth, Captain in Imperial Army Nickname(s): Iggy Birthday: January 31st Residence(s): Cedarworth Manor (Granite Falls) Previous Names/Titles: Prince Ygor Ivanov Parents: TIM Tsar Alexei & Tsarina Nadia Ivanov Spouse: HIH Francisco Castille, Marquess of Cedarworth Children: Princess Remy, Prince Rhys, Earl of Spruce Grove, Princess Ruby Castille

HIH Francisco Castille, Marquess of Cedraworth

Full Name: Francisco Esteban Castille Title(s): Marquess of Cedarworth, Midshipman in Imperial Navy Nickname(s): Frankie Birthday: October 1st Residence(s): Cedarworth Manor (Granite Falls) Previous Names/Titles: Mr. Francisco Castille Parents: Mr. Jose & Mrs. Juanita Castille Spouse: HIH Prince Ygor Castille, Marquess of Cedarworth Children: Princess Remy, Prince Rhys, Earl of Spruce Grove, Princess Ruby

HIH Princess Remy Castille

Full Name: Remy Helena Castille Title(s): Princess of Simsdom Empire Nickname(s): N/A Birthday: April 12th Residence(s): Cedarworth Manor (Granite Falls) Previous Names/Titles: N/A Parents: TIH Prince Ygor & Marquess Francisco Castille of Cedarworth Spouse: N/A Children: N/A

HIH Prince Rhys Castille, Earl of Spruce Grove

Full Name: Rhys Yuri Castille Title(s): Prince of Simsdom Empire, Earl of Spruce Grove Nickname(s): N/A Birthday: April 12th Residence(s): Cedarworth Manor, Spruce Grove (Granite Falls) Previous Names/Titles: N/A Parents: TIH Prince Ygor & Marquess Francisco Castille of Cedarworth Spouse: N/A Children: N/A

HIH Princess Ruby Castille

Full Name: Ruby Giselle Castille Title(s): Princess of Simsdom Empire Nickname(s): N/A Birthday: April 12th Residence(s): Cedarworth Manor (Granite Falls) Previous Names/Titles: N/A Parents: TIH Prince Ygor & Marquess Francisco Castille of Cedarworth Spouse: N/A Children: N/A

[demospectator]

The then newly-restored plaque in St. Mary’s Square honoring the “Americans of Chinese Ancestry” who gave their lives for America in its world wars, November 10, 2018. Photograph by Doug Chan.

The Last Full Measure: St. Mary’s Square Monument to the Fallen of Chinese America

In his book San Francisco Chinatown: A Guide to its History & Architecture, historian Philip P. Choy, shared his observations about the monuments in St. Mary’s Square as follows:

“Across from the statue of Dr. Sun Yat-sen is a less imposing but more significant monument, with 97 names of Chinese American soldiers of our community, who made the supreme sacrifice in World War I and II. Every year on Veterans Day, the Cathay Post No. 384 and the VFW Chinatown Post march to the square to honor those who died for us, that they never be forgotten. This commemorative plaque and day of remembrance are more symbolic of Chinese America than Sun Yat-sen’s statue and the “Ten Ten” celebration.”

During the Second World War, thousands of young men and women enlisted or were drafted from Chinatowns, Japantowns (and concentration camps), Manilatowns, and other small communities across the country.

According to the U.S. Department of Veteran Affairs and researchers at the Oakland Museum, 13,499 Chinese American men fought in the armed forces. (Community estimates range as high as 20,000.) Approximately 75 percent served in the US Army, with ground units such as the 3rd and 4th Infantry Divisions in Europe and the 6th, 32nd and 77th Infantry Divisions in the Pacific. A quarter of the total Chinese American personnel under arms served in the Navy. Still others served in specialized units, such as the all-Chinese American 1157th Signal Corps -- part of 14th Air Service Group that would join the fight against Imperial Japan in the China Burma India theatre of operations.

Group of Chinese recruits for the U. S. Navy taking their oath on top of a captured Japanese submarine, on Navy Day in San Francisco Chinatown, October 27, 1942. Associated Press photographer unknown (from the collection of the San Francisco Public Library). As written on the verso: ""A two-man Jap submarine, captured after the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, T.H. [Territory of Hawaii], began its nation-wide tour in San Francisco Oct. 27. In Chinatown, Chinese recruits for the U.S. Navy lined up on the vessel and took their oath. It was part of Navy Day ceremonies."

The Chinese American men who served in the armed forces during WW II comprised 20 percent of all such men in the continental U.S. As historian Iris Chang would write decades later, “ethnic Chinese men gave their lives disproportionate to their presence in the country.”

As in many cities, the public spaces in San Francisco had included memorials to the fallen in America’s wars. On Memorial Day on May 30, 1919, city officials and thousands of spectators dedicated a 15-acre plot as the “Grove of Heroes,” in remembrance of the US dead and wounded in the First World War. In 1930, a sculpture originally created by M. Earl Cummings for the Pan Pacific International Exposition was acquired and installed in the meadow adjacent to the grove. The bronze figure holding a laurel wreath became known as the “Doughboy Statue,” and it is readily noticeable from the park’s John F. Kennedy drive and promenade. On Armistice Day (now known as Veterans Day), November 13, 1932, public officials assembled again to dedicate an 18-ton granite boulder (reportedly quarried from Twin Peaks) to commemorate US war dead. The monument, which was sponsored by the Native Sons of the Golden West, was inscribed with the names of 748 men and 13 women, all local soldiers and volunteers who died during the Great War.

The Doughboy Statue in the “Grove of Heroes” in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park. The plaque, sponsored by the Native Sons of the Golden West and inscribed with the names of US dead in two world wars, omits the names of non-white military personnel killed in the line of duty.

Although Chinese Americans had served and died in WW I, no Chinese names had ever been inscribed in any of San Francisco’s war memorial monuments from that era. Their omission was hardly surprising. The Native Sons of the Golden West had been founded in July 1875 as a fraternal organization "embracing only the sons of those sturdy pioneers who arrived on this coast prior to the admission of California as a state." In the 1920s, the Native Sons adopted a white nativist stance on public policy issues. President William P. Canbu of the Native Sons wrote that “California was given by God to a white people, and with God’s strength we want to keep it as He gave it to us.” The Native Sons openly opposed Chinese, Mexican, and Japanese immigration. At the outset of the Second World War, the organization waged an unsuccessful legal battle for Japanese Americans to be disenfranchised.

The size of the returning cohort of Chinese American men (and the few women) from the Second World War had been unprecedented, and they produced a transformative generation of determined civic activists in the postwar era. As was the case with many other communities of color in the country, Chinese Americans had to struggle for acceptance and civil rights. Community activists such as John C. Young, a retired colonel from the United States Army and World War II veteran, made it their mission to join the struggle for Chinese Americans’ civil rights and participation in mainstream society. Young’s family led that effort by example as one of the first Chinese families to buy a home in defiance of racially-restrictive covenants against homeownership in San Francisco’s Richmond District (See the story here: https://www.outsidelands.org/chinese-in-the-richmond-alfred-john-young-and-connie-young-yu.php)

Left to right: Janey Young Cheu, Connie Young Yu, Mary Lee Young, Lt. Col. John C. Young, and Alfred John Young in the Young family house at 674 37th Avenue, circa 1952. (Courtesy of Al Young)

With the onset of the Cold War and actual armed conflict on the Korean peninsula, Chinese American leaders sensed that the path toward progress and acceptance of Chinese Americans had been jeopardized by the People’s Republic of China’s deploying troops to support North Korea’s military against UN forces.

As a commander of the American Legion Post #384 (Cathay Post), John Young and his fellow veterans spearheaded a proposal to erect a war memorial to the fallen Chinese American Veterans of World War I and World War II.

In 1951, the same year in which the Native Sons added the names of 16 white members who had died in World War II to the plaque on the rock pedestal of the Doughboy Statue, Chinese American veterans’ proposal to honor their fallen comrades in Chinatown gained acceptance.

Members of the VFW Chinatown post and Cathay Post no. 384 of the American Legion huddle and review conceptual drawings for a St. Mary’s Square monument with San Francisco Mayor Elmer Robinson in the Mayor’s office in City Hall, c. 1951. Standing (left to right): Lim P. Lee, Peter H. Wong (unidentified veteran), Shaw Pange, Charles Leong, and Joseph Quan. Sitting: John C. Young, Mayor Elmer Robinson, and James Hall. Photographer unknown (from the collection of the late Col. John C. Young and his daughter Connie Young Yu).

Before 1951, a large and dramatic stainless steel statue of Dr. Sun Yat-sen, designed local sculptor Benny Bufano, represented the principal statuary in St. Mary's Square.

St. Mary's Square Nov 12, 1943. In this view of St. Mary's Square, looking north toward Old St. Mary's Church, members of San Francisco’s Chinese community bow before the statue of Sun Yat Sen on the occasion of Dr. Sun’s birthday. Among those attending the ceremony was Tse Kiong Sun, grandson of Sun Yat Sen. Photographer unknown (Courtesy of a private collector).

According to historian Phil Choy, the statue had been commissioned by the Chinese Six Companies to commemorate October 10, 1911, the day Dr. Sun's revolutionary party overthrew the Manchu government and established the Republic of China. As Choy wrote in 2012:

“For almost a century, October 10th, known by the Chinese as “Ten Ten,” was a major day of celebration in the community. Banners stretched across Grant Avenue. Organized by the Chinese Six Companies, drum & bugle corps and pupils from every Chinese language school dutifully paraded through the streets. Today the celebration no longer has 100% community support. Members of the Chinese Six Companies are divided; some still embrace the Kuomintang (KMT) Party of the former Republic of China (now the Taiwanese Government), while others support the People’s Republic of China.”

The efforts by the Chinese community’s veterans and supporters to honor the fallen of two world wars culminated in 1951 with the installation of the memorial plaque still seen today in St. Mary's Square. (A recounting of the memorial's dedication and other recollections by the daughter of one of the leaders in the effort to establish the monument, historian Connie Young Yu, may be heard here. (https://chiamgi.substack.com/p/col-john-c-young-profile?triedRedirect=true)

“Soldiers firing salute at dedication of memorial to deceased Chinese-American veterans at St. Mary's Square,” May 28, 1951. Mayor Elmer Robinson stands at center in dark suit. Photographer Unknown (Examiner Negative Collection / courtesy of a private collector)

A large crowd attended the dedication ceremonies for the Chinese veterans memorial at St Mary’s Square on May 28, 1951. An Army band is seated with musical instruments, and members of the Chinatown Boy Scouts troop appear in the right foreground. Photographer unknown (form a private collection).

Civic leader and president of the Wing Nien Soy Sauce Co. Col. John C. Young (ret.) speaks to the crowd assembled on May 28, 1951, for the dedication of the memorial to Chinese American service personnel killed during the First and Second World Wars. His speech to the crowd occurred in the presence of his former commanding officer, General Albert Wedemeyer, under whom Young served as a heavy weapons officer in the China-Burma-India theater of operations.

If the irony of Chinese Americans' entering the US armed forces during wartime was apparent, it was never expressed publicly by those who had served honorably. Native-born, as well immigrants ineligible to naturalize as citizens by punitive immigration laws, had answered the call to service for an America that had, for most of the previous century, robbed, murdered, burned, lynched, taxed, and excluded the pioneer generations, while building much of the political economy of the American West on the strength of Asian labor.

Veterans from Chinatown's American Legion Cathay Post 384 and VFW Chinatown Post 4618 assembled on Memorial Day 2016 in front of the WW I and II memorial plaque in St. Mary’s Square to commemorate the Chinese American fallen in all the nation’s conflicts and wars. Photograph by Doug Chan.

The numbers of Chinese Americans KIA and MIA from the world wars remain imprecise. The honored dead, including Medal of Honor recipient Capt. Francis B. Wai are, and will be, remembered in perpetuity for their extraordinary heroism and devotion to duty. For others, such as Lt. Kenneth Kai-Kee, the memories, grief and loss of those he left behind have already faded with the passing of family, friends, and loved ones.

The passage of time confers on community historians the duty to impart to each new generation the mission to remember the wartime sacrifices of Chinese America's sons and daughters. The debt to those who gave the last full measure of devotion must be honored in perpetuity.

Photograph by Doug Chan.

[cabezadeperro]

Since you're prompts are open, a Cody/Fox with a number 7?

hi anon! the song was caramel by brontide.

imperial era, cody adn fox as rebels. established relationship, T

---

“There.” Cody’s breath is warm and damp against his ear. Fox shifts and says nothing: he doesn’t need to. “By the—”

He trails off. Fox accepts the binocs and looks down the cliff. It’s a cold, grey day, and the small imperial base is hard to see—it’s the same colour as the sky and the granite mountains that cradle it, as the tarmac of the worn road that cracks the old lava fields in two.

Cody is a heavy, hot weight at his side. He’s very still and very relaxed in that way that means he’s seconds away from vibrating out of his skin, all eagerness and will to win. Fox licks his lips and leans against him, gravel shifting under his belly and elbows. Cody hums and waits while Fox takes out the holocam and snaps a few pictures, while he makes a copy of the data and offers it to him, back to staring at the base with the binocs.

Fox still remembers how to read his silences—Cody is watching is thinking is planning the best way to take the place. His eyes flicker at the spiny silhouette of the jammers, a darker grey against the granite face of the cliff, the slit-like windows on the top floors, the shadow of the hangar at the side, the flat, washed out blacktop of the landing pad. Fox says nothing, leaves him at it, and can’t help the shiver of excitement that rolls down his spine. Cody’s brain is a thing of beauty.

Cody slips his copy of the data off Fox’s hands and stays there for a few more minutes, binocs twitching now and then, fingers in a relaxed grip. Finally, he hums again and lowers them down.

“Let’s go,” he says. He leans over to kiss Fox on the cheek, too loud and a bit too hard, and starts rolling off him. Fox rolls his eyes and copies him. They start making their way across the gravel, half-sliding, half-crawling to the bottom of the small hill.

They hear the probe coming before they see it. Fox pulls him closer, hand around Cody’s wrist, and they duck into one of the many caves at the side, their heads brushing the low ceiling.

Fox frowns. It won’t find them, but it will see the swoops—he glances at Cody, and finds him watching him back: he knows. Cody smiles, a flash of white teeth in the dark. Fox smiles back, tugs his blaster out of his holster, and exits the cave, finger already on the trigger.

It’s cold, and he’s tired, and they’re about to do something very stupid: but Cody’s there, and well—Fox finds that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

[theluckywizard]

happy Friday! for DADWC, perhaps Rose & Hawke with "Bronze statuette of the Champion, polished by handling" from the artifacts of thedas prompts?

I *loved* leveraging this prompt into a little get to know you passage for my longfic for @dadrunkwriting!!! Thank you Phantoms! <3

WC: 2013

CW: none

Summary: Arriving in humble Aberbeck on the way to Crestwood, Hawke whisks Inquisitor Rose down to the nearest shop to find books and treasures for the road.

Rose and Hawke Scavenge Treasures on the Road

Aberbeck is an unfortunate little town of listing shanties and tenuous, weary constructions so ramshackle it looks as though they’d tumbled down the hill to settle on the rocky shores of Lake Calenhad. Whatever prosperity was taken by the Blight has never been fully recovered, but a small population chisels a living out of the granite cliffs, fishing the lake, mining for ore, provisioning for travelers on the Imperial Highway like ourselves.

Hawke insists we patronize the only inn, eager to sink his loose and abundant coin into any struggling Fereldan hamlet and settlement. He and I argue over who should pay only briefly before he convinces me that extra Inquisition silver and gold should pay our humblest servants more, not upgrade the accommodations for the leadership. By some miracle the inn has enough rooms for our people, Aberbeck’s history as a trade hub holding some utility still, though I hardly think they have the staff to properly service us. But we aren’t a picky bunch, preferring the feather and straw mattresses to the damp cold of the Fereldan soil this time of year and we settle in gladly.

“The innkeeper says there’s a bookshop closer to the shore,” says Hawke, looping his arm through mine, practically whisking me off my feet. As usual, his boldness forces a hot flush into my cheeks. “Come on.”

“A bookshop?

“Well. An oddities shop anyway. I suspect there will be some books in the mix,” he explains. “My brain is going to rot if I don’t get something new for the road. Besides, you never know what else we might find inside.”

“I was planning to get something to eat,” I tell him. “Riding has me famished.”

“We can do that after. The shop might be closed by then and we’ll have missed our chance to pick over the treasure. Let’s go.”

Willingly captive, I’m swept down from the inn, trotting beside Hawke’s long strides on the loose gravel road that’s eroded by the ravages of weather and gravity, the town lacking the wherewithal in money and manpower to rebuild it adequately. Oldwen’s Oddities and Antiquities is denoted on a carved sign with peeling paint that sways and squeaks on the breezes that kick up from the lake. The entryway is partially buried by Aberbeck road that’s been washed down and redeposited on its step so thickly that Hawke must duck under the door frame and we step down into the place. A bell signals our arrival and the door clatters shut behind us but nobody greets us.

“Do you think we ought to stay?” I ask. “It seems unattended.”

“Oh I doubt they’d mind if we leave a decent enough pile of coin on the counter.”

“I’m not sure I see a counter,” I reply. Light filters through a few dirty diamond paned windows, enough to notice that the place is jammed with things, every corner overtaken by curios on top of books on top of whatchamacallits. Hawke immediately strides for a corner packed with volumes hidden away behind dusty glass cabinet doors. He runs his finger along the spines and stops occasionally to tilt his head to one side to read.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” I ask him.

“Always. There’s a book I’ve been looking for for years but I’ve yet to find it. But really anything passably entertaining will do. I’m particularly fond of satire but the Orlesians are better at it than Fereldans sadly,” he says. “What about you?”

“Any book of poetry will suffice. Sonnets. Epics. Preferably something unrelated to the Chantry,” I explain, looking over a shelf covered in statuettes strung with cobwebs.

“Andraste’s own protege won’t tolerate the drivel written in her name?” he asks with a grin.

“After a lifetime having it crammed down my throat? I’ll pass, thank you.”

“Fair,” he says. He scans carefully and then plucks a volume in a blue binding, thumbs through it briefly and then tapping his jaw in thought while appraising me carefully, hands it to me. “My treat.”

“The Displaced: Songs of the Blight,” I read, a smile sneaking out at the corner of my mouth. “By the age of this volume it can’t be the fifth blight, can it?”

“I’m not sure it matters. The stories would be similar enough,” he says. “You said you’d like to get to know me better, this isn’t a bad place to start.”

“Perhaps I can find a book about a lonely rich woman trapped in a lavish estate to give to you to read,” I quip, but my face falls slightly. The suffering I’ve accrued since stumbling out of the Fade is a different sort than what the vast majority of the people in Thedas experience day in and day out.

“I believe that’s the exact premise of more than a few smutty romance novels,” Hawke says with a juvenile smirk, nudging me with a fist to my upper arm. I shake my head, cast him a vengeful look and then blush at the statuettes again. “It’s all right, you can swat me.”

“I might if it weren’t so bloody true,” I reply, glancing down at the solemn book of poetry he’s given me. I snort again when I think how Lieven could be a character plucked directly from one of those salacious works. “Let me find you something.” I parse the titles quickly and settle on a work of theater. Orlesian. Translated to Common. The Heir of Verchiel. I’d seen it with Father and Phineas at one point. Mother disapproved of course, but it had stirred my soul. I hand the volume to Hawke.

“The Heir of Verchiel?” he reads.

“I saw it performed in Ostwick. Betrayal, revenge, romance. It’s spectacular,” I tell him, but he looks a little dubious. “Would you prefer Wilkshire Downs? Perhaps that’s more your speed.” It’s a swipe, but it’s playful. Everyone knows about Wilkshire Downs.

“Everyone loves a fart joke,” he says with a charming raise of his brow. He opens the book. “I confess, I have tasted plenty of betrayal in my day and reading about it isn’t always my cup of tea, but if it pleases you, I will read it with abandon.”

“It would. I want to know what you think,” I reply. My eyes fix upon one of the statuettes and I realize the distinctive armor on it matches Hawke’s battle plate. “Is that–” I reach up for the statuette and stare at it carefully, holding it up beside him.

“...a bronze statuette of me?” he finishes regretfully, because he already knows the answer. An inscription along the base confirms my suspicions. And then I take in the rest of the details, my amusement reaching blushing, snickering heights. The cartoonish expression on his face. The dashing pose. The generous fill of his breeches. The way the patina has been rubbed away at the crotch. 

“Are you sure you’re the Champion of Kirkwall?” I ask in a taunt. He grins and snatches the statue from me and snorts loudly when he notices the handled bits. “At least you know you occupy the dreams of at least one lonely person in Aberbeck.”

“Maybe for a time before they sold me to Oldwen. I think they broke up with me!”

“A new statuette came along to claim their affections. Seriously though, Hawke, where did these come from?”

“Varric had these made when his book first came out. Bit of a prank really. This statue makes me look like a proper vagrant by comparison. Better hair. Better endowed to boot.”

“Can you even make that face?”

“Let's see, shall we?” He assesses the expression on the statuette carefully and then attempts it, raising one brow in a cartoonish exaggeration, contorting his mouth into a ridiculous sideways grin. "How’d I do?" he asks through clenched teeth.

“You could frighten some children maybe,” I tell him. He relaxes his face into his usual cheeky smile. “We should buy it and haunt Varric with it.” 

“Oooh, I like your brain, Rose. We’re doing it. He’ll regret he ever commissioned these.” We continue to comb through the books, looking for anything remotely interesting that could occupy our minds on the road. Hawke clutches a handful of non-fiction works, ranging from a blistering account of the Orlesian monarchy as written by a humble Fereldan ambassador to a treatise on beer brewing to a book on Tevinter architecture across southern Thedas. I’ve collected an anthology of love poetry, a pair of mysteries and at least one passably smutty novella to share with Cassandra. Hawke ducks toward the back and politely hollers for assistance.

“Maker’s breath! Customers!” cries an old woman, huffing her way into the space, nearly tripping over her own oddities. She’s thin as a rail and bent as a birch.

“Oldwen, I presume?” asks Hawke, testing a shade of the statuette’s dashing grin on her.

“That’s my man, but he’s napping. Too much butter on his toast. Knocks him right out,” she grumbles.

“Butter’ll get you every time,” he says. She surveys our haul, noting the statuette.

“Ahhh, the Champion,” she sighs with a wry smile, picking up the facsimile of Hawke and running her thumb over that lovingly worn spot. “I’ll be missing this one.” I glance at Hawke who looks back, pressing his lips together tightly to restrain his laugh.

“Are you familiar with him at all?” I ask, barely holding it together myself. Hawke elbows me discreetly.

“What Fereldan isn’t? The greatest living warrior,” she answers, wrapping our books in old newsprint. He wobbles his head as if he doesn’t quite agree. She looks up at him. “That armor looks familiar. Is it a reproduction?” Hawke grins sheepishly.

“It is! The Champion’s armor is so striking, how could I resist?” he says.

“Well you should think about revisiting those pauldrons. They’re not quite right,” she says authoritatively. Hawke scratches his forehead while he summons every scrap of strength to suppress a laugh.

“I agree, Serah Bird, your pauldrons are ridiculous. They’re so pointy,” I tease him. “And your breastplate! The Champion would never let his armor get so dull and dingy!” He shoots me a pleading look from under his brow, warning me he’s about to piss himself laughing.

“That’ll be twenty eight silver,” she says. My eyes pop slightly, which she notes.

“That statuette is worth quite a bit,” she explains, handling it again with an absent yet shockingly precise swipe of her thumb across its hips. A snort pops through my nose at last, my composure failing. I plop a stack of coins on the counter for Hawke to deal with and excuse myself, listening as he manages to resolve the transaction without a single slipped chuckle. He emerges, arms stuffed with books and the statue wrapped in paper and we mutually dissolve into tearful, wheezing hysterics as we relive the strokes of her thumb and her criticism of his ‘reproduction armor’. 

“I never want to hear you say you’re not that famous ever again, Hawke,” I tell him once we’ve recovered our ability to breathe and speak. 

“Well she didn’t recognize me, at least” he says. “She’d probably say it couldn’t be me. I’m not as monstrously good looking as this blazing statuette.”

“It’s a good thing, too. The old woman might have assaulted you with an impertinent hand!”

“It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened,” he says, shaking his head. We snicker our way back up the hill, our conversation giving way to speculations about what manner of dinner we could expect in humble Aberbeck and we both agree that we’re hungry enough that anything short of spoiled meat could entice us. There’s a sort of intimacy between us that I relish in spite of the strangeness of this celebrated hero cracking jokes with me, excavating with abandon to know each other. He’s becoming a person– transcending the character I knew from the pages I’d once devoured, Varric's carefully styled caricature. It feels as if we could empty our souls into one another. And Maker, I’m not so sure I don’t want to.