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coffeeandcalligraphy · 4 years ago

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Something Held | Feeding Habits Update #8

Hi all!

Not me not realizing it’s been 3 months since I posted a Feeding Habits update hahahahahaha. Today let’s chat chapter nine, SOMETHING HELD. This also marks the last chapter in Harrison’s POV so prepare to say goodbye to this icon! TW: body horror, mental illness, trauma

Just a reminder: This is my original work and plagiarism of any form will not be tolerated.

Scene outline, excerpts & a little reflection on making difficult decisions that my not particularly benefit the book but benefit you as the writer under the cut because this update is GIGANTIC.

General taglist (please ask to be added or removed):

@if-one-of-us-falls, @qatarcookie, @chloeswords, @alicewestwater, @laughtracksonata, @shylawrites, @ev–writes, @jaydewritesfiction, @jennawritesstories @eowynandfaramir, @august-iswriting, @aetherwrites

Scene Breakdown

Scene A:

It has been two weeks since Lonan found Harrison at his shared apartment with Suzanna and things are getting strange. Lonan and Suz are getting closer, Harrison is getting more distant and slowly losing it. One morning, Harrison wakes hearing Lonan and Suz’s laughter, and crawls to the kitchen to investigate. When he reaches them, Suz is evening out Lonan’s hacked haircut and they’re both sobbing.

Scene B:

Shortly after this bizarre encounter, Suzanna steps out of the apartment for a breather because her son is sort of terrifying her! So Lonan and Harrison double-team to clean up Lonan’s hair shavings. Harrison begins eating the hair while Lonan stares and they have a conversation about the state of their friendship.

Scene Ba:

This scene is gross and confusing! More hair is ingested. My god.

Scene Bb:

After the above ordeal, both boys rinse off because they’ve been rolling?? around?? in??? hair?? but also?? things don’t stop being a little gross

Scene C:

An air of calm finally settles over the apartment. Lonan brews earl grey tea for him and Harrison to share and Harrison asks if he abandoned Lonan in the final chapter of Moth Work. Lonan doesn’t really answer this question so Harrison continues on his confused, but finally lucid (one-sided) conversation, admitting he understands he burdens his mother, who still has not returned. They circle back to the question of abandonment and Lonan answers Harrison the way he wants to be answered (yes), and this is a moment of freeing, where he feels some sort of responsibility in this irresponsible new life he’s led in NYC. They sort of agree to be friends again.

Scene D:

The boys head into the city to find Suzanna, heading to a bakery near the Hudson River. Lonan drives in his used car, a strange experience since Harrison has not seen him drive in years. Taking the opportunity, he searches through the car and finds a map in the glove compartment. The map is erratically scribbled over and it takes him to moment to realize this is Lonan’s map and the first indication that Lonan, who he has assumed is this stable, perfect person, is not as unscathed as he seems.

The boys pass the waterfront and Lonan nearly crashes the car into an oncoming truck. Harrison regains control of the vehicle tucking them into a side street. Shaken, Lonan apologizes for the mess he’s created both physically from his nosebleed and between Harrison and his mother, which gets Harrison a little antsy because he doesn’t like the suggestion that he’s going to leave. Lonan clarifies, stating he won’t if that’s what Harrison wants.

Scene E:

Later, everyone is back at home and Harrison wakes up to a Lonan-less bed. He gets up to investigate the strange dripping coming from the bathroom and opens the door to find Lonan precariously teetering over a sink filled with water. Harrison, concerned, moves him away and tries to ask why Lonan is presumably going underwater, but doesn’t push. They both stand on opposite sides of the bathroom until the sun rises.

My process:

Honestly, writing this chapter was a huge up and down. The first half of it came much easier to me, but the rest was a literal hellfire to get through. I think I was incredibly fatigued with writing in Harrison’s POV as I’d been writing it since June (I finished this chapter in either December or January). This book has been a pain in the ass to write despite me liking what it is, and I really think it being the only place I’ve physically “gone” since the pandemic makes it even harder to write. I felt claustrophobic in Harrison’s POV since I’ve been writing it for half a year, and in a lil ~breakdown~ my beautiful sister reminded me of something she’d previously told me, “it's not about what works, it's about what you want”.

Let’s chat about this for a sec! I think I was watching a Harmony Nice video on her “hard-to-swallow” self-care, and she basically outline (I’m paraphrasing here) that it’s critical we care for ourselves in ways that might not necessarily be easy to do. Honestly, leaving Harrison’s POV is one of those hard-to-swallow self-care things I literally had to do because my mental health was not happy with me! Y’all know my boys are very close to me, and I’m not picking favourites but Lonan is 2500 times easier for me to write with at the moment. I think Harrison’s situation and how he deals with it is much too similar to mine but in a way that is difficult to place (Lonan and I are unfortunately similar but in a way that is easier for me to understand about myself!). From the beginning of writing his POV I’ve been in Struggleville, but kept pushing through hoping the next chapter would be “the one”. Not to burst my own bubble but there is no such thing in the state of mind I was in! I was pushing myself to find something that doesn’t exist because my brain was really not equipped to do what I needed it to do. I really, really did not want to quit on Harrison’s POV, but I had to, not because I don’t like him (he’s my baby) but because I needed a moment to myself. I felt way too seen in ways I don’t really know how to address in myself, so writing him was horribly frustrating at all times (my fault, not his).

My characters really do live in my head rent-free lol. They live in there! They take up space! They take up energy! They take up concentration, and resources I need for myself! Empathy is so integral to my process, that I give a little part of myself in everything I write. This is a blessing because I really get to dig my heels into the mind of another person, but a curse because I’m not a machine (and sometimes I forget that). It is a lot of emotional energy and labour to give everything you have to fictional people. I don’t think an artist needs to be tortured to create good art (this is not it!) but I never truly practiced this well? In my attempt to be empathetic, I was torturing myself a little bit, not going to lie!

So to combat this, I decided I needed a change. Hence, this chapter is imperfect and probably needs some stuff added to it, and while I’ve only written little of Lonan’s second POV, I’m feeling a lot better! It’s nice to get “outside” in a different place lmao this is so sad (pandemic writing things).

Excerpts:

I wrote the beginning of this in a livestream I hosted on my YouTube channel! There’s also a shoutout here to my dragon tree Lisa <3 miss u boo

Two weeks go by. Lonan sleeps on the couch. Harrison wakes up at dawn—no earlier, no later. Suzanna buys a plant: a Madagascar dragon tree she names Lisa. June grows into the collar. Lonan plays sudoku in the newspaper. Harrison learns to bake focaccia, gluten-free, whole wheat. Suzanna learns to palm read, tells Lonan he’s experienced great betrayal (they stop the reading immediately; Lonan goes back to the newspapers). Harrison begins burning incense at sunrise—frankincense. The dragon tree nearly dies (Lonan saves it). It rains every weekday that contains the letter T. Lonan shifts stacks of soggy newspapers onto the breakfast table, answers crosswords with the help of Suzanna (four across, nine letters, Something held). Harrison burns a baguette. Suzanna buys a hanging basket of pothos. The power goes out for two days and the icebox floods the kitchen tile (Lonan mops it with old newspapers, the ink running like jellyfish). June barks for the first time. Harrison eats a bundle of dried bay leaves. Suzanna waters the plants with rainwater, icewater, wrung into a coffee tin. Harrison leaves the stove on while sautéing shallots (he eats them whole). Lonan wakes up feverish and fills out four newspaper crosswords, then falls asleep on the coffee table. Suzanna moulds panna cotta in coffee mugs and shares the batch with Lonan when they won’t tip out. Lonan teaches her how to propagate the pothos and soon they have twenty empty cans of cuttings poking from the windowsills. They rearrange the furniture, the couch facing the kitchen instead of the TV, the dining table right outside the bathroom, then put it all back the next day. They birdwatch from the tiny window with binoculars and a magnifying glass. They sort coupons. Whittle soaps. Watch Norwegian films without the subtitles. Discuss cliff diving. Make matching anklets (blue beads, elastic string, the plastic clacking how Harrison knows they’re coming). All of this they do as Harrison lies on his bed for two weeks, counting the corners of his ceiling and trying to determine a way to multiply them telepathically.

This is the very next paragraph!

At first he assumes they’re laughing. The sun nearly rising between other high rises, blotting his room with dawn. This is not a surprise. They are probably making pancakes out of buckwheat and discussing the hilarity of whole grains. They are probably laughing at store-bought cherry preserves. Too sour. Their cheeks puckered. But then the laughs get louder, and the sun rises higher and it’s not laughing at all, but gasping.

Here’s Harrison crawling!! is this straight out of the exorcist probably!

Harrison’s instinct is to crawl. As if his smallness against the ground will stop anyone from hearing him, even before he unlocks his door. On hands and knees he shuffles from his bed to his doorframe, edges the door open with his shoulder. On hands and knees he hikes through the hallway, the gasping getting louder, shuffling until he sees them. Lonan sitting on one of the kitchen stools, a grocery bag wound around his throat. Suzanna clacking scissors in two hands so their blades ping in the sun. Her fingers loped around his hair, knuckle-deep, the blades snipping, the gasps growing, them both sobbing, the hair falling, the sun stalking, their bodies rocking. Harrison takes it in from his crawl. Experiences it all on his knees.

So this excerpt seems really you know, normal:

They clean up the hair. Harrison with the dustpan, Lonan with the broom. Harrison still kneels. Lonan still cries. The only thing that has changed since crawling into the kitchen is that Suzanna is taking a walk around the apartment complex. She needs air. Room. If she cries long enough, a cigarette. So Lonan sweeps. Harrison collects. This repeats.

The kitchen smells of nutmeg. Freshly grated from a whole club over espresso, Harrison imagines. He smells this as he tracks Lonan with the dustpan, hovering its open belly for clippings of hair. And Lonan is so compliant, brushes cuttings of himself onto the plastic surface so Harrison can trash it. As Harrison looks on from his knees, Lonan diffuses in sunlight, the window illuminating only his edges. A body so familiar Harrison knows exactly where it flares with light or absorbs it. A body with skin like mulberry silk. A body he could recreate in charcoal with his eyes closed. His archangel translucent and luminescing.

Skip this excerpt if you don’t want to read about Harrison eating hair!! i’m sorry!

Harrison picks a bundle of fallen hair from the dustpan. It’s airy from being recently shampooed, smells faintly of pear, maybe even ginger. This hair, touched by a woman, or a few women, and cut by one, or a few, in different contexts. Eliza’s hands deveining the roots, and then Suzanna’s, trying to fix them. So Harrison eats it. That bundle like a toothpicked cube of cheese. He puts it in his mouth and swallows.

Lonan watches like he’s unconcerned. He watches this feral animal—Harrison must be something feral, starved of something and ravaged by that hunger. Chewing mouthfuls of hair like that will quell of him of what is missing, if there even is anything missing, something unidentifiable in this bland circuit of New York City, this time-loop of sonhood, this fresh start a dousing of flatness. As Harrison eats, he understands he consumes that something like it’s holy communion, reuniting with that something by absorbing it. And still, that hunger moves him, from finishing the dustpan of hair, and closer to Lonan.

“Do you think I’m a bad friend?” Harrison asks, wringing the corner of his lips clean from loose hairs. From this perspective, Harrison on his knees collecting hair, Lonan’s eyes look bluer. Maybe their saturation has nothing to do with the angle, but Harrison feels this is true; his eyes are so crystalline, they are temptingly edible. Like two plump blueberries. Or a matching set of clear glass marbles. Harrison swallows. He repeats, “Do you think I’m a bad friend?”

Lonan swallows, adjusts his grip on the broom. “We’d have to be friends for me to answer that.”

“Aren’t we?”

And here’s the rest of this scene!

“You’re my mother’s friend,” Harrison says. “She trusts you.” He crawls closer to Lonan. “You’ve got secrets. Rituals. Tell me her favourite finger-food and who she wants to marry.”

“I don’t know your mother that well.”

Harrison wraps a handle around Lonan’s ankle. A muscle there jumps like a dolphin breaching the water. He’s memorized this plane of skin, could rebuild it from single grains of sand while blindfolded. He furls his hands across its surface, unfurls.

“You garden with her,” Harrison says. “You share a plate for dessert.”

“She’s kind to me.”

“You cook her breakfast.” Harrison tugs on Lonan’s ankle, knowing it won’t raze him, knowing he’ll come down anyway. “You know the exact temperature she drinks her coffee down to the last digit.”

“I’m trying to be hospitable.”

“You’re trying to be a son.”

Lonan kneels. Crouching so they’re huddled over each other, so it’s nearly impossible to distinguish one body from the other, which one sinks, which one rises.

“My mother’s only got one son to live with,” Harrison says, his voice thin from a clogged throat. He reaches for Lonan’s scalp, scrapes a line down the centre, now an even plane of cropped hair. “And it isn’t me.”

“You’re unstable,” Lonan says, burrowing his face either into a cabinet or Harrison’s shoulder—neither can tell. “You won’t let yourself have friends.”

Farther, toward the tile they go, a pile of hair scattering. “My mother wants me to forgive you by replacing me with you.”

“She’s grieving,” Lonan says.

Harrison loses his hands. He doesn’t know where they disappear to, if he touches skin or tile. “I haven’t died,” he says. Skin or tile. Skin or tile.

Here’s an excerpt from scene C ft. this memoir bit from the time I was shocked that this university I visited had real FANCY teabags:

Lonan brews tea. Earl grey, from a tin. Harrison doesn’t know why he expects it to come from a bag. An individual paper sachet, or if he’s lucky, one of those fancy ones woven from nylon. But it’s from a tin. Two teaspoons into the bottom of a single mug they pass back and forth, wordless at the kitchen table. Strung in the bathroom, Harrison’s t-shirt hang-dries, nearly figure-like, an unfilled phantom. He tugs a throw around his shoulders and stares at his hands. Each crest of cuticle. Each bulb of knuckle. Each maze of fingerprints.

He is material. This is fact. Not just outlines. He’s got skin that goes pinkish when pinched, a pulse that juts from his wrist, two eyes that burn at the scent of lavender, ten fingers. But as he holds his hands up, studying them in the faint moonlight, it is difficult to believe his tangibility. In the city, he has lived as a haze. Fogging over grocery stores, eateries, nondescript. Fresh start has always implied an air of zest, a zing that should have fueled him to plant roots in this restart. But Harrison is rotten, aphid infected, overwatered, underwatered, then not watered at all. He flexes his fingers. He pops the joints. He tries to press his pinkie to the back of his hand. But none of this brings him back to himself. His hands continue feeling like someone else’s. His body invisibly marred in some way he can’t reverse, disconnected in retaliation.

Harrison reflecting on his relationship with his mother:

Suzanna has never left him alone this long, and to her detriment. He imagines her now, living the life she always should’ve lived, the life she lived before he crosscut his way to her most important thing. She’s probably at a salon, having her hair twirled with a round brush, making dinner reservations at some place always too expensive for two (extra points if it has a French name, more if she has to wait a half hour before getting a table). When she talks to her stylist, she doesn’t mention a son, but plans to travel up the west coast, all the way into Canada if she’s feeling adventurous. She’ll buy crime novels she’ll never read at duty-free, reapply a lipstick that cost her a paycheck in the reflection of a hand-dryer. After the salon, she’ll meet a woman at a wine bar, converse about children, and still not mention a son. Suzanna’s singleness will be a celebration.

The boys finally trucing it out <3

When Harrison finally opens his eyes, Lonan is staring at him. His eyes two reels of the Pacific. They cycle in blue. So much of him has changed, and yet he is still the same. Beyond the haircut, Lonan isn’t that much different. He can’t be much different. But as Harrison searches, splaying his palm on the wet table, he knows this is untrue. Lonan is hollower than he was last summer. A little more haunted. They have this in common, then.

“Can we be friends?” Harrison asks. With his pinkie, he finds himself writing against the damp table just as he did Lonan’s scalp not too long ago. Lonan’s gaze follows each loop of each letter, Harrison’s steady left hand.

Lonan is consumed studying what Harrison has written, where each letter connects in near-cursive scrawl. After a moment, he nods, once, twice, and then reverts to staring at the table’s new inscription. On its surface are two words: something held.

The boys in the car like old times <3

Lonan drives. This is strange because Harrison has not seen Lonan drive a car in over a year. Usually, Harrison takes the wheel, but tonight he guides them through the city, in search of Suzanna. His car is clean. This isn’t unexpected. A cherry-coloured hatchback that rattles whenever he makes a left turn. It smells vaguely of cotton air-freshener and the undercurrent of cigarettes.

“You still smoke?” Harrison pokes at the plastic nob for the radio, and it crackles to life. Synth and electric guitar pulse in 4/4 time.

“I bought it used.”

They’ve agreed to get to know one another while they search for Suzanna. Another restart, some attempt at an honest hour. As Lonan changes lanes, Harrison pokes open the car’s glove compartment. A tin of nicotine gum falls on the mat. A hot pink feather pokes from underneath the driver’s manual. Harrison hauls out both, runs the feather along the gum tin, then the back of his hand, and then Lonan’s cheek. When that rouses nothing, he unlocks the tin and removes a slit of gum. Right as he’s about to pop it in his mouth, Lonan says, “I wouldn’t eat that.”

“Why?” Harrison asks. “Did you lace it?”

“Like I said, I bought the car used.”

Harrison puts the gum back, and then the feather. He sticks his hand farther into the glove compartment, feels around until he drags out a map of the state, bilgy and half torn. He unfolds it, careful to avoid the rips, and flattens it against the dashboard. Almost immediately, it wilts against the cold, faded from time in the sun. It’s been marked up. Half with pencil, half with a red ballpoint pen. After a few minutes, Harrison understands the previous owner’s route. Or at least he does at first. Following the red pen arrows, they started at Long Island, then reached Manhattan. Then a much longer arrow takes him from Manhattan to Geneva, and then Buffalo. And then the red pen circles, once, twice, three times, four times, and what is in the centre doesn’t even have a city name. What it does say is HELP, in all-caps, each letter then melting into an illegible scrawl. Harrison sees bits of words: Luke, woe, hands, clay, guard, stray, each wobbly and disappearing into the other, becoming cities of their own, destroying others. He tries to understand the route, but the farther he pours over the map, recircling each line with his finger, the more lost he gets in the ink.

“Is this your map?” Harrison asks. There is no proof that it is. Even the handwriting is all wrong. Ragged. Confused. Desperate. Not like Lonan’s careful, hesitant print.

“Like I said, I bought the car used.”

“But is it your map?” Harrison asks again. Gently, he creases the paper and then slots it back into the glove compartment. Outside, they pass three convenience stores in a row, a flock of couples emerging from a bowling alley, tipsy and cradling leftover deep dish pizzas and mozzarella sticks. They pass two more convenience stores before Lonan finally answers.

“I was confused,” he says.

“This is more than confused,” Harrison says. “It’s disturbed.”

“I’m not disturbed.”

“But something is wrong with you.”

Lonan slows at a crosswalk. A group of teenaged girls whisk by in glitter and lip gloss.

“Yes,” he says.

This is Harrison trying to stop Lonan’s nosebleed after their bizarre swerve which I think is kind of <3 tendy <3

Harrison reaches for him. One hand on the back of his neck, and the other reared toward the red stream. His touch is tactful, so faint his fingerprints wouldn’t even be left behind, but still, the dabbing with his jacket’s hem is enough to redirect the blood’s flow from Lonan’s upper lip to the cuff of leather. The radio is still on, garbled like an unmassing of crepe paper lanterns.

This is the final excerpt for this update that takes us to the very end of the chapter! Harrison has just found Lonan supposedly head-first in the sink and though he asks at first why he is doing that, takes an alternate approach as the chapter closes:

Harrison gets up, his knees popping like gnawed bubble gum. He decides he will handle Lonan at a distance, if he chooses to handle him at all. Like a timid pet owner trying to tame their suddenly-rabid yorkie. Like a friend not trying to tip the full glass. To let its contents film at its surface, but never spill.

Somewhere in the apartment, Suzanna probably listens to them. If Harrison didn’t know her better, he’d imagine her pressed neatly against the door, waiting to hear the shuffle of their bodies or the tang of an argument. Instead, he imagines her at the kitchen table, gripping a glass of water for so long, half of it evaporates.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Harrison says, stepping back until his spine hits the counter’s lip. He curls his fingers under the granite. Looks toward the window, now a faint periwinkle. Lonan heaves. His fingers caging his face, an animal restrained. They stand there until the sun rises.

So that’s it for this gigantic update! I have like four short stories to update you on so I hope to be back soon!

—Rachel

#writing #writerblr #amwriting #writeblr #fostered #mothwork #writingupdates #feedinghabits

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glitzywisps · 5 years ago

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My Days With You

Dennor week, day 2: Medieval

Human/Prince and Servant au

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747888

“I almost thought you weren’t going to come!” Mathias called when he saw the servant boy approaching. He grinned, watching his friend speed up the slightest when seeing him. The sun fell through the tree branches highlighting Lukas’ platinum hair in what Mathias considered to be the most flattering way.

“I needed an excuse to get out of the kitchen,” Lukas responded with an eye-roll. Just a year ago he would’ve known better than to roll his eyes at the crowned prince but after the relationship, they had formed when meeting each other for the first time one night; he could safely say he could be himself around the noble.

~~~

Lukas had been hiding in a secluded corner of the castle, needing to calm his nerves for a moment. The teen had dropped a few dishes and gotten a vicious scolding from the head cook that no amount of soft apologizing could quell. And now he had to go to his safe place, somewhere quiet and away from everyone else. As he was relaxing against the wall, he heard frantic running coming in his direction. Before the servant boy could take a look he was pressed back into the corner by someone, practically crushed by the other teen’s back into the stone.

“Shhh…” The person had said, glancing behind himself at Lukas and offering an awkward turn of lips. That’s when Lukas realized who he was pressed behind and felt a sense of dread fill him. Prince Mathas had both of them trapped in what he had thought was a secret spot and the servant didn't even know what they were waiting out. Until he heard more footsteps and the voice of one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting as she walked past briskly, “Oh, he’s never going to hear the end of this! Just wait until I get my hands on him.”

Once the prince was sure she was gone he stepped out and laughed loudly, turning back to Lukas and speaking to the other as if they were two friends in on the same joke, “She was so mad! All I did was put paint in her shoes!”

Lukas only nodded, bowing his head down while trying to calm his inner screaming.

“So what were you doing in the corner?” That question had Lukas freezing.

“Just calming my nerves, your highness…”

“Oh, did someone scare you or something?”

“Something like that…” Lukas looked up at the prince, relieved to see no condescending look on his face, just mild interest maybe even concern.

“Well, sorry for jumping in like that! Next time we talk it’ll be different,” Mathias gave a wave and laugh before he turned and left the servant. Not only did the prince not seem to care that Lukas had been slacking off, but he continued to seek out the Norwegian out. Eventually, managing to coerce Lukas into a friendship that had grown into something quite special to each of them.

~~~

“You were almost late,” Mathias laughed and passed Lukas one of the swords he held.

“Some of us have to follow orders and can’t make our own rules,” Lukas retorted and moved to stand across from his prince. Lifting his sword and readying to practice he added, “You look different… Did you actually bathe today?”

Mathias flushed, rolling his eyes and huffing, “I bathe regularly!” He swung his sword, working slowly as to not overwhelm the other on only their second week of practicing with a sword.

Lukas snorted, “Yeah. Sure you do.” Soon enough they had gotten into a steady rhythm with several different rounds. Lukas was fairly used to losing at this, considering Mathias had been working with weapons throughout most of his childhood and the other had only just started to learn when the prince offered to teach him. Only when the sky had started to turn shades of orange and pink did the teens stop. Dropping their swords and falling to the ground, no words, just the sounds of their heavy breathing and the occasional snicker or chuckle.

“Let’s go swimming,” Mathias suggested. The other nodded in agreement, groaning as he got up, his muscles sore and worn out.

“I think we’d be better just sitting in the creek,” he said dryly.

And that they did. Stripping to their undergarments and settling down in the creek, sighing contently as the water cooled them down. Mathias probably would’ve started a splash fight or some roughhousing if the two weren’t so beat. But instead, they sat quietly just enjoying each other’s company. Though surprisingly, it was Lukas who broke the silence first.

“I don’t feel like working tomorrow,” he sighed.

“Then I will find an excuse for you not to then.”

“You can’t do that, Mathias.” Lukas shook his head and rested it on the Dane’s shoulder.

“That may be correct but one of these days the only work you’ll be doing will be by my side.” He wrapped his arm around Lukas’ waist to draw him closer.

“Whatever you say…” He pressed a kiss to the other’s cheek and closed his eyes, relaxing against Mathias.

#dennor week 19 #DenNor #hetalia #APH Denmark #APH Norway #aph dennor #medieval au #prince and servant au #fluff #my writing #fanfic #oneshot

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chrnerland · 6 years ago

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Inktober 2018, My artistic influences, day 10: Nils Axle Kanten

Nils Axle Kanten is another Norwegian comic artist and the only one I will feature this month that I actually know. He was my 2d animation teacher during my BA when he had just started transitioning to doing comics instead of animation. Because of this I got to see him work up close. He showed me how to make strong poses, how to ink a drawing and he invited me and my classmates to both exhibitions of his comics and to animation studios like Qvisten and Storm Studios.

Nils Axle tought me a lot about applying what I already knew of drawing to animation and he was so good at teaching that I eventually turned away from possibly aiming for a comic artist career and settling for the animation career.

Thanks for the inspiration Nils Axle!

#inktober #ink #drawing #inktober2017 #nils axle kanten #firekanta #hjalmar #norwegian comics #norwegian

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swanslieutenant · 7 years ago

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If the Stars Align - Chapter VII

Summary: The Musketeers AU. Danger lurks around every corner in the French court and as a Musketeer in service of the royal family, Killian’s duty is to protect them from any and all threats. As his relationship with Queen Emma develops into something more than just friendship, threats against the queen escalate and put everything they hold dear into jeopardy.

Rating: M

Content warning for the story: violence, mature themes, minor character death.

Art by @hook-and-star-ink , @acaptainswaneternity and @seastarved. Follow this to check all the pieces currently published and give them some love!

Catch Up on tumblr: ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4, ch5, ch6

AO3: ch7

In the weeks after Gillert’s death, no one can find any trace of the mysterious woman in the pub, the one the Musketeers are convinced is Regina, Robin’s estranged (and thought dead) wife.

Killian doesn’t know the whole backstory, much to his annoyance. Robin has been mute on it, only telling them the bare essentials. Before he was a Musketeer, when he still lived in a small village outside of Paris nearly a decade ago now, he’d been married to her. They’d been married for a year before she was accused and convicted of murdering a young woman who had died mysteriously a few years earlier. He’d left town before her execution date, unable to watch his wife die, and as far as he knew, she’d died by the hangman’s noose while he was on his way to Paris.

Killian can tell there’s more to the story, with the way Robin’s eyes grow haunted and grief-stricken at the mention of this young woman who Regina killed, but he doesn’t pry. Killian has own hidden past; he wouldn’t want anyone snooping into that either.

Today, instead of searching and inquiring and continuing, the Musketeers are spending time at the barracks. In a week’s time, Emma and her retinue are going to Nantes for a wedding of one of her former ladies, a young woman named Ariel. Killian’s squadron of Musketeers will be accompanying her, meaning they've got to get things straightened out for the near month they’ll be gone.

Though the morning was productive in assigning chores and duties, as the afternoon heat rolls around, cleaning and packing falls to the wayside and the Musketeers end up lounging around the courtyard instead, making the younger recruits do all the work.

Killian doesn’t feel too bad for them, though, because after lunch Mary Margaret Whale arrived, dressed in a pair of loose trousers, a borrowed sword clutched tightly in her hands, a determined edge to her jaw. The sight of her made all the recruits drop their mops and brooms, clustering around the edge of their practice fencing ring as she declared that she wanted to duel the Musketeers.

Since the events at the Bastille and the death of Gillert, Killian’s sensed an uneasiness amongst the queen’s ladies, but especially with Mary Margaret. She’s never had any defensive training and, from what David’s told him, she’s determined to fix that. David has already trained her in the basics, and with her presence at the barracks today, she’s determined to take on new challengers.

Killian has already had his turn, ending up with his face shoved into the dirt by the heel of her boot, his left knee smarting from where she kicked him to the ground. He wasn’t going on easy on her; he just wasn’t expecting her to be so vicious after only a few weeks of lessons.

He retreated to his quarters to clean up, and when he returns, Robin is in the ring with Mary Margaret, looking in a sorry state of affairs himself. Lancelot’s gone too, sporting a split lip as he sits beside David, dabbing at it with a damp cloth as they watch Mary Margaret and Robin.

To join them across the courtyard, Killian would have to walk through the fighting ring and he has no desire to do that, lest Mary Margaret see it as a challenge and knock him down again. Instead, he drops onto one of the tables on the other side of the ring with a heavy sigh, rubbing at his sore knee as it twinges in protest.

Will, already seated there, chortles as Killian digs out his flask from his jacket, taking a deep drink, hoping the rum will help his knee.

“Hurt, mate?”

Will leans over, meaning to slap him on the knee, but Killian grabs his hand before he can, holding it tightly and giving him a dark glare.

“You won’t be laughing when it’s your turn.”

As he says it, Mary Margaret takes a winning step in her fight against Robin, spinning and slashing his sword out of his hand. Robin immediately steps back, hands up in surrender.

“Your victory, Madame.”

Mary Margaret inclines her head in acknowledgement, then her face breaks into a wide smile. She turns to David behind her, whose own grin could light up a dark night, and rushes over to him.

Robin joins Killian and Will on their side of the ring, collapsing on the table top and panting, “That woman is a brilliant fencer. I don’t know what David’s been teaching her, but she’s fantastic.”

Will laughs, and casts a disparaging look at Robin and Killian. “I’m not surprised that she can best you lot, but she hasn’t faced me yet.”

Mary Margaret hears him, and marches over, twirling her sword so it rests on her shoulder, David looking on smugly from behind her.

“That’s right, Sir Scarlet! I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of defeating you yet.”

Will chuckles, standing and drawing his own sword. “Ah, Madame, I fear this Musketeer will be one you cannot beat, neither by your charm –” he looks pointedly to David, who flushes like a schoolboy – “or your skills.”

Mary Margaret smiles sweetly as she bows low to Will for the beginning of the duel. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

As they start to circle each other, confidence emanating from both of their steps, Killian can’t help but what Emma would think about seeing her friend best the Musketeers with such natural talent and skill.

Mary Margaret had informed them Emma had wanted to come and watch, and maybe brush up on the few skills she learned in Denmark while on the run from the Norwegians. But the king caught wind of it, and put his foot down.

He was apparently worried about what impression it would make to have the Queen of France visit the rough and tumble Musketeer garrison in the centre of Paris, far from the protective walls of the Louvre. Since the attack at the Bastille, and the subsequent execution of the guards, there’s been an uneasy tension in the streets of Paris. People can understand men sentenced to death for treason against the royals, but hanged without a trial? That’s turned even some of the loyalist Parisians nasty and grumbling, and it could spell trouble for Emma if anyone caught wind she wasn’t in the Louvre.

Killian understands, but that didn’t stop his heart from sinking when Mary Margaret arrived without her. And though he is enjoying watching Mary Margaret beat her way through the Musketeers, he would’ve enjoyed it even more with Emma’s presence beside him too.

Absently, Killian’s hand migrates to the sword charm around his neck, untucking it from under his shirt. He’s fiddling with it while watching the duel between Mary Margaret and Will, and nearly snaps it in half in surprise when Robin asks, “What’s that?”

He lets it drop from his hand and says, as casually as he can muster, “Just a trinket.”

Unfortunately, said trinket falls back against his chest and doesn’t slip in behind his open vest, the jewels sparkling in the sunlight.

Robin stares at the glittering sword and snorts. “That’s a bit of an extravagant trinket, Jones, even for you.”

“It was a gift,” Killian says simply, hoping to leave it at that, but at Robin’s raised eyebrow, he sighs and adds reluctantly, “From a friend.”

“What kind of friend do you have that can afford that?”

Killian stares back at him, unease running through him, suddenly feeling on guard. He’s uncertain of what to say; the queen has been known to give gifts of thanks before to other soldiers for exceptional duty, but Killian doesn’t need to see what the others received to know that his is not that kind of present.

That thought makes him almost more nervous to share with Robin, but his fellow is staring at him expectantly, eyebrows crunched together in curiosity, and Killian has to give an answer. He thinks about lying, but the swan crest on the back will betray him should Robin ask to see it.

Damn it all anyways.

“The queen gave it to me.”

And, true enough, whatever Robin was expecting, it wasn’t that. His eyebrows raise dramatically, mouth popping open in surprise.

“The queen?”

“Well, don’t go bloody announcing it to the whole world,” Killian grumbles, shooting a glance around, but all others in the courtyard are engrossed in watching Mary Margaret and Will duel, giving no sign they have noticed Robin’s exclamation.

Robin holds out his hand, beckoning expectantly. “Let me see it.”

Killian curses darkly, but pulls the chain over his head and passes it to Robin. The other man examines it closely, eyes widening at the jewels along the little sword, before flipping it over. Killian sees the exact moment Robin finds the engraving of the swan, because though his eyes were already wide, they nearly bug out of his head now.

“Her swan crest?” He looks up sharply, and glares at Killian. “I hope you haven’t done anything stupid.”

“I haven’t,” Killian replies, and he’s far too aware of the petulant, stubborn edge to his voice. He reaches out for the sword, and Robin reluctantly drops it back into his hand. “It’s just a token, that’s all. As thanks for saving her at the Bastille.”

The words sound like a lie even to his own ears, and Robin shakes his head. “A token worth more than our yearly salaries combined and personalized by the queen with her swan.”

Killian doesn’t answer, and Robin swears. He glances back to the courtyard, where David is watching Mary Margaret get the upper-hand with Will with shining eyes, pride emanating from his features, and mutters, “What is it with Musketeers and married women?”

Though his heartbeat quickens at the implication, a spark of hope flaming to life in his chest at the mere thought, Killian tries to play it off with an affronted scoff. “You’re being ridiculous, mate. It’s just a necklace. A sign of her thanks. Nothing more.”

But it is a weak lie, and Robin’s expression is wary, a warning glint to his eyes.

“Don’t be a fool, Killian. You know what would happen to you and to her if anything happened between you two –”

“Nothing will,” Killian mutters, hoping the words don’t sound as bitter as they taste. “Nothing will happen.”

An exclamation of applause bursts out from the spectators as Mary Margaret knocks Will to his knees, David jumping forward to twirl Mary Margaret in the air.

“David and Madame Whale are one thing,” Robin says sternly, and Killian stiffens, “but if you do so much as look at the queen in a way that draws suspicion, you could be in serious trouble. And, more importantly so could she.”

Killian opens his mouth, ready to retort again, but Robin holds up a hand for silence.

“Nothing can come of it,” he says. “Whatever you think –”

“I know that,” Killian interrupts, frustrated now. “I just –”

“What the hell is going on here?”

The new voice is loud and angry, cutting Killian off. At the entrance gates to the barracks, furious and red-faced, is Victor Whale. Instantly the hubbub in the yard fades into silence, and Mary Margaret takes several steps away from David, twisting her arms to hide her sword behind her back.

“The Musketeers were teaching me –”

“We were just –”

Dr. Whale scoffs, and both David and Mary Margaret fall silent. He steps further into the courtyard, his eyes falling to the sword she tried to hide and to her dusty trousers and sweaty face. He shakes his head in irritation.

“When I heard the queen had granted you a free afternoon, I thought it would be nice for us to spend some time together. Imagine my surprise to hear you instead had come here, of all places.” His eyes flicker to David, similarly dusty and sweaty, and his lip curls in disgust. “I would think if it were not appropriate for the queen to come here, you, Madame, would take similar discretion to not harm your reputation of holding such company.”

Mary Margaret flushes bright red, and David grits his teeth. An insult like that to David is an insult to them all, and Killian closes his fist, clenching the sword charm in his hand tightly. He feels Robin tense beside him too, and watches Lancelot shift his weight, hand drifting to the sword at his waist.

But Dr. Whale pays them all no mind, oblivious to the now-tense Musketeers. He holds out his hand expectantly for Mary Margaret and beckons her forward.

“Come on. We’re leaving.”

She hesitates for a brief second, eyes flickering to David with a pained, wistful look that only incenses Dr. Whale further. He steps forward, close enough to grasp her hand tightly in his, and snaps, “I said we’re leaving.”

When Mary Margaret is at his side, he turns his cold glare to the Musketeers, to David and Will in the yard, and to Killian and Lancelot and Robin on the benches, and surveys them with a disgusted frown.

“And I’ll thank you, Musketeers, to not ‘teach’ my wife such barbaric things in the future. She has a place in this world, and it certainly is not behaving like you lot.”

He turns sharply and pulls Mary Margaret alongside him out of the courtyard, talking angrily now about respect and propriety and decency.

The mood in the garrison has soured now, the recruits grabbing their mops and brooms again, and David watches them leave, frowning and morose. Lancelot claps him on the shoulder in solidarity.

“Barbaric, is it now?” he says, not bothering to wait until Dr. Whale is out of earshot. “Wasn’t so barbaric all the times we’ve saved his arse.”

Robin begins delegating duties to resume the clean up and packing, but Killian’s hardly listening. He’s watching David, at the unreadable expression in his eyes as he watches Mary Margaret and the doctor until the round the corner down the street, and Robin’s words from before echo through his mind again – what is it with Musketeers and married women?

The thought gives him a chill, and he shivers. He shakes his head to clear the thoughts, jumping down from the table to join the other and tucking the charm back under his shirt. The cool metal settles against his chest, resting just above his heart, and he can’t help but agree with Robin’s assessment – what is it indeed.

Back at the Louvre, the afternoon seemed to drag on and on. Emma, furious at Neal’s refusal to let her join Mary Margaret, had retreated to one of the lesser used sitting rooms, one where he never ventured so she wouldn’t lose her temper in front of the court and prove his point further that see, the queen shouldn’t spend time with rough men, this is what it does to her temper.

She almost left anyways, damn Neal to hell, but Cardinal Gold’s Red Guards had somehow got wind of her intentions, and had casually set themselves up at any entrance Emma walked by. They couldn’t stop her even if they wanted to, but the thought of them reporting to Gold that she’d left anyways made Emma’s skin crawl; he doesn’t need anymore ammunition against her than he already has.

So, even more furious now, she’d stomped up to the sitting room. Other than being a neglected space, the room happens to be one that overlooks the main entrance to the Louvre, one where she can wait and watch for Mary Margaret’s return. There’s a small part of her too that’s hoping one particular Musketeer elects to accompany her friend back to the palace, because, honestly, she’s not sure what else could improve her mood today.

Emma picked up a book and stared at it until her eyes start to burn and water, and she hasn’t read a single word of it. She’s angled it so she can look over the top and out the window, but so far, no one of any interest has approached the palace. After a while, she wonders if Mary Margaret will ever return, and Emma finds herself not blaming her at all; Emma doesn’t know some days if she wants to return to the palace either.

After hours of waiting, she finally spots Mary Margaret’s dark head striding through the courtyard with a man at her side. A surge of hope rushes through her, but is dashed almost immediately; it’s not any of the Musketeers – it’s a furious Dr. Whale.

A pit of dread settles in her stomach, her mind already jumping to the worst conclusions of what has occurred. She sets her book down and gets to her feet. Her other ladies rise instantly, but she waves them back down and orders them to remain here as she sweeps from the room.

By the time she’s circumvented through the palace towards the main entrance, she can hear Dr. Whale’s voice echoing from within the foyer and she marches towards the doors. The pages quickly swing open the doors for her, and though it’s apparent that Dr. Whale was in the middle of lecturing Mary Margaret, he falls silent mid-sentence at Emma’s arrival.

“Your Majesty,” he says, inclining his head in a bow as Emma marches right up to him, hands on her hips.

“Dr. Whale,” Emma says, and not bothering with more of a greeting than that, continues, “I am glad you’re here. I hear Lord Grincheux is in dire need of your assistance. His gout, you know. Makes him very grumpy.”

Annoyance flashes in Dr. Whale’s eyes, but it’s gone quickly and he nods. “Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll see to him right away.”

He glances once at Mary Margaret, who refuses to meet his eyes, staring at the wall across the foyer. A muscle in his jaw pulses, but he doesn’t say anything else with Emma there, and departs from the hall.

The moment the pages close the door behind him, Emma softens her stance and turns to Mary Margaret, demanding, “What happened?”

Mary Margaret glares at the doorway which her husband disappeared through. “Nothing. He found out I was at the barracks and overreacted, as usual. Said I made a fool of myself by cavorting with them.”

Emma frowns, a rush of anger on her friend’s behalf coursing through her, and she squeezes Mary Margaret’s arm. “I am sure you did no such thing.”

She shrugs. “I suppose I was, though. Sword fighting isn’t exactly the proper behaviour for a lady.”

Frustration joins the swell of anger, and maybe because she herself has already had an infuriating day, but something inside her snaps. She’s been on edge for weeks now, ever since the Bastille where she thought she was going to die at any moment, and finally she feels a clarity at why she is still so rattled - neither she or Mary Margaret were prepared for the Bastille.

“It should be proper for us too,” Emma proclaims, making Mary Margaret look at her in surprise. “We have a right to defend ourselves, just as much as men do. More, considering the type of things women are often faced with. Why do they get to learn how defend themselves, while we have to sit around and wait to be saved?”

Mary Margaret’s mouth is hanging open, but Emma continues, her voice growing louder and fiercer with every word. “At the Bastille, if Killian and David had not been there we would both be dead right now. I only know a few disarming moves the guards taught me in Denmark years ago, and I haven’t practiced those in years. I couldn’t have saved us against those guards. We are alive because the Musketeers know how to fight. We deserve to know those same skills so if next time they aren’t there, we can save ourselves!”

Her words echo through the hall now, making all the pages and servants in the hall stare at her. Emma flushes at the attention, already knowing the news of this latest ‘temper tantrum’ is surely on its way to Neal or Gold, but she can’t find it in herself to care.

“I agree with you,” Mary Margaret says, resting her hand on Emma’s arm. “But what can we do about it? I know the Musketeers would teach us at the drop of a hat, but neither of our husbands will let us go to the garrison.”

Emma grits her teeth together, and shakes her head. That’s always been the problem – as much as the palace is a beautiful home, she sometimes feels like it’s nothing more than a beautiful cage.

“I don’t know. But I’m going to figure something out.”

Three days later, Emma’s still thinking about what to do. They’ll be leaving for Nantes in three days, and with the flurry of packing and sending most of her household on ahead, there hasn’t been much time for thinking up a plan. This evening was supposed to be one of her free evenings, and Emma was looking forward to settling down and trying to figure out a plan, but then Neal dropped a surprise on her – he was going to host a goodbye dinner for her.

When the messenger arrived at her quarters, she thought for a moment that Neal was summoning her to give her a lecture about her outburst the other day. But, instead to have a dinner hosted in her honour? It’s been a long time since that happened.

Some of his old friends are in Paris, and Neal invites them to attend too. The group, which Neal affectionately nicknamed years ago as “the lost boys” are a ragtag of men orphaned as children and forgotten for much of their youth. At one point, Emma had been friends with some of them too, the lost girl amongst the lost boys. But that had been years ago at this point, and now she feels like a complete outsider amongst them, now the single woman in the boys’ club.

Especially with the newest members. They’re younger by nearly a decade, young men in love with the power and money and prestige that comes with being in the king’s inner circle. But Neal doesn’t see it that way, and even if Emma said something, she knows it would fall on deaf ears. She’s had a way with telling when people are being dishonest her entire life, but Neal’s never believed in her.

Dinner passes quickly, with much of the talk revolving around business and international politics. Emma is excited to hear about their travels, as she’s been trapped in France for years, but every time the talk veers towards the impact of religion on the international politics, someone clears their throat and the conversation shifts immediately. As dessert finishes, Emma’s starting to feel more like the elephant in the room than a mere outsider.

After the food is cleared away, one of the men teaches everyone how to play a new game he learned in Belgium. Neal promises a new horse to whomever comes out with the most profit of the night, raising the stakes. The men’s eyes shine at the prospect, the game becoming serious and more vicious as the evening goes on.

Emma doesn’t join in, not after the askance glances she gets for asking to be dealt a hand in the first round, and she’s bored after twenty minutes, deciding to call it a night. To her annoyance, no one notices she stands; this was supposed to be her goodbye dinner, after all, but no one rises to say a goodbye to her as she marches from the dining hall.

Too frustrated to sleep, instead of returning to her quarters, Emma wanders the palace. It’s past midnight now, the servants asleep ahead of another long day, and the palace is almost eerily quiet.

She wishes she could give Henry a kiss goodnight, but he’s already on the road to Nantes, having been sent on ahead. Henry’s a good traveller, but ten days straight of horses and carriages makes him as grumpy and miserable as a toddler; Emma learned that the hard way a few years ago when she started going to Bordeaux for the winter. Sending him ahead will allow him a few days’ rest at a hunting retreat halfway to Nantes where Emma will meet up with him to finish the trek.

The original plan had not been to bring Henry with her to Ariel’s wedding, but when Emma realized that meant leaving Henry in Paris where Gold could conduct his ‘lessons’ without her supervision, she put her foot down. Either Henry was coming with Emma for the month or she wanted Gold out of Paris for the same length of time.

And to her complete surprise, Neal had agreed.

(Though she’s not sure she should have been that surprised; Neal without the cardinal’s influence for a month? France would crumble into the sea.)

Gold was furious when he learned of Emma’s plans, angry that he was being ‘sidelined’ and he only calmed when Neal decided the Red Guards could accompany Henry to the halfway point, the Musketeers taking over when she joined him.

That in turn prompted Emma to send Mary Margaret with Henry, wanting someone she trusted with him at all times, but now she misses her friend’s presence. She would normally seek her out to decompress after an evening such as this, but in the silence of the palace halls, she’s reminded how alone she is right now.

In her wanderings, she’s ended up at the south end of the palace, near a large hall that overlooks the gardens outside, and to her immense surprise, she’s not the only one in the room.

“Sir Jones?”

Killian nearly jumps a foot in the air, hand automatically reaching to the hilt of his sword. He relaxes almost as quickly when he realizes it’s her, and dips his head into a bow.

“Your Majesty. My apologies, you startled me.”

“You startled me too,” Emma says, moving across the hall to join him. She can’t believe her luck, and her mood feels almost instantly better, as it always does when in Killian’s presence. “What are you doing here so late?”

“I was updating the palace guards,” he explains. “Since the attack at the Bastille, we’ve been checking in with them more regularly.”

“And now you’re lurking in one of the halls?” she teases, stepping closer to bump his arm with hers. “Staring out the windows at the flowers?”

A light blush covers his cheeks, and he glances out the window again. “I was on my way out when I passed this window, and I wondered if ... if I could see your swans. To see how they are doing since ...” He trails off, looking uncomfortable, and Emma’s heart twinges.

“They’re doing well. Madame Gillert and her daughters are taking care of them for me. It’s ... it’s what Monsieur Gillert would have wanted.” She pauses, trying not to think about the haunted eyes of the widow and her daughters when she’d given them Monsieur Gillert’s swan pin, clean from blood, and instead fixes Killian with a hard stare. “Any news on suspects?”

He hesitates for a moment, and then says, “There have been some leads. But we haven’t arrested anyone yet.”

Emma narrows her eyes; he’s telling the truth, but there’s a sliver of dishonesty there too, and her inner sense for lies pings. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He looks back to her, surprised. “What do you mean?”

Emma plants her hands on her hips and stares pointedly at him. “I know when someone is lying to me. Or at least leaving out some of the story.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but then seems to think better of it and he nods briefly. “Aye, you’re right, love. I just – well, there’s nothing concrete yet, no arrests, but we do have a suspect.”

“Who is it?”

Killian looks uncomfortable for a minute. “Her name is Regina. She’s – she’s actually Robin’s wife.”

Emma chokes out, “His wife?”

“His estranged wife,” Killian clarifies quickly. “He hasn’t seen her in nearly a decade, and he thought she was dead until a few weeks ago.”

Emma gapes at him, her mind swirling, trying to paste all the puzzle pieces together.

“What did Robin’s wife have against Monsieur Gillert?”

Killian shrugs, shoulders tense and stance annoyed. “That’s what we don’t know yet. But we’re still investigating, and when I know more, I’ll let you know.”

She nods, and wants to demand more right now anyways, but Killian shifts his weight slightly, wincing as he moves more of his weight to his left leg, and she frowns.

“What happened? Are you injured?”

He shakes his head, and lets out a chuckle. “I’m fine. I have Madame Whale to thank for this.”

“Really?” Emma says, surprised. When Killian nods, though her mind is still jumbled with the name of Monsieur Gillert’s suspected killer, she can’t help but smile at the thought of Mary Margaret knocking Killian to the ground. “That’s incredible. I wish I could have seen that.”

He must sense the wistful tone to her voice because he smiles softly. “Your presence was missed there, Your Majesty.”

Emma glances to him sharply. Perhaps it’s because she knows Neal never seems to care whether Emma is around (he probably won’t have noticed her absence yet from the dining hall) or maybe because she’s annoyed that she was kept away from attending the barracks with Mary Margaret or maybe because when she told Killian to tell her the truth he did, no questions asked, but she suddenly doesn’t want to be Your Majesty with Killian anymore.

“Please, call me Emma.”

His neck cricks as he whirls his neck to look at her. “I – what?”

Emma gestures to the empty hall around them, her fast heartbeat loud enough to fill the hall as far as she’s concerned. “It’s only us here. ‘Your Majesty’ is so formal … and sometimes I do not wish to be the queen. Just Emma.”

He stares at her blankly. “What?” he asks again, dumbfounded, and Emma feels a thrill rush through her; it’s not often she shocks a Musketeer into silence.

“Are you sure Mary Margaret didn’t hit you on the head earlier?” Emma teases, and at that Killian breaks out of his stare with a chuckle.

“Maybe she did.”

Speaking of Mary Margaret’s time at the barracks... an idea occurs to her. They’re about to go to Nantes, will be on the road for weeks, away from the control of the court, the cardinal and the king. Now with the news that they have a suspect for Gillert’s killer, a woman who knows how to fight and kill, Emma feels even more defenceless herself, and this may be her only chance to ask Killian if he’ll do it.

“I want to learn how to fight.”

Killian blinks several times, thrown by the sudden change in conversation. “You – pardon?”

“When we were at the Bastille, I was useless.”

Catching on now, Killian opens his mouth to disagree, but Emma barrels on over him.

“Yes, I was. And I haven’t felt that kind of fear since I was a young girl in Denmark. I need to be able to protect myself. I may not be allowed to go to your barracks, but I know Sir Nolan found a way to teach Mary Margaret without Dr. Whale knowing before that. For me, it may be more difficult, but I think we can find a way. Besides,” she adds, as he’s just staring back at her and maybe it will have to be a tit-for-tat that will convince him, “I taught you how to dance. This will make us equal.”

He laughs, broken out of his shock, and shakes his head with a grin. “That is true.”

But he doesn’t say anything else, and for a second, Emma fears she’s put him in an awkward position, realizing too late that Killian’s duties aren’t just to her – he also has to respect whatever the king wants too.

“Neal doesn’t have to know, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she adds, but Killian frowns and shakes his head.

“It’s not that,” he says, and his mouth quirks up into a smirk. “I was just thinking that if you’re as skilled a dancer as you are a fighter, there won’t be much use for me anymore.”

An enormous weight lifts from Emma’s shoulders, and she breaks out into a grin.

“So you’ll do it?”

“Of course! If you want to learn to defend yourself, I will do my best to teach you. I doubt I’ll be as good as a teacher as you, but –”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re perfect.”

That sentence lingers in the air between them, her internal thoughts spoken out loud. For a second, Emma wants to take them back, but that quickly disappears at the look on Killian’s face, the slightly stunned way his eyes widen. He comes to his senses, shaking his head and stepping back.

“Your Majesty is too kind.”

With the prospect of fighting lessons looming on the horizon, a tide of recklessness sweeps over Emma, flooding away any thought of common sense. She doesn’t regret saying that to him – she wants him to know what she’s feeling. She doesn’t have Henry or Mary Margaret for comfort or companionship, but maybe she isn’t so alone here after all.

“Emma,” she corrects, closing the distance between them again. They’re nearly toe-to-toe now, and though the room is dark, lit only by the pale moonlight, she can see the blue of his eyes, as blue as the seas he used to sail.

“Emma,” he repeats slowly, rolling out the syllables on his tongue and sending a thrill right through her. He licks his lips, eyes darting down to her mouth, and at that, Emma doesn’t wait any longer.

Common sense be damned, Emma grabs the collars of his jacket, hauling him closer and crushing her lips against his.

For a single moment, Killian doesn’t move, too stunned to do anything. But Emma keeps kissing him, pressing herself closer against him, and he finally reacts, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her back as if his life depends on it.

His lips are soft, softer than she ever could have imagined, and it’s as if her body is aware this could never happen again, because she opens her mouth, wanting more right away. He follows her lead, deepening the kiss, and Emma groans. He tastes vaguely like rum, and she wonders if he had a drink from his flask before she got here. But she doesn’t think about that for longer than a second, as his hand is in her hair, tilting her head to the side to kiss her more insistently.

It feels like an eternity later when they break apart for breath, both gasping for breath. Emma can feel her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest, every nerve in her body tingling and burning, and she wants nothing more than to haul him closer again. But the common sense Emma stifled for the past few minutes comes slamming back as he starts to say “That was –” and she realizes just what she’s done.

You’re the queen, Emma.

This could get him killed.

“A one-time thing,” Emma says, releasing Killian’s collar and stepping away. She smooths her dress with shaking hands, her mind torn between just turning back to Killian, consequences be damned, and the screams of her sensible side telling her to get out of here before a servant or a guard or hell Neal wanders in.

But the consequences are too enormous, and she swallows, trying to ignore her tingling lips and the rum she can still taste, and makes her decision.

“Wait a few moments, then leave out the west wing.”

Killian is silent from behind her, and Emma can easily imagine the wrecked expression on his face because she’s sure that’s how she must look too. She’s nearly at the door before he finally speaks, his voice following her out the door, soft and gentle.

“As you wish.”

#cs ff #csbb #captain swan #captain swan big bang #cs mc ff #fic: if the stars align

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herwitchinesss · 7 years ago

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annual list of books i have read this year

(i’m already doing my favorite reads of the year in instagram posts, so look out for those instead of my usual bold = favorite that i do; if you want to know about a specific book or if i have it available to lend out on eBook or give to you via Audible, send me a message! xo)

1) Mrs. Zant and the Ghost by Wilkie Collins 2) Dreamer’s Pool by Juliet Marillier 3) DC Bombshells Vol 3 by Marguerite Bennett 4) The Bucolic Plague: How Two Manhattanites Became Gentlemen Farmers: An Unconventional Memoir by Josh Kilmer-Purcell 5) The Couple Next Door by Shari Lapena 6) Ascension by Jacqueline Koyanagi 7) The Devourers by Indra Das 8) A Good Idea by Cristina Moracho 9) The Last Wish by Andrzej Sapkowski 10) The Baker’s Secret by Stephen P. Kiernan 11) Another Brooklyn by Jacqueline Woodson 12) A Word For Love by Emily Robbins 13) The Strange Case of the Alchemists Daughter by Theodora Gross 14) Ahsoka by EK Johnston 15) Gwenpool Vol 2 by Christopher Hastings 16) Spell On Wheels by Kate Leth 17) Hi-Fi Fight Club by Carly Usdin 18) Beauty Vol 1 by Jeremy Haun 19) American Housewife, stories by Helen Ellis 20) 10 Things I Can See From Here by Carrie Mac 21) Imprudence by Gail Carriger 22) The Authentics by Abdi Nazemian 23) Norse Mythology by Neil Gaiman 24) Delicate Monsters by Stephanie Kuehn 25) The Nest by Cynthia D’Aprix Sweeney 26) Miles Morales: Spider-Man by Jason Reynolds 27) The Virgin Cure by Ami McKay 28) My Best Friend’s Exorcism by Grady Hendrix 29) Crash Override by Zoe Quinn 30) Forest of Memory by Mary Robinette Kowal 31) Belle: The Slave Daughter & the Lord Chief Justice by Paula Byrne 32) Invincible Summer by Alice Adams 33) Leia, Princess of Alderaan by Claudia Gray 34) The Trap by Melanie Raabe 35) The End of Everything by Megan Abbott 36) A Study in Scarlet Women by Sherry Thomas 37) Harry Potter & the Prisoner of Azkaban by JK Rowling (re-read) 38) The Girls by Emma Cline 39) I Am Princess X by Cherie Priest 40) The Likeness by Tana French 41) Broken Homes by Ben Aaronovitch 42) A Spool of Blue Thread by Anne Tyler 43) The Women in the Castle by Jessica Shattuck 44) Whispers Under Ground by Ben Aaronovitch 45) Inferior: How Science Got Women Wrong---- and the New Research that’s Rewriting the Story by Angela Saini 46) In the Woods by Tana French 47) The Mothers by Brit Bennett 48) Moon Over Soho by Ben Aaronovitch 49) Ghost Talkers by Mary Robinette Kowal 50) The World Is Bigger Now by Euna Lee 51) Hope In the Dark: Untold Histories, Wild Possibilities by Rebecca Solnit 52) Midnight Riot by Ben Aaronovitch 53) The Psychopath Inside by James Fallon 54) Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk by Kathleen Rooney 55) iZombie vol 1 by Chris Roberson 56) The End of the Affair by Graham Greene 57) The Book of Joan by Lidia Yuknavitch 58) Mercury by Margot Livesey 59) The Witches of New York by Ami McKay 60) The Girl At Midnight by Melissa Grey 61) Swimming Lessons by Claire Fuller 62) Caraval by Stephanie Garber 63) Archivist Wasp by Nicole Kornher-Stace 64) Night of Cake & Puppets by Laini Taylor 65) The World According to Star Wars by Cass R Sunstein 66) Meddling Kids by Edgar Cantero 67) The Sleeper & the Spindle by Neil Gaiman 68) Highly Illogical Behavior by John Corey Whaley 69) The Runaways by Brian K Vaughan 70) Monstress Vol 1 by Marjorie M Liu 71) Beautiful Broken Girls by Kim Savage 72) November 9 by Colleen Hoover 73) The People We Hate At the Wedding by Grant Ginder 74) How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain by Lisa Feldman Barrett 75) Mosquitoland by David Arnold 76) Luckiest Girl Alive by Jessica Knoll 77) The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice & Virtue by Mackenzi Lee 78) Ashes to Ashes by Jenny Han & Siobhan Vivian 79) Fire with Fire by Jenny Han & Siobhan Vivian 80) Burn for Burn by Jenny Han & Siobhan Vivian 81) Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell 82) Hag-Seed by Margaret Atwood 83) The Most Dangerous Place on Earth by Lindsey Lee Johnson 84) How To Hang a Witch by Adriana Mather 85) The Lovely Reckless by Kami Garcia 86) You’re Never Weird On the Internet (Almost) by Felicia Day 87) One of Us Is Lying by Karen M. McManus 88) Anne of Green Gables by LM Montgomery (re-read) 89) Let’s Explore Diabetes With Owls by David Sedaris 90) Lost Stars by Claudia Gray 91) The Mistletoe Murder & Other Stories by PD James 92) Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams 93) I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts On Being a Woman by Nora Ephron 94) Console Wars: Sega, Nintendo & the Battle That Defined a Generation by Blake J Harris 95) We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson 96) Dear Mr You by Mary-Louise Parker 97) Carry On by Rainbow Rowell 98) The Boston Girl by Anita Diamant 99) Hex by Thomas Olde Heuvelt 100) Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth by Warsan Shire 101) Nelson Mandela’s Favorite African Folktales by Nelson Mandela 102) We Could Be Beautiful by Swan Huntley 103) Girl Walks Into a Bar... by Rachel Dratch 104) Bloodline by Claudia Gray 105) Romeo & Juliet by David Hewson 106) Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng 107) You Don’t Look Your age... And Other Fairy Tales by Sheila Nevins 108) The Regional Office Is Under Attack! by Manuel Gonzales 109) Some Kind of Fairy Tale by Graham Joyce 110) The Color Master: Stories by Aimee Bender 111) The Inseperables by Stuart Nadler 112) Rani Patel in Full Effect by Sonia Patel 113) Today Will Be Different by Maria Semple 114) Moshi Moshi by Banana Yoshimoto 115) We Were Feminists Once: From Riot Grrrl to Covergirl, the Buying & Selling of a Political Movement by Andi Zeisler 116) Beast by Brie Spangler 117) Dreamland Burning by Jennifer Latham 118) Ways to Disappear by Idra Novey 119) The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend by Katarina Bivald 120) Dare Me by Megan Abbott 121) Eleven Hours by Pamela Erens 122) Pond by Claire-Louise Bennett 123) Akata Witch by Nnedi Okorafor 124) Zami: A New Spelling of My Name by Audre Lorde 125) The Briefcase by Hiromi Kawakami 126) The Fever by Megan Abbott 127) Illusionarium by Heather Dixon 128) Life After Life by Kate Atkinson 129) Christmas Days by Jeanette Winterson 130) The Dinner by Herman Koch 131) The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters 132) In the Country by Mia Alvar 133) Putin’s Russia by Anna Politkovskaya 134) You Will Know Me by Megan Abbott 135) The Thief by Fuminori Nakamura 136) Jackaby by William Ritter 137) Allegedly by Tiffany D. Jackson 138) Certain Dark Things by Silvia Moreno-Garcia 139) Rain by Amanda Sun 140) Norwegian by Night by Derek B Miller 141) The Bone Witch by Rin Chupeco 142) Iron Cast by Destiny Soria 143) Big Little Lies by Liane Moriarty 144) Naomi & Ely’s No Kiss List by Rachel Cohn & David Leviathan 145) The Long Way To a Small, Angry Planet by Becky Chambers 146) What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami 147) People of the Book, Jewish Sci-Fi/Fantasy anthology by various authors 148) Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami, re-read 149) Exit, Pursued by a Bear by EK Johnston 150) The Bear & the Nightingale by Katherine Arden 151) The Nature of a Pirate by AM Dellamonica 152) Ink by Amanda Sun 153) More Than This by Patrick Ness 154) The Summer Before the War by Helen Simonson 155) A Daughter of No Nation by AM Dellamonica 156) Lucky Us by Amy Bloom 157) This Is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper 158) Child of a Hidden Sea by AM Dellamonica 159) Brooklyn by Colm Tóibín 160) Silver Linings Playbook by Matthew Quick 161) The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy 162) Beautiful Chaos by Kami Garcia & Margaret Stohl 163) Hidden Figures by Margot Lee Shetterly 164) Candide by Voltaire 165) After You by JoJo Moyes 166) Pocket Full of Posies by Angela Roquet 167) Snow Flower & the Secret Fan by Lisa See 168) English Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs 169) The Hopefuls by Jennifer Close 170) DC Bombshells vol 4 by Marguerite Bennett 171) DC Bomsbells Vol 5 by Marguerite Bennett 172) DC Bombshells Vol 6 by Marguerite Bennett 173) The Lion, The Witch & the Wardrobe by CS Lewis re-read 174) Breakfast At Tiffany’s by Truman Capote, re-read 175) The Love Artist by Jane Alison 176) Harry Potter & the Sorcerer’s Stone by JK Rowling, re-read

#booklr #books #reading #2017 reads #reading challenge

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aromantisk-fagforening · 1 year ago

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#ink.post #polls #my polls #norsk #norwegian #learn norwegian #ink teaches Norwegian

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doodlewash · 7 years ago

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Happyart! My name is Kari Hegdahl. I am a Norwegian newborn watercolor artist. For many years, I worked as an Arts & Crafts teacher. Which I loved! I’ve always been creative, working with different materials. Fabrics, yarn, wood, acrylics and oil. I could never choose, and kept searching for my own expression.

Four years ago, I stopped teaching, and had time to explore even more materials. And three years ago, I got watercolors for Christmas, and I started painting. Something I hadn’t done in years.

Fortunately, my boyfriend did all the house work, while I practised and practised and searched and searched for my own personal expression. For a month, I painted 12 hours a day! And suddenly I found it! It turned out I needed something beside the watercolors. The Marvy Uchida Black Ink Drawing pens were the perfect match for my watercolor washes!

Couch Artist

Besides, I found out what I needed and liked to paint were animals. And birds. And preferably with weird expressions!

I always bring my camera in search of reference photos. But I also find photos on the Internet. I start by sketching with a pencil, very lightly. Then I paint very roughly what I want to bring to the couch for drawing. My favorite watercolor paper is Fabriano, cold press 300g/140 lbs, and the watercolors I use are Van Gogh tubes.

As for the brushes, I don’t have any favorites. So, comfortably installed on the couch, I draw. I try to personalize the animal, kind of giving it a human expression. I like to name them, and make a little story around each of them.

Inspiration

I find inspiration everywhere. Being fortunate not having to go to a real job, I have plenty of time to do the things I like. Going for long walks with our dog, observing everything around me, and studying other people’s art.

I always find inspiration, and I try to paint every day. Traveling a lot around Europe in our camper van, watercolors are the perfect thing to bring along! Many of my painted animals are animals I met in France or Spain or Italy.

Social Media

After a while, my daughter persuaded me to make a Facebook page where I could post my paintings. I finally did that, and to my surprise and delight, people liked them! Because of my Facebook page, which is called “ Karistreker”, I was invited to an exhibition in 2016, and all my paintings were sold!

I continued to Instagram, posted the paintings there, and found a lot of fellow watercolor artists who I now call my friends. It’s such an inspiration to see what other people do, and to get feedback from people who do what you do! This fall I had my first solo exhibition in the town where I live. I was so proud and grateful!

Doodlewash

Only recently, I discovered Doodlewash.com. Another great place to be! Getting feedback from fellow artists means just a little more. These days I’m busy with the January Happy Things Art Challenge. I find it fun and interesting having to paint other stuff, not just the animals!

Happyart!

What I want with my art? I want to make people smile! Whenever someone tells me that one of my paintings made them smile, I’m happy!

Kari Hegdahl Facebook Instagram Doodlewash

#WorldWatercolorGroup - GUEST ARTIST: "Making People Smile" by Kari Hegdahl #doodlewash Happyart! My name is Kari Hegdahl. I am a Norwegian newborn watercolor artist. For many years, I worked as an Arts & Crafts teacher.

#WorldWatercolorGroup #animals #doodlewash #EU #featured #illustration #Norway #watercolor #watercolor illustration #watercolour

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norxxcoffee-blog · 7 years ago

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Part 9

Soon I will be moving this story to ff. net, but I will continue to post links to it here! Part 10 should appear there tomorrow- but for now enjoy! :D (also any religious references are purely for the story and not meant to offend anyone)

Teaching Finland Swedish proved to be no small task. He could write well enough, in a flowing script that made the letters look like art, but more often than not he used Finnish. When Sweden attempted to talk to him, he would give that blank-but-lovely stare of his, and turn away from his self-appointed teacher. 'Give it up,' Denmark often said. 'If he doesn't want to learn, you can't make him.' But that was his attitude in everything- he saw no point in trying to fix something that didn't work. Sweden hoped fervently that he was wrong. He wanted to speak to Finland in a language that was not one of stolen glances and half-smiles, wanted to give voice to his secret thoughts. So he persevered. Finland was made to read scrolls and notes from the king's councils, made to copy out hundreds of words thousands of times over, and at the end of the day, had to read a passage from the Bible. Denmark and Sweden both listened to his reading every night, though they were still wary of the Christian faith. Odin and the other gods had passed out of living memory, so it fell to them to honour their old religion, never truly accepting the one God and his ordered world.

'Love is pat...patient.' read Finland that night, as the three of them were gathered around the fire. 'Love is kind. It does not- does not en...envy. It is not-' He hesitated, finger under one word. 'Proud.' mumbled Sweden. 'It is not proud. It does not- dis- dishonour others, it is not self-see...seeking.' Sweden's head jerked up. Was that what he was- self-seeking? Did he teach Finland merely for his own gain? The Bible, to him at least, was a constant mystery. It preached that love was a good feeling, and should be nurtured. And it damned those like him, those like his brothers, who loved each other more than they would ever admit, damned them to hell. 'It is not-' 'Stop.' He rose, taking the book from Finland's hands. 'I don't want you to read that anymore.' Finland stared up at him with bewildered violet eyes. Sweden forced a smile. 'You can read what you like now.' There was a pause as Finland deciphered his words. Then he beamed brightly, nodding and mumbling his thanks in broken Swedish. Denmark watched him go with a fond expression on his face.

'What was that, lillebror? Going to teach him the ways of Odin now?' Sweden said nothing. A curious burning sensation had built up inside him, focused on the little black book in his hand. I love him. It is true. And if the book forbade that love, than he would turn his back on it. He crossed the room and wedged it between two slats of wood, not quite brave enough to burn the thing. Denmark nodded. 'Good decision. I always preferred a bit of paganism.' Finland returned at that moment, perfectly on cue. He was struggling with a thick leather-bound tome, gold-edged and worn. 'I like- I want this. To read this.' That earned him another smile. Denmark laughed, swinging his legs over the side of his chair. 'Should be a good read. As far as I recall, some of the entries are in blood. Particularly yours, Sve.' For once Sweden returned his laugh, remembering. This book belonged to them- he, Norway and Denmark- and had been where they recorded every one of their journeys or battles. And indeed, some of it was done in blood.

'Hard to get ink in the middle of a war,' muttered Sweden, just failing to suppress his smile. Finland resumed his position in front of the fire, book spread across his knees. 'December 25th,' he read fluently. 'Lon- London, England. Today ou- our- king was crowned.' 'This one's mine.' cut in Denmark. 'Gods, I miss old Cnut.' 'The North is ours. We ru- rule from the seas, from the- the-' 'Earth.' 'The earth, from a thr- throne of gold. And we will never give up our em- empi- empire.' He looked up, awed. 'When was this? When was your- kingdom?' Denmark and Sweden exchanged a look. The loss of England had been a crushing blow, not to mention the death of Norway's king in trying to reclaim it. Their invasions there were a thing of the past, reduced to petty raiding to induct new warriors. 'A long time ago,' said Sweden gently. 'Something best forgotten.' Finland screwed up his face in concentration. 'Then- then I will forget.' he stuttered. 'No. Don't forget. Read the book. That's who we were before we met you.' His smile kindled, flickered- then burst into flame, a radiance across his whole face that tied Sweden's throat in knots.

'Thank you.' said Finland. He touched Sweden's hand. It was nothing really, the lightest brush of fingers, but to Sweden it felt as though his whole world was floating in the heavens. He watched Finland leave again, this time clutching the precious book, eyes lingering on the door long after Finland was gone. A sudden laugh jerked him from his daze. 'You're not exactly subtle, are you? It's a good thing the boy's so innocent, or he'd have got out of here as fast as he could.' That was probably the thing Sweden detested most about his brother. Denmark could be drinking and joking one moment, perfectly harmless. In the next he would display his irritating talent for finding the thing that bothered a certain person most. And in this case, he had done so for Sweden. I thought I was safe. I thought no one would know. But was he really that transparent? Did every word, every look to Finland reveal his true feelings? Perhaps Denmark was just suffering lack-of-Norway withdrawal symptoms. Either way, he had cut Sweden right to the quick. 'Going to bed.' he muttered, making for the stairs. 'Godnat, Sve, Make sure it's your own room you end up in.' The sound of Denmark's laughter haunted his dreams that night.

Norway came back the next day, hopefully ready to put Denmark back under his control. His brothers, old and new, waited for him at the harbour. Denmark began to shout and wave the second he spotted the sails, energetic as a puppy. 'Who?' whispered Finland. Sweden resisted the urge to sweep those blond locks from his forehead. 'Norway,' he said. 'Our brother. You'll like him. He's quiet too.' Norway stepped elegantly from his boat, ever correct. He frowned at Finland. 'Who's this?' 'Our new brother. I found him a few weeks ago.' Sweden ushered Finland forward. He smiled at Norway and extended his hand, just as he had been taught. Norway shifted the bundle in his arms and took Finland's hand briefly, before turning to Denmark, who looked positively explosive with excitement. 'Nor!' he said, holding out his arms. But to all their surprises, Norway ignored him. 'We need to get inside,' he said. 'I've got something to show you.'

They gathered around Finland's storytelling fire, Norway in a high-backed chair. He shifted his bundle, pulling away at the top. A collective gasp hissed about the room. For there, swaddled in countless layers of blankets, lay a child. His eyes were the strangest thing Sweden had ever seen, a shining purple even brighter than Finland's, ringed in indigo. He could just see tufts of white-blond hair, poking from beneath the wrappings. 'What's his name?' whispered Denmark. He appeared utterly entranced- a look Sweden had seen only once before. 'Iceland. He's Iceland.' Iceland was a colony of Norway's, previously with no human representative. There could be only one reason why one had appeared now- the little island's strength was growing, growing to an extent that it needed a channel for its power. Norway smiled- a little sadly, thought Sweden. 'He won't be so small for long. The people there- they're becoming aggressive, independent. It'll take a lot to keep him a colony forever.'

'Can I hold him?' said Denmark, still slightly dazed. Norway shot him a fierce look. 'He's my little brother, and if you think I'd trust him to a clumsy idiot like you, then you've got less of a brain than I thought. If that's possible, of course.' 'But I can still hold him?' 'Fine.' They took turns admiring Iceland's ethereal, almost fairy-like features, sighing in unison when he let out a little yawn. 'The boldest Viking in history, felled by a small baby.' muttered Norway. Denmark, who currently had possession of Iceland, grinned broadly. 'You think I'm the boldest Viking in history?' Norway flushed. 'I never said that. Idiot.' But he was already returning Denmark's embrace. 'What are they doing?' said Finland in a small voice. Iceland had been passed to him after Norway's little slip of the tongue, and he clutched the little nation tightly. 'They- they're-' Sweden could not find the words to describe Norway and Denmark's relationship. It was a strange one, admittedly. They circled each other constantly, closing in at moments, joined by a force that linked fire and ice. 'Love. They're in love.' He blushed as he said it, the words too romantic for his tongue. 'We are not!' 'Oh, come on, Nor! That's not fair!'

From that day on, they were five, five united by blood and more, inseparable in any combination. Finland soon became fluent in Swedish, despite his original misgivings, and quickly learnt its few differences to Danish and Norwegian. When they were alone they used Old Norse, or stumbled along in Finnish at Finland's insistence. Those days were good ones. Iceland never knew the violent childhood of his older brothers, instead growing up in various castles. He rarely voiced memories of his own land. Denmark and Norway became ever closer, no matter how much they denied it. And Sweden could only watch- watch in envy and despair, as his stern face and crippling fear alike kept him from Finland. But soon they were to be bound together closer than ever. For when a letter arrived from Denmark, away with his queen in Copenhagen, it signalled the start of a union that would make and break countless bonds.

#vikings #hetalia #aph #aph nordics #aph finland #aph sweden #aph norway #aph denmark #aph iceland #dennor #sufin

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coffeeandcalligraphy · 4 years ago

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I just thought of this what would your characters be doing in lockdown? what kind of stuff would they do to answer the time? who would be isolating with who?:and what kind of face masks would they wear? :)

APPARENTLY I have been really great lately at just leaving asks in my drafts?? I’m so sorry I’m so late on this!

This is interesting! Let’s answer for the Feeding Habits gang. Harrison and Lonan would certainly be isolating with each other, and if they were ~smart, probably also Suzanna in her apartment lol because she cooks and is v cool <3 I wrote a paragraph that was me literally projecting quarantine onto my characters just to make them suffer a bit and this really outlines their hobbies I think:

Two weeks go by. Lonan sleeps on the couch. Harrison wakes up at dawn—no earlier, no later. Suzanna buys a plant: a Madagascar dragon tree she names Lisa. June grows into the collar. Lonan plays sudoku in the newspaper. Harrison learns to bake focaccia, gluten-free, whole wheat. Suzanna learns to palm read, tells Lonan he’s experienced great betrayal (they stop the reading immediately; Lonan goes back to the newspapers). Harrison begins burning incense at sunrise—frankincense. The dragon tree nearly dies (Lonan saves it). It rains every weekday that contains the letter T. Lonan shifts stacks of soggy newspapers onto the breakfast table, answers crosswords with the help of Suzanna (four across, nine letters, Something held). Harrison burns a baguette. Suzanna buys a hanging basket of pothos. The power goes out for two days and the icebox floods the kitchen tile (Lonan mops it with old newspapers, the ink running like jellyfish). June barks for the first time. Harrison eats a bundle of dried bay leaves. Suzanna waters the plants with rainwater, icewater, wrung into a coffee tin. Harrison leaves on the stove while sautéing shallots (he eats them whole). Lonan wakes up feverish and fills out four newspaper crosswords, then falls asleep on the coffee table. Suzanna molds panna cotta in coffee mugs and shares the batch with Lonan when they won’t tip out. Lonan teaches her how to propagate the pothos and soon they have twenty empty cans of cuttings poking from the windowsills. They rearrange the furniture, the couch facing the kitchen instead of the TV, the dining table right outside the bathroom, then put it all back the next day. They birdwatch from the tiny window with binoculars and a magnifying glass. They sort coupons. Whittle soaps. Watch Norwegian films without the subtitles. Discuss cliff diving. Make matching anklets (blue beads, elastic string, the plastic clacking how Harrison knows they’re coming). All of this they do as Harrison lies on his bed for two weeks, counting the corners of his ceiling and trying to determine a way to multiply them telepathically, becoming a person only in brief casts of night. Conversing with his limbs only: wrists to another set of wrist, knees to another set of knees, the only time he is not alone when another body joins him, their movements like writhing mackerel. Otherwise he lies alone. So it should not be a surprise when on the morning he finally rises for more than a moment to care for the dog, Suzanna and Lonan do something together. This is expected.

as for what kind of face masks if we’re talking like mask coverings (idk why my first instinct here is beauty face mask ha) Harrison would use disposables idk why but he gives me those vibes (did I just call Harrison disposable OOPS), Lonan would wear black masks ONLY as your local emo boi, and Suzanna would go all out with the patterns. She is making STATEMENTS.

#asks

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thanatophania · 8 years ago

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Sera, Cass, Lottie? :3c

WOW this got very long.

Full name: Seraphina Lucia Rosenvinge

Gender/orientation: Female, bi. All hail the heartbreaker, she’s been through her share of beaus and likes to change things up.

Pronouns:She/herEthnicity/species: Lalaland European; her family background is primarily Norwegian and they’re a small, pureblooded family of swan witches.Birthplace/birthdate: January 21, somewhere in Svalbard.Guilty pleasures: Going on extravagant shopping sprees. Back when she used to flirt a lot more and be a lot more casual with her affections, it was nice to have people buy gifts for her. She certainly knew how to get things she wanted, one way or the other. Sometimes she gets guilty enough to return the stuff she buys, but most of the time she doesn’t. Hey, it’s not like she just leaves them to gather dust; unlike some people, she actually uses them! It’s not a hoarding problem, what are you talking about.Phobias: A bit of a Rich Person First World Problem in some aspects, but she’s afraid of having … nothing. No assets, no ties/bonds to people, being completely cut off and isolated. That’s kinda why she did that to other people before they could do it to her. :’)What they would be famous for: If she had her way and wasn’t stopped by the likes of Ali or Cass, she might’ve gotten famous for having a lot of spouses that died mysteriously. :| Maybe gained a reputation as a black widow or some shit. Not very flattering …What they would get arrested for: Casual property destruction. Assault and battery. She’s got a rather short fuse and some pretty bloodthirsty tendencies if provoked. She tends to get pretty angry on behalf of other people, and her first solution to their problems is usually to beat the problem until it repents.Ship them with: Sho. It’s somewhat complicated, because it seems she might have to gear up to fight Cass for the rights to Sho’s hand in … er, not marriage, but. Certainly something. Neither of them are particularly pleased about sharing. She saw him first, damn it! That said, she still likes to flirt, and totally used to flirt with Alistair’s illegitimate half-sister. Mostly to piss him off. Which is succeeding, to absolutely nobody’s surprise.Most likely to murder them: The Bureau, anyone who hates Alistair enough to want to kill him – and it’s her job to get in their way, alas. Closer to home, Mei has threatened to kill her if she breaks Sho’s heart. Sera thinks it’s kinda cute, that her boyfriend’s old childhood girl/friend is protective enough over him to threaten grievous bodily harm to whoever messes with his feelings, even if she was the one that broke things off first. It’s cute. Mei’s also cute.Favourite movie/book genre: Romances and chick lit/flicks. Whether it’s ironic or not, nobody knows. She seems especially fond of trashy romance paperbacks, a la Chuck Tingle or Danielle Steel. And hey, Bridget Jones’ Diary and The Notebook are all hilarious, don’t judge.Least favourite movie/book genre: Action. She can get pretty critical about things like historical and biological accuracy, and commentates all through it. Do not bring her for action movies or superhero flicks. Just don’t.Talents/powers: Ruthless Monopoly king. She’s not here to make friends, she’s here to win. She’s also got a pretty good singing voice, and gets pretty competitive during karaoke nights, sometimes breaking out the operatic contralto if she’s had enough to drink. That aside, Sera’s also pretty handy with polearms and thunder magic, and has a better handle on casting offensively than her brother.Why someone might love them: Protective as all hell to whoever she likes enough. Never mind the fact that they might be able to do it themselves. Even if she gives Ali a lot of shit and doesn’t seem to respect him, she can and will kill for him. It goes without question she’ll do the same for Sho. Ride or die, my man. She’s all about that life.How they change: Uh, well, she genuinely cares for Sho and he’s the biggest catalyst to her settling down and being? A better person? Maybe? She also eventually becomes more honest with herself and with other people.Why you love them: She’s a vicious blood knight (and sometimes gold digger) dressed up as a fragile blushing rose maiden. What’s not to love. She’s awful and I love her.

Full name: Cassius Isak RosenvingeGender/orientation: Male, bi. If his previous interests are any indication, his preferences lean towards men.Pronouns: He/himEthnicity/species: Lalaland European; he comes from a family of Norwegian swan witches.Birthplace/birthdate: January 21, somewhere in Svalbard.Guilty pleasures: Cass is the type of person who feels obligated to be doing something 24/7, so just. Unwinding and Not Doing Anything is something he considers to be a guilty pleasure. Napping, sitting in the park watching people pass by, going to the local pool/lake/miscellaneous water body and just floating aimlessly watching the clouds drift past … yeah, that’s the life.Phobias: It’s not all that uncommon a fear, but Cass hates the Naraka more than anything else because he’s had some experience with getting too close to it. He doesn’t like the cold, or still waters – together, they remind him far too much of the Sea of Samsara. One of his worst nightmares usually entails drowning, the open sea, deep waters, burial at sea, and shipwrecks.What they would be famous for: Very few people use blood magic, especially in conjunction with healing, and Cass is one of them. He may or may not have gotten a few lessons in between from a certain blood mage snake witch, long before her fall from grace. Take that how you will. :^)What they would get arrested for: Robbery. Mostly by virtue of wandering off without realising he hasn’t paid for something, only to set off the alarms as he leaves. Or can you also get arrested for being too smug, and being snide to whoever arrests you? Cass would probably always be held in contempt of the court, no matter what the original charges.Ship them with: … Sho. Remember when I said it’s complicated. His first love was Alistair but it was rather one-sided and never really got anywhere, and Cass knows he’d be lying if he said he didn’t still kinda hold a torch for everyone’s favourite resident jerk stag. And … re: Sho, he was supposed to be playing wingman (ha) or something for Sera but look what happened. Oh no. Oh no, he’s cute. Most likely to murder them: Anybody who has beef against Alistair, naturally. The Bureau – and the most likely candidate may well be Ren. Hell, let’s not even go that far and think about the Bureau – he’d let Alistair murder him. Wait, come back, he didn’t say that out loud, did he.Favourite movie/book genre:… he likes documentaries and educational videos. They’re good to have as background noise while he’s doing something else, though he always changes the channel if it’s one of those deep-sea specials. He’s also got a National Geographic subscription, and likes the photography spreads.Least favourite movie/book genre: Crime and horror. He’s seen enough shit to last a lifetime, thanks, and his normal life has quite a few dead person horrormonsters in it; he’s not a fan of his entertainment having them too. Nor does he want to be reminded of the depths of depravity the human condition is capable of sinking to.Talents/powers: He’s a good artist, particularly with inks and watercolours! One of his favourite hobbies as a kid used to be sitting at the lake on his family’s estate, painting the scenery. Good eye for detail and figure/gestures, and a pretty dab hand at landscapes. Also an accomplished blood mage/cleric, though that doesn’t come into play quite as much.Why someone might love them: All things considered, he’s pretty honest and to the point, and can be rather direct – he’s just not very good at being subtle. Also has a pretty wry sense of humour, even if it takes a while to show through.How they change: He gets a haircut. HAHAHA. Okay, I’m joking. Gets over his reservations re: demons and demony bullshit, stops being so gung-ho about the blood magic business, stuff like that.

Why you love them: I’m a fan of characters who look serious and foreboding and are actually pretty chill. I am also a fan of those that look deadly serious but have a weird streak. Hypercompetent in some areas, utter dorks in others. :’)Full name: Tilottama KulkarniGender/orientation: Female, bi.Pronouns: She/herEthnicity/species: Lalaland Indian, from a family of snake witches.Birthplace/birthdate: March 6, in Maharashtra. Guilty pleasures: It’s a well-established fact that she likes people-watching, and sometimes making up stories about their lives when she’s bored or surveilling/staking out a mark. It goes without saying that the wilder and more sordid, the more fun. She’s not against sharing said stories, either, especially if the listening party is also involved in said story. The more horrified their reactions, the more fun!Phobias: Going insane and demoning out. Her family has quite the history of demoning out – almost a 100% rate, which is high even for witches. She tries to rein in the Sway from the Spine and mostly succeeds, but fears it getting to her; it’s a big part of why she ignored Eri’s offers of joining her grand demony agendas. She doesn’t need help in that, thanks.What they would be famous for: Setting a new world record for lowest limbo? Don’t look at her like that, it’s a perfectly valid claim to fame. Maybe in another life, she’d have become famous as a traditional dancer (and she used to try teaching Sav a bit too, but their styles are very different), but this is not that life, alas.What they would get arrested for: Cheerful obstruction of justice. She can be frustratingly obfuscating when she wants to be and knows it. I guess technically everyone here would get arrested for murder at some point or another, because, y’know. That’s just the way things are in Quell’s Wonderful Lalaland.Ship them with: Kinda had a casual thing with Millie when they were trainees, though she currently prefers making up her wild and sordid stories to actually being involved in them. At some point, everyone expected her and HP to be a thing since they were childhood friends but they never really got into that; both of them mutually agreed they weren’t each other’s type, and left it at that – though she did admit taming HP would’ve been a fun challenge, had he not eventually tamed himself. Haha.Most likely to murder them: Again, the Bureau is the most likely candidate – and for extra irony or whatever, it could well be Eri. For Science. You know, kill a witch whose family is known for demoning out, demon out yourself, eat the other. She’s also informed the likes of Ming, Lin and Yong to put her down in a worst case scenario, because she trusts in their abilities to put aside personal feelings and end things.Favourite movie/book genre: Historical fantasy dramas, and over-the-top theatrics with terrible effects. Sometimes they intersect and that’s TWICE THE FUN. Sure, serious historical dramas are great and all, don’t get her wrong (and she can get pretty emotional in them HAHA she’s the type of person to connect to the characters and resonate with the storyline or whatever) but she has a huge soft spot for the ones that take their unironic corniness up to eleven.Least favourite movie/book genre: Anything that should, by premise, be ridiculous as fuck, but takes itself too seriously. C’mon, man, where’s the fun in that? There’s way too much media that takes itself too seriously. You gotta be able to laugha t yourself and relish and revel in your cheesiness sometimes.Talents/powers: Can chug a litre of liquid in under twenty seconds. It made for a neat party trick and still kinda does! Just, y’know. Not that often. And uhh I guess even as an archer and a generally ranged caster she’s very good with melee and hand-to-hand and her favourite approach to solving closer-ranged problems is to punch it right in the face. Even amongst water-root witches she’s a very fast and fluid caster, and can use minimal movement and gesture to great effect.Why someone might love them: She’s chill, she’s fun, she’s a good listener. A good budget therapist, in a pinch! She’s pretty perceptive and good at picking up on subtle cues or subconscious hints even if the other person may not even know about them. Guess there’s a good reason she’s trusted with a lot of negotiation stuff and/or recon.How they change: She’ll eventually accept that demoning out isn’t really in her power and she probably won’t get a lot of say in it, and to stop being so paranoid about it happening. It’s okay, carpe diem and all that, and she learns to embrace that fully, and practise what she preaches.

Why you love them: I like characters that stay idealistic and true to themselves despite the world being crapsack. She’s not quite on the level of Yuna or Nagi, but she’s also not as jaded as some her age are.

#meme #txt #orig #sera #cass #lottie #THIS GOT REALLY LONG-WINDED LMAO.

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kongerixet-norge · 8 years ago

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MEET THE MUSE POWER HOUR!

━━ take a seat and REPOST this detailed little bio with criteria to introduce the world to your muse. no reblog karma or tagging ━ if you see this on your dash, feel free to partake in it!

🌿 ━ B A S I C S . NAME: Lukas Sørensen, Norway, Kingdom of Norway, Kongeriket Norge  NICKNAME(S): Luk, Luca, Nor, Norge  AGE: In actuality, approximately 1145; physically he appears about 28  GENDER: Male  NATIONALITY: Norwegian

🌿 ━ A P P E A R A N C E . EYE COLOR: Dark blue, about an A-17 here, usually described as cold and piercing. Any emotion he feels is always anchored in his eyes, and you can read him easily if you’ve known him long enough.  HAIR COLOR: Pale blond (pure diamond on this chart)  HAIRSTYLE: Kept reasonably long, almost brushing his shoulders at the back, but layered at the front to keep it out of his face.This, but slightly longer in the back.  HEIGHT: Not necessarily tall, but enough that he can comfortably reach the cabinets so he’s fine with it. 5'10"/1.78m  WEIGHT: 160lbs/72.5kg, he doesn’t carry much in the way of extra weight.  BUILD: approximately column three row one as shown here, fit but not very muscular with narrow hips. His chest and shoulders are more defined- he can fill out a suit jacket nicely, but is still rather slim.  TATTOO(S): Norse crest in black ink on his right hip, about three inches wide.  SCAR(S): One larger one across the right side of his chest, one up the length of the underside of his left forearm, and two across his back.One of the two on his back was fairly deep, and is the most obvious. Small scars litter his back and arms, in various degrees of visibility.  PIERCING(S): He used to have his ears pierced, but they’ve healed over since.  PREFERRED FASHION: Dark jeans with a sweater if it’s cool enough, or a light button up if it’s warmer.  TYPICALLY SMELLS LIKE: Coffee; that’s what his house smells like and the smell tends to cling to his sweaters as well. Cigarette smoke if you catch him on a bad day, though he tries to cover that. And sunscreen in June or July.  OTHER: He has light freckles across his shoulders- that get a lot darker with sun.

🌿 ━ P E R S O N A L I T Y . POSITIVE TRAITS: Accountable || Alert || Attentive || Calm || Capable || Clear || Consistent || Diplomatic || Disciplined || Efficient || Honest || Independent || Intelligent || Knowledgeable || Logical || Loyal || Organized || Patient || Peaceful || Polite || Practical || Punctual || Reliable || Responsible || Self-reliant || Trustworthy  NEUTRAL TRAITS: Usually keeps their word || Calm || Quiet || Reserved || Crisp || Neutral || Private || Proud || Solitary  NEGATIVE TRAITS: Anxious || Awkward || Cold || Critical || Cunning || Harsh || Hesitant || Lonely || Manipulative || Moody || Pessimistic || Sarcastic || Skeptical || Suspicious || Withdrawn  LIKES: music || coffee || long walks || cats || winter || nature || reading || drawing || romantic movies || rain || thunder storms  DISLIKES: liars || hypocrites || drama || crowded rooms || being touched || cheaters || annoying people  PHOBIAS / FEARS: Being abandoned || Being unneeded || Claustrophobia

🌿 ━ R E L A T I O N S H I P S . SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Pansexual  ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Demiromantic  RELATIONSHIP STATUS: oh no he’s cute

🌿 ━ H E A L T H . CHRONIC CONDITIONS: Insomnia  ADDICTIONS: Nicotine  ALLERGIES: N/A

🌿 ━ H O M E . PLACE OF RESIDENCE: Oslo, Norway  METHOD OF TRANSPORTATION: Walks where he can, and he has a little blue sedan for longer trips.  PETS: None currently

🌿 ━ W O R K & E D U C A T I O N. JOB: Teaches business mathematics at the local university Monday-Thursday 9:30-2:30  SCHOOLING: Associate’s degree in business management, and a bachelor’s degree in mathematics  SPOKEN LANGUAGES: Norwegian (Nynorsk, Bokmål), Sami, Kven, Danish, Swedish, Icelandic, English, Old Norse.

🌿 ━ R A N D O M .  HANDEDNESS: Left handed, though can do most things right handed  RELIGION: Atheistic  THEME SONG(S): ???  BOSS BATTLE MUSIC: ????

#lukas.txt #𝒶 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓃𝑒𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓃𝑜𝓇 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒹𝑜𝓂 || lukas #I'm putting it in both my tags so i can find it later lmao #|| 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓈𝓉𝓈 𝒶 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌 || ooc #long post

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dozentables-blog · 6 years ago

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Dozen Tables, Table 9 <Sunday Picnic Table> ——— 1.Jul.2018 at Taipei Main Station

As the Table9, I made a small portable table to bring to Taipei Main Station’s plaza space. On every Sunday the plaza floor is occupied with a number of various people. Locals, students, tourists, and immigrants. Various people with various backgrounds are seating on the floor in small groups to big groups, and chatting, eating, waiting. The view of the plaza looking like a peaceful picnic. I wanted to join this warm picnic day, and know their background stories. So I brought a small table with some tea and snacks. In front of the table, I put a sign saying “FREE TABLE”. The first guest was an Indonesian lady who’ve been in Taipei for already 9 years. She is called “Mom” among Indonesian immigrants since she often looks after and gives advice to newcomer immigrants. She told me her activity about Indonesian culture in Taipei while having a tea. Next guest was local high school students group who were waiting for one another friend to get branch together. They told me that they are actually a filmmaking club, and going to shoot their new work after eating lunch together. Then, the last member arrived and the team left the table. The third guest was a man who is also an immigrant from Indonesia. He just found my activity while he was waiting for his friend at the station. He just interested in my activity and asked that what is the table. I told him why I was there and doing such an activity, then he looked pretty impressed. He described to me that how the station plaza is helpful to keep communication among the immigrants in Taipei. We enjoyed chatting with snacks, and he left to find his friend. After he left one Vietnamese girl reached to me and try to sell SIM card. I also chat with her a little bit, but she was a kind of shy. She stayed shortly and left. The fourth guest was a group with two women and one man. They are studying a breathing meditation under the same master who is in Taipei. They just arrived at Taipei from Kaoshun to see their master. They told me what is their method and who is their master. They said the master is pretty famous in Taiwan and has many students. They were just going to meeting with the master and immediately go back to Kaoshun same day. After chatting about breath method, they left to meet their master. The fifth guests was a Japanese tourist couple. They were waiting for a train to go to Jiufen. The guy told me that he used to lived in the Philippines for a few years as a teacher and told me about interesting Japanese people he met in the Philippines and other places outside of Japan. He pretty likes fun activities and told me that he is very impressed with my small table. We talked about each home town in japan and they left to catch the train. The sixth guest was a team of an online broadcasting company. They were reporting about the Taipei station that day. Then found my activity. They asked my background and excited about this small table idea. But unfortunately, they haven't much time and had to go. The seventh guest was an engineer who is working in the industrial area in Taipei. He just came to another event near Taipei station and found my table. He told me what he is researching and developing. It sounds super high technological robotics for me and interesting. We enjoyed chatting with tea and snacks as same as others. He left to go to his main purpose. The eighth guest was a Taiwanese lady who just came up to the station to return books she borrowed from the mobile library of Indonesian books. Every Sunday, the free Indonesian book library comes to the plaza and offer Indonesian books to anybody. People can borrow the books unlimitedly for free. The lady is teaching to children in Indonesia sometimes. And she said next time she will teach Chinese calligraphy to the children so now preparing some tools like brushes, inks, and base mats. She showed me the equipment and left to go to the library. The ninth guest was a Taiwanese lady who is a master student in England. She just came back to her home and writing a thesis about the immigrant's situation in Taipei. She was going to interviewing the Indonesian book library. She told me about her study in England. Se is studying Social Logistics and it’s not so popular in Taiwan so she had to go abroad to study this measure. When she recognized that the library is now not so busy, she left to catch their time to do an interview. At the same time, I got one another guest who has just graduated from high school and going to study language at university. He told me why language is interesting to him. And also talked about the Norwegian language since I studied in Norway. Surprisingly he speaks little Norwegian. The tenth guest was two ladies who ware working for the online broadcasting witch just came before. They just finished their activity and stopped by. Actually, I knew one of them. She sometimes comes up to Bamboo Curtain Studio and even joined to some of my tables before. She just recognized me in distance in the plaza and reached with her colleague. They were going to eat Indian foods. We just share more about each background. During we are chatting one cleaning lady reached to us and talked a little bit. She said that she can say “Hello” in many different languages since she has been working in the station for long years. She talked a little bit with other guests and just left with a nice smile. The last guest was a man who is studying at university. Who just came to see the design student’s final work exhibition what was held in the plaza on the same day. He told me about his summer holiday plan because he just finished this semester and going on holiday. We enjoyed tea and snacks talking about summer holiday. Through the Sunday Picnic Table, I could meet many various people and know the different stories. Also, the guests on the table got knowing each other and pretty enjoyed the peaceful Sunday.

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marroquinruben · 7 years ago

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Arcade Night!

On 10 and 11 November, the historic Arcade Mall will open its doors to the public for a two-day Open Studios organized in collaboration with the Bridgeport Art Trail. A popular destination for both local enthusiasts and collectors, the Arcade is home to six of Bridgeport’s most renowned artists and innovators, who will be on site to give tours of their studios, demonstrate their crafts, and provide insight into the most immediate aspects of their creative practices. The event will also allow visitors the opportunity to purchase artworks—many of which will be on public view for the very first time—directly from studio inventories. The distinct group of artists at the Arcade work in a wide range of media, from oil painting, screen printing, and weaving to graphic design, interior design, and mixed media. Featured artists include Liz Squillace of Paradox Ink, the creative force behind the recently unveiled Painted Stairway of the Broad Street Steps; Ruben Marroquin of the critically acclaimed Fiber Weaving Workshop; Cris Dam, an internationally recognized painter and muralist; Philip Post of Dertbag Atelier, a line of graphic and hand-printed apparel embraced by celebrities such as Kanye West; Robert Valle of the distinguished Robert Valle Designs; and Razul Branch, shop owner and operator of BPT Creates/Magnacon 7, a multifunctional event and creative space. Although they employ divergent methods, these individuals share a tendency to bridge the continuity of experience between art and life, not only honoring the physical nature of materials through their highly disciplined crafts but also inspiring the community to recognize—and rekindle—the sources of art in the everyday. Marroquin and Squillace will be hosting workshops throughout the Open Studios; Dam will be featuring a new body of work as well as models for outdoor murals. The festivities will kick off on Friday, 10 November, with Arcade Night!, a launch party that will transform the Arcade into an all-immersive happening. For this special event, which will be free and open to the public, the Arcade artists are thrilled to welcome guest artist Holly Danger, owner and curator of Stamford’s experimental art space Danger Gallery, who will showcase a new body of performative video art. Stamford-based sculptor Mark Andreas will also install a provocative “reactive” sculpture, one of a series of works that have been lauded worldwide. Music will be provided by DJ Justin Shay of JMS Jams, and drinks and small bites will be offered. Artist Bios Earning accolades all over the tristate area for her visionary projects and community outreach, Liz Squillace is a Bridgeport-based artist and owner of Paradox Ink—screen printing, public art, and murals. Squillace founded Paradox Ink in 2002 in a studio in Stamford, moving it to the Arcade Mall in 2013 as part of the Create Here Now program to turn vacant spaces into vibrant places. Her newest public art project is the Painted Stairway of the Broad Street Steps. For this, the artist partnered with Bridgeport Generation Now! and painted with the local and artistic community. Squillace has also painted fifty utility boxes throughout Fairfield County and continues to enhance urban environments by bringing art to public places. Squillace is a Rhode Island School of Design graduate and resident of Read’s Artspace live/work studios. To see more of the artist’s work, visit www.paradoxink.com.   Visual artist, textile designer, and weaving instructor Ruben Marroquin received an Associates degree from the Fashion Institute of Technology in 2009, where he is currently pursuing a BFA in Textile and Surface Design. In 2011, he enrolled in Paris’s École Nationale Supérieure de Création Industrielle through a scholarship from the Fondation Carla Bruni-Sarkozy. His studio doubles as a weaving school for children and adults, and he has collaborated in educational programs with such distinguished institutions as the Metropolitan Museum of Art. To see more of the artist’s work, visit www.marroquinruben.com. Raised in both Alaska and Spain, Cris Dam attended Parsons School of Design and SUNY’s Studio Art MFA Program before becoming a full-time curator, artist, and community organizer. In 1998, he cofounded Dam, Stuhltrager Gallery, becoming an early gallerist to propel Williamsburg, Brooklyn, into an international art mecca. Dam has since traveled internationally for commissions and shows in Germany, Istanbul, and Russia. Recent exhibitions include 1x1 Show, Danger Gallery, Stamford, CT (2017); Friends + Lovers, Danger Gallery, Stamford, CT (2016); and Williamsburg on Warren, One Art Space, New York City (2015). Commissioned murals can be found in Stamford, CT (Lorca Coffee Shop); Jacksonville, FL (Florida Life Building); and Berlin, Germany (Kunsthalle Bethanian and Ökozentrum). To see more of the artist’s work, visit www.crisdam.com. Philip Post is a designer and entrepreneur from Norwalk, CT. At the age of thirteen, he launched the streetwear company Dertbag, and five years later, he opened Dertbag Atelier in the Arcade. Post has organized pop-up shows from from Austin, TX, to Shibuya, Japan, and he has exhibited with Norwegian artist Bjarne Melgaard. His studio is decorated with murals by his father, the famed artist Frank Foster Post, who also informs his designs. To see more of the artist’s work, visit www.dertbag.us. Event planning + decorating are Robert Valle’s expertise. Designing one of a kind events, weddings and galas throughout the tri-state area for various organizations and clients. Through his experience in Interior Design he adds the right elements to create those unforgettable moments. An artistic, cultural, and social innovator, Razul Branch has been a trailblazing force in the development of Bridgeport’s creative community for nearly a decade. Founder of the consulting firm Magnacon 7 Enterprises and the art gallery BPT Creates, Branch has galvanized the arts and business scenes with his expertise in community development and outreach, social media, brand identity design, creative consulting, content creation, print collateral, and executive production. Branch has also served as co-coordinator of countless projects in the area, among them the Bridgeport Arts Fest (2011–16), the largest of its kind in the city. To explore the magnitude of Branch’s impact, visit www.magnacon7.com. A kinetic sculptor working and living in Stamford, Mark Andreas has garnered international acclaim with his self-titled Reactive Sculpture Series, which explores the concept of time through transformation. Inherent in these compositions is the artist’s extensive experience as a metalsmith and shipwright, allowing him to tap into the tensile strength of his materials in a way that is masterful yet shockingly new. Andreas has participated in residencies worldwide, including Helsinki and Turku, Finland; Berlin, Germany; Arctic Circle, Norway; and Basel, Switzerland. Solo exhibitions have been held at the Cress Gallery, University of Tennessee; Marc de Puechredon, E-Halle Gallery, Basel; Leo Kesting Gallery, New York; and Dam, Stuhltrager Gallery, Brooklyn and Berlin, among others. He currently teaches courses at the Silvermine Arts Center in New Canaan. To see more of the artist’s work, visit www.reactivesculpture.com. Pushing the boundaries in multimedia art for nearly two decades, Holly Danger is a creative director, motion graphic designer, video editor, and live-performance video artist, based in Stamford, CT. She is also the owner and curator of the experimental art space and post-production studio Danger Gallery located at the Glenbrook Industrial Park. In the last few years, Danger has been the honored recipient of grants from City Canvases Bridgeport and the LAMP Festival in New Haven, and her animated video “Soul Seasons” won “Most Innovative” at the Digital Graffiti Festival, Alys Beach, FL. Renowned for her experiential platforms, Danger has performed live video art shows across the country in rock venues, clubs, galleries, and museums, including the Museum of the Moving Image, New York City; SXSW, Austin, TX; Burning Man, Black Rock Desert, NV; and Franklin Street Works, Stamford, CT. For more information, visit www.hollydanger.com.   The Historic Arcade Mall One of the nation’s first enclosed shopping malls, the Arcade Mall was built in 1840 and has since undergone a number of renovations during the 1920s, 1950s, and 1980s, all the while holding its historical significance as one of the few remaining arcades from its time period. Having been reactivated by artists, the Arcade has since become an uplifting space that engages the dynamic cultural energy of Bridgeport. For more information, see www.arcademallbpt.com.

#arcadenight #event #bridgeport #arcademall #lizsquillace #bridgeportarts #november10th #bptarttrail #artevents #downtownbridgeport #rubenmarroquin #justinshay #crisdam #markandreas #robertvalledesigns #dertbag #dertbagus #philpost #rahzulbranch

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