#it took straightforward symbolism and ran wild with it
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alcego · 8 days ago
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on first watch i was caught up in the story & the obvious theme of the sisters' love for each other, but on rewatching it i'm realizing the story's more interested in the role of the adults on the children, and how the parents' "failure" makes them both vulnerable to predators. helps solidify the sexual themes as well.
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himluv · 5 years ago
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Discoveries
Another Solavellan oneshot! This one takes place a few days after Drowning. Also, just a reminder that, if you’d like to binge all of these stories (there’s WAY more of them than I anticipated), there’s a collection on AO3!
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When Riallan asked Solas to come with her to investigate an ancient ruin the Inquisition had discovered, he’d imagined a few crumbling walls, maybe a dank room or two, with barely anything to explore.
He had not imagined she had unearthed Dirthamen’s temple. Like most of the pantheon, Dirthamen had many such places, but this had been his favorite, the jewel in his midnight crown.
Solas had always hated it.
Walking the halls again, though now overgrown and flooded, filled him with an intense dread, the memories of his youth flashing in his mind, relentless.
His trepidation was matched only by Riallan’s excitement. This was her preferred deity after all. In the halls of Dirthamen her usual curiosity transformed into something sharp and unyielding. She paused at every mural, eyes roving the paintings, consuming every detail, desperate to discern the meaning behind each symbol. She was the First of her clan, their destined Keeper of knowledge and lore. It was her passion and it showed.
Even in the dank, dripping, dark of the temple, in a place he hadn’t walked in millennia, Solas was helpless against her charm.
She found the first glyph on the wolf statue, which he’d been surprised to see still stood. He imagined the priests would have defiled it or tore it down after he raised the veil. He was the reason Dirthamen abandoned them, after all.
Riallan held her veilfire torch closer to get a good look and froze.
Solas reached for her, but stopped short of touching her shoulder. He could feel the power, ancient and viscous, slow and slick like oil spilled from a lamp. “Inquisitor?”
She blinked rapidly, her eyes unfocused and wild, then she found him and returned to herself. “I… I understood that. How…?”
He pursed his lips, fighting the frown that tugged at his mouth. “The secrets of this temple have remained unspoken for too long. They wish to be known.” He ignored the crawling terror in his guts. “What did it say?”
Her brow furrowed. “It was a poem, about truths and secrets.” She looked around the room, but it was dark and there was nothing here but trees and sky and water. “There must be more further into the Temple.”
And so they went, exploring every corner of the dilapidated temple. Cassandra commented only when they found the dead explorers.
“I do not like this place,” she said. “It feels malevolent.”
“Whispers wanting, wasting, waiting for the Keeper of Secrets to come once more,” Cole said. He’d been especially quiet as they moved through the temple, and Solas worried that the veil might be too thin here. That the spirit might be vulnerable to the insidious magics that yet lingered.
Dirthamen had never been straightforward, nor one to forgive the merest slight. If there was anyone left in Thedas the elvhen would want to hurt, it would be Solas.
Cassandra sighed. “And now it is even creepier. Thank you, Cole.”
“You’re welcome.”
Riallan had no time for their banter. Torch in hand, she read another glyph, then turned wide eyes on him. “They went mad. Without Dirthamen, the secrets ate at them and they became paranoid. Convinced that their High Priest had betrayed them.” She shook her head. “They dismembered him and cursed his spirit to an eternity in this temple.”
Solas closed his eyes at the words. There had been a time when he’d known Dirthamen’s High Priest. They had never been friendly, since his relationship with Dirthamen had been tense even at the best of times, but knowing the man’s fate after he’d sealed his god away hurt him nonetheless.
She ran a hand through her wet hair, anger replacing confusion on her face. “Dirthamen was supposed to be the God of Secrets, the Keeper of Knowledge. Of learning!” Her eyes shone in the moonlight, “but this wasn’t a library or a school. It was a crypt, where knowledge came to die. They hoarded it to gain power, leverage. They were nothing more than spies!”
Her anger would have surprised him only months ago, but now he understood her a little better. She had chosen her vallaslin because of her love of elvhen lore, because she took her future as Clan Lavellan’s Keeper seriously. She would learn everything the world could teach her, and spread it to her people.
Like so many other things about Elvhenan, the Dalish had misinterpreted the truth. And now her faith was in crisis.
“Every society has great need of spies, lethallan,” he said, trying to soften the blow. There had been a time, when the Evanuris were of one mind, when Dirthamen had been a respected leader of Elvhenan. He helped build education centers, like the Vir Dirthara. Once, too many millennia ago to really count, he had been the God she believed him to be. Before greed and fear corrupted him, just like it did all the others.
She met his gaze, her eyes wondering and so disappointed. This place was not what she had hoped for. He would have told her as much, if he could tell her the truth at all.
“Let’s raise this priest and get it over with,” she said, turning away from him. “I want to put this place behind me.”
She marched ahead, down the grand staircase and into the knee-deep water that had filled Dirthamen’s sanctum. He thought it fitting that Dirthamen’s legacy would drown under the weight of all he’d hoarded.
“Will you tell me why the Inquisitor is so upset?” Cassandra asked once Riallan was far enough ahead of them.
For a moment he had forgotten the Seeker was even there. Of course that conversation would mean little to her. What the Dalish remembered was a vast library of knowledge compared to what the humans knew of the Elvhen.
He tilted his head toward her as they walked in tandem down the stairs. “The vallaslin, her face tattoos, the Dalish bear them to honor their gods. Each Creator has a design, each Dalish must pick a Creator to devote their life to.”
“Ah.” Cassandra frowned. “She has pledged herself to this Dirthamen?” The elvhen name rattled off her tongue, foreign and stilted.
He nodded. “Imagine learning that Andraste had not led a rebellion, but instead helped quash it.”
“That would be…”
“Faith-shattering?”
“Possibly,” she admitted. “I would require time.”
“Yes, and in that time you would be able to read the Chant, speak to your priests, and pray to your god.” He sighed. “Your doctrine was never forgotten, shattered into fragments for you to piece back together. Riallan has only her legends, her Keeper, and herself.”
“I- I think I understand.” She gave him a tiny, flickering smile. “Thank you, Solas.”
“If you’re finished talking about me,” Riallan called from the ritual platform, “I’d like to summon an ancient dead priest now.”
Her anger seeped into her every move. Her voice, her eyes flashing in the magic aura around the Priest’s body parts, the clench of her jaw. He wondered if she wanted to conjure him just so she could take her aggression out on something. Someone, who had once mattered to Dirthamen.
While he did not believe summoning the cursed spirit of the priest was a wise decision, he would not keep her from her vengeance. Especially not one so small as this.
They could handle whatever the High One had become.
He should have expected the Despair Demon. The entire temple reeked of it, and its presence had no doubt aided in its deterioration. As fights went, it was not the most difficult they had encountered, and in the end they perhaps did a service to the priest. He was free of his curse now, his spirit’s energy returned to the Fade.
They made camp a few miles beyond the temple, the fresh air and night sky a sweet relief to the dank and damp they’d spent hours in. Across the fire, Riallan was restless. She sat cross-legged, tearing blades of grass from the dirt with furious fingers.
“Dirth ma, lethallan,” he called. He spoke elvhen in an endeavor to give her privacy from the others, though he knew her grasp of the language was incomplete.
And Cole would understand regardless.
She didn’t look at him. “Tel’nuvena dirth, Solas.”
“Ir abelas, Riallan. Mala dhru’danem. Tel’dan’latha, mala sulevin tel’himem.” In fact, her desire to find the truth of the elvhen people had led her here. The temple was a great discovery, one she would celebrate if it weren’t for her damaged beliefs.
She shook her head. “Banal’dirtha. Elvhen tel’dhrua’em.”
“Ah,” he said. It seemed her crisis of faith had passed. Now she worried that the Dalish would not accept her findings. “Dhru tel’dya himana vindhru.”
She smiled at that, just a little. She had said the same to him when he’d told her it didn’t matter if she wasn’t truly the Herald of Andraste. Belief should not outweigh the truth.
Her anger at the knowledge in Dirthamen’s temple had burned hot and fast, leaving behind not even grudging acceptance. Her god was not what she had come to believe. She couldn’t change that, but that didn’t mean she would stop honoring who she thought he was. She would keep the ideals that had shaped her.
It made him wonder if she would handle all unpleasant revelations with such grace. A dangerous thought indeed.
“You’re right, Solas,” she said. She looked at him, and some of the tension had left her neck and shoulders. “Ma serannas.”
“Sathem, Riallan.”
Watching her in the fading firelight, after walking by her side as she discovered ancient secrets and battled heart-shattering truths, Solas came to a decision. Really, there had never been a doubt, no matter how he knew it must end.
Once they returned to Skyhold, he would take what happiness he could find.
Elvhen translations, based on Project Elvhen:
Dirth ma, lethallan - Talk to me, kin
Tel’nuvena dirth - I don’t want to talk
Ir abelas - I’m sorry
Mala dhru’danem - Your faith is shattered
Tel’dan’latha, mala sulvein tel’himem - Do not weep/mourn, your purpose has not changed
Banal’dirtha - I’ll never speak (of this)
Elvhen tel’dhrua’em - The People will not believe me
Dhru tel’dya himana vindhru - Belief shall not drown the truth (reference to Perseverance)
Ma serannas - My thanks/thank you
Sathem - You’re welcome (informal)
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sick-raven · 5 years ago
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Ghosts of the past - Chapter 4
Chapter 1 + warnings
AO3
Previous chapter
Chapter 4
Miranda felt like after a week-long party. Sure, she had to walk off even worse before and even now she put up her brave face, but in reality, she just wanted to fall into bed and sleep.
“Would you tell me what happened?” asked her professor Crane. He took her to his house. They had to look ridiculous, if any neighbours have seen them, they had to thought Crane is bringing home drunk woman for sure.
He fixed her. Let her sleep whole day. Just once he attempted to touch the bell. She punched him. Went back to sleep. Now they finally had a chance to talk over a hot tea. He didn’t even have visible bruise. Miranda had to be very weak when she knocked him.
“It’s Gotham. Stray bullet hit me.”
“Please don’t lie. Little honesty should be in place after I saved your cute neck.” Miranda realized she likes his approach. Jonathan was straightforward, didn’t let her fuck around and had enough sass to not sound like a complete posh jerk. Just a jerk.
“Someone hit me,” she explained. “I didn’t ask. I don’t know who. They just want me gone.”
“What are you?”
“An assassin.”
“I figured so much.”
Miranda drank her tea thinking. She didn’t like what she said next, but what the hell. “Thank you for helping.”
“You didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“I think you had plenty of possibilities.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve read about your university research.”
No change in his demeaner or tone of voice. “When?”
“Before I moved here.”
“And you decided to visit me anyways?”
She shrugged. “Yeah. I don’t have much to lose. And I’ve dealt with… shady people before. Nobody died during your experiments. They just went completely bonkers.”
“Those are dangers of science. It got out of hand. I am changed man since.”
“Now you are the one lying. What about the wannabe Halloween costume?”
Jonathan smiled a little. Then he intertwined his fingers. “Are you willing to test a medication I have made?”
“After this conversation?” Miranda laughed. “Sure, I guess, I have nothing to lose.”
He nodded. “You say you don’t feel fear. I am going to make you.”
“I doubt it, but you are welcome to try.”
He walked away. Miranda has finished her tea. She wondered why she even agreed to this. She knew it won’t help. Nothing ever helped. No medication can make them go away. Her brain was fried. Maybe Crane will fry it some more. That might help.
And partially she was really interested in feeling again. Anything. Fear would be nice change of pace.
Jonathan returned with his stupid mask on. Miranda noticed his eyes through rough holes. Home-sawed potato sack you would put on dummy at farm. He carried a small vial.
“You don’t have to be so formal,” she said.
And then he opened the vial and out flew gas. Miranda coughed, the smell was terrible. Even rotten eggs are pleasant compared to this. “Damn,” she commented, “use air freshener.”
“What do you see, miss Bradbury?”
Her head started to spin. She looked up. Colours, shapes… The hallucination was there. It seemed so real. Scarecrow’s face was burning, heated wax fell from it on the ground. She felt the heat as if her skin was burning. His voice sounded like screeching.
But the feeling of fear wasn’t there. Her sensors were overloaded, her brain wanted to shut down, her flank hurt, and the pain spread slowly through the whole stomach.
“You look wild, burning,” she said. She looked around the room and yelped. There! The ghosts! Shadows, standing, waiting!
“What is it?” asked the burning man.
Miranda didn’t answer right away. It was weird. She looked in their dark faces. There were no details and yet she remembered perfectly. The grimaces of pain and death. Miranda didn’t see them go. But that didn’t stop her imagination. Dying in an instant, took away, crushed by rubble, expressions of hate aimed right at her. She tensed, expecting them to get her. Choke her, kill her, take her among them.
“They are here,” she whispered as if the ghosts couldn’t read her mind. “But they are not real.”
“No, they aren’t,” agreed the burning Crane.
“You don’t get it,” she continued silently. “The feeling… it isn’t… I have the bell.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “It’s not them. Not really.”
She smelled the rot again. The pain increased and spinning worsened. The hallucinations got crazy. The shapes rotated all over the place changing into fractals, colours burned her eyes. She though she will puke.
No fear, just disgust.
She started to laugh.
“What’s so funny, Miranda?”
“It’s nothing,” she explained laughing. “I’m just high.”
***
The wound was healed. It took a week of doing nothing and few days of hating herself for doing things that hurt her.
Miranda was at Crane’s place every day. Only result of his experiments was constant headache and weird taste in her mouth. Drugs gave her symptoms but not feelings. She trembled – without fear. She cried – without sadness. Nothing helped. She didn’t feel different. When she took the charm down, she was still dying.
She was losing hope. She had fun, yes, she actually liked visiting the weird doctor. She loved looking in his eyes and catching sparks of excitement in his otherwise cold demeanour. The small talks he tried to avoid also cheered her. But what’s that good for? She wasn’t getting better. Or worse. The status quo was driving her insane.
And the random shadows… She thought the hit continued but every time she ran to face them… nothing.
She was a lost cause.
“I am a lost cause.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Jonathan.
“You can’t help me.”
Jonathan stopped looking at a new tincture and raised his eyebrows. “I think I can. You just need to be patient.”
“No,” she disagreed. “It’s impossible.”
“No wonder you don’t get better. You give up right away.”
Miranda sighed annoyed. “Let’s stop this. You can’t help me.”
He started to look visibly upset. She hasn’t seen him like that yet. Glimpse of negative emotions here and there, but until this point none of them were real anger.
“I can help. There are many ways…”
“Useless.”
“What did you say?” he raised his voice. Miranda blinked in surprise. She didn’t expect reaction like this about something as silly as research.
“I said…”
“I heard you!” he snapped. “You shouldn’t have come if you think I am useless.”
“I…”
“Crazy professor with crazy ideas, that’s what you think?!”
Miranda didn’t say anything. She felt attacked but at the same time tiny silent voice in her head told her the outburst was not aimed at her. You cannot argue against that.
“Let me remind you I could have killed you. Am I useless? Lanky, stupid Crane? You should thank me for sparing you!” His face was red from anger, his eyes weirdly distant. He didn’t argue with her. But she had about enough.
“I think you also need professional help, Crane.”
“You bitch!” He jumped on his feet a tried to hit her. She expected that. Caught his wrist, bended his arm. He screamed, more from annoyance than pain. With a little kick under his knee she made him fall on his knees. Pacified, he tried to wiggle away but she stopped him. Grabbed him by hair.
“No, you don’t, you crazy bastard,” she told him. “I don’t know what your problem is but consider our cooperation over.”
“You will be sorry, Miranda.”
“Oh, spare me the theatrics,” she rolled her eyes. “I’ve decided not to snap your neck. Who should be grateful now?”
Jonathan grinded his teeth but said nothing.
“Good boy.” She let go of him, took her bag. “Thanks for the tea.”
“Burn in hell.”
“See ya there.”
She left, feeling weirdly bummed. It wasn’t his behaviour that got to her. No, it was… She didn’t think he can help her. But she really enjoyed their weird talks. When was the last time she could have been open to someone? Yeah, I kill people. I like it. No, I don’t have insurance, can you get that as a murderer? Sure, I will take new meds, doc.
“Fuck you,” she mumbled.
At the lamp stood a shadow. She walked to it and realized it was only her eyes playing tricks again.
***
At home Miranda found an envelope on the table. She weighted it in her hand, thinking. Nobody had access to her place. This might be a trap. Or the information she wanted.
Who cares if she blows up?
She opened it. Nothing. Just bunch of papers and a flash drive with little bat symbol on it. She scanned fast through the documents – photos of old texts and transcripts.
“Thanks, B,” she mumbled. She made tea and started to read. The text made her angrier every second. It was nothing useful just description of the ritual and its victims.
Before suicide missions people performed this. They drank and ate together, swore an oath and then tasted each other’s blood. The bound was complete with hallucinogens and night of dancing and sex. Then the ritual was done, and the group went to die while fulfilling their task.
It was said that if someone broke this bond, they became hunted by their former fellows. Most of the survivals died within a year. It was like a countdown going down. If they didn’t kill themselves, it took year and a day, and they just collapsed.
Miranda bit her lip. Year and a day. It fit. That’s when she got her charm.
No mention of anyone surviving as long as her. No mention of anyone healing this madness. Miranda sighed. She didn’t believe in magic. These stories were only that – stories. The guilt made itself into psychosis, that’s all. No magical base.
She set the papers aside. The day started horribly and ended on even worse note. Miranda was tired and annoyed. Sad? She wished. She would let this sink deeper and cry, but it wasn’t possible.
She just didn’t want to die. This was her source of energy. She would do anything to keep herself alive. Degrade herself, betray, beg even. There was no dignity in death! She cannot let them take her, can she?
It made her remember. She didn’t always feel like this. Training and suffering clouded her mind. Death sounded much better than continuing the way she was. Running away wasn’t an option. Tundra in the middle of nowhere would kill her, if League members didn’t catch her first. Those deaths would be more painful than anything she could inflict on herself.
The knife was the best option.
“Kill yourself? You are crazy, girl. You are too weak to do that,” her master laughed when she found Miranda in her room prepared to end it. “You belong to us, so does your life, you cannot take it and you know it.”
That angered her. They never took her seriously, as if she wasn’t a person. Just a tool.
But fear stopped her hand.
“See,” master laughed.
And then Miranda stabbed herself in the chest.
She regretted it immediately.
‘I don’t wanna die,’ she realized.
“Idiot can’t even kill herself properly.” These words were the first she heard when she woke up. And that’s when she decided to run when she gets a chance.
Fucking ghosts won’t get her! She lived through so much shit, she won’t give up now! She wanted life! To have everything! She might be crazy, she might feel like shit, and nobody can help her, but she needs to get her marbles together and figure out how to fight those fucking ghosts.
“Fuck you,” she snapped at her imaginary master. “Suck a dick.”
***
Next morning was blurry for her. She got ready for work, she went there, she smiled at customers, she was pleasant, she sold some toys. She didn’t feel any of that. Her mind raced in circles. The ritual wasn’t magical. She was just crazy. But if so, why wasn’t she fixable?
Maybe she didn’t want to get fixed. If she felt, she would have to stop killing because she would cry over her victims. If she felt, she would tremble in fear under the idea of losing her charm. Maybe she was content, and she shouldn’t fight it anymore.
The door bell chimed. She smiled to welcome a new customer, but her expression grew cold quickly. Jonathan Crane walked to the counter, bouquet in his hand. Miranda reached under the desk to hold a gun.
“Miss Bradbury,” he started without greeting. “I’ve come to apologize.”
“Apologize?” she repeated.
“Yes, for my behaviour the other day. It wasn’t appropriate and I was out of line.” His expression and tone were sincere. She never heard so much colour in his voice and it took her by surprise. “I hoped you will accept this as a peace offering. And also, invitation for dinner tonight.”
She was speechless. Carefully she looked at the flowers – they looked legit, no poisonous strings attached. Miranda let go of the gun.
“Yes, you were out of line,” she agreed. “I don’t know what memory I awoke in you, but you should know I’ve never meant you when I said useless.”
“I am aware, miss Bradbury. I thought over our conversation and I jumped to conclusion. That’s why I wanted us to talk like two almost sane and almost moral adults.”
That made her smile. “Damaged seek damaged, am I correct? Thank you, professor, I accept your apology and I will gladly sit with you.”
“Brilliant. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“I’ll be ready for you.”
Jonathan smiled and Miranda wondered whether he understood the raised finger. If he didn’t, it will be one hell of an evening.
Whole day she couldn’t keep eyes of the flowers and she was smiling like an idiot.
Next chapter
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shellygurumi · 6 years ago
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There was always so much time to kill in this life. Q and Eliot spent all day working on the mosaic, raising Teddy, living their simple, straightforward lives. Wake up, eat, work on the mosaic, play with Teddy, eat lunch, go for a walk, Teddy’s lessons, more work on the mosaic, dinner, star gazing, bed.
Teddy was 9 and sleeping in the cottage while Eliot and Q laid out on the bed they had built outside. Both men laid on their backs, hands tucked behind their heads. Looking at the stars became a game, they would make up constellations and tell stories about what they symbolized. 
Sometimes Eliot would ask Q to tell a story about one he had made up, because Q made up the best stories and Eliot liked listening to his voice. While Q was talking, Eliot rolled up onto his side and gazed at Quentin’s face. He also liked watching the man as he spoke, but he also had another motivation...
His hand moved up to Q’s chest, fingertips dancing upward, towards his collar, tugging gently at the fabric of his shirt. Quentin tried to keep telling the story, wanting to finish it before Eliot got the better of him. It had become a game for them when they were feeling randy. See how long the story would last before sex ensued. Q was going to make it to the end this time, he really was.
Eliot wasn’t going to let that happen.
“Then the archer...” Q gasped softly when Eliot’s lips began kissing his neck; he swallowed hard. “The archer shot the arrow at the sky...”
A tongue followed, licking the bobbing adam’s apple on Q’s throat. He grinned against Q’s neck and began nibbling.
Quentin moaned softly. “The sky...” 
“Uh-huh..” Eliot held himself up over Q, pressing his body down atop him. “Tell me more...”
“You jerk,” Quentin grinned up at Eliot.
“You love it,” His teasing tone colored his words. He slid his leg in between Quentin’s legs, pressing his thigh against his dick. Eliot caught Q’s next moan with a kiss, pressing their lips together. 
Q raised both hands to twine into Eliot’s hair, holding him close as he returned the kiss. He arched his back, lifting his hips up to meet Eliot’s body. He wanted that friction, that pressure. 
Moans drifted between them, getting caught on the wind and drawn away. They had to stay quiet, so as not to wake their son. That happened once, and they vowed not to let it happen again. Luckily Teddy was too young to know what was going on, just thinking they were playing a game, but it was horrifying enough. 
Now it was practically a game to keep quiet while driving each other wild. Eliot kissed Q hard and deep, taking his breath away. Then he pushed himself up, leaving Q trailing after that kiss, wanting more. He straddled Q’s lap then began undressing him. Eliot was always so thorough, slowly taking Q’s top off, running his hands over his chest, his shoulders, arms. Eliot would love every inch of Quentin. No matter how many times they made love, he always wanted to touch every inch of Q, as if learning his body all over again for the first time. 
It drove Quentin wild, sent shivers all over his body. Made him gasp and moan and ache for more. Every time. Eliot knew exactly where to linger, where to touch feather light, where to press a little harder. Where to bite or lick or nibble.
All the ways to make Q want to moan out loud, but instead he always had to bite his lip, close his eyes and hum out instead. Little whimpers were Eliot’s favorite. When he tried so hard to keep the moans in and nearly failed. Eliot grinned as he nipped at one of Q’s nipples and Q threw his head back.
“El...” Q’s hand was planted firmly in Eliot’s hair, fingers clenching. “Fuck...” He whispered the words, breathless and panting.
Eliot’s tongue swirled around the nipple he had been biting. Then his head traveled down lower. His hands made their way to Q’s pants, quickly undoing them and getting his lover naked.
Q lifted his hips and let Eliot undress him. He sat up and began pulling Eliot’s clothes off. He wanted their bodies pressed together, unhindered by clothing. Once they were both naked, Eliot lowered Q back down onto the bed beneath the stars. Q’s legs spread apart, letting Eliot in between them and he hooked one over El’s hip. 
They kissed again as as Eliot lowered himself down onto Q. Hands were everywhere, Q was holding Eliot’s face, his shoulder, his arm, clenching, squeezing, caressing, touching. Just touching every part of Eliot he could reach. Eliot held the back of Q’s neck with one hand while the other made its way down to prep him for Q for more. 
One great thing about being a magician was the ability to conjure up some lubricant with a few flicks of his fingers. And the best part about magical lubricant was that it was never cold. He slid his finger into Q and was rewarded with a deep, quiet moan. Loud enough for Eliot to hear and no one else. Q gave himself up to Eliot, letting himself relax as El worked him open. 
Eliot was so good, so patient, so gentle. He knew just when to add another finger, just how to move his hands to keep it feeling good, just the words to say to help Q stay relaxed. He knew when to pause his fingers and kiss him deeply. He knew when to trail those kisses to other parts of Q’s body, his neck, his cheek, he knew when to bite at Q’s ear and whisper sweet nothings into it.
Q was always lost to Eliot. Lost to his touch and his kiss and his words and his beauty. He loved Eliot’s voice. He loved Eliot.
It wasn’t long before Eliot was setting himself up to push himself into Q. Slow, steady and sure. Q bit his lip again and closed his eyes and moaned in the back of his throat as he took Eliot in. It felt so good. He loved ever moment of it. He loved the feeling of Eliot deep inside, the way he settled and adjusted to the other man’s presence there.
He loved the way Eliot kissed him slowly and sweetly. When the kiss broke, Eliot lifted himself up just enough to look down at Q’s face, watched as the other man’s eyes fluttered open, his lips parted. They smiled at one another and shared a silent moment. Then Eliot began thrusting. Slow and smooth. Starting a rhythm.
Q ran his hands through Eliot’s hair again, this time holding the back of his head. Their mouths were close, but they weren’t kissing. Lips parted, silent gasps and pants falling between them. Q turned his head until his mouth was near Eliot’s. They shared breath and moans as Eliot thrust into Q over and over.
The pace quickened, the tension mounting. While holding himself up with one arm, Eliot brought his free hand between them and began pumping Q’s cock with long fingers. He did his best to keep the pace with his thrusts, to try and bring Q to completion. By now he knew all of Q’s signs. The way his breath started hitching, the way his moans got deeper, more husky. He knew when Q was right on the verge. He always liked to make Q come first, liked to watch him come. He liked the way Q’s whole body tensed up and clenched around him. 
And he did. Q came with a strangled moan between lips pressed tightly together. As he came, Eliot thrust harder and faster, bringing himself to the edge to come moments later. He kissed Q hard to cover his own moan. They both shuddered through their orgasm. The kiss broke then reaffirmed, then turned into a trail of softer, briefer kisses. 
Finally, Eliot sighed heavily and fell onto his side next to Q. They both smiled drunkenly. Q rolled Eliot over onto his back, carefully pulled himself off of El, then resettled against his shoulder. Eliot wrapped his arm around Q’s shoulders and trailed his fingers over his bare skin. Reaching out, Q grabbed a blanket and tugged it over both of them before the night’s chill set in. 
“That was pretty good,” El said lazily.
Q chuckled breathlessly. “Pretty good?”
“Really good?” Eliot said, teasing.
“That’s all?” Q tickled Eliot’s side and Eliot’s stomach fluttered. He wiggled, trying to get away from the tickling. 
“Okay, okay, it was amazing as always, my love.” He touched a finger to Q’s jaw, turning him to face Eliot. He pressed a slow, sweet, and loving kiss to Q’s lips. “Always.”
Q melted into that kiss, then closed his eyes. They would fall asleep in each other’s arms, as they so often did these days.
--
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paul-s-walks-uk-blog · 6 years ago
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Walk 6 : Kilpisjärvi (Finland) to Goldahytta (Norway)
‘What is that land of hill and dale That is so beautiful, The land aglow with summer days, Land with the northern lights ablaze, Whose beauty all the seasons share, What is that land so fair?’
Aleksis Kivi
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This walk description is from my Tumblr blog ‘Dartmoor (and other) walks’, where you will find guides some of my other walks, and (eventually) hints, tips, for successful hiking and some of my favorite places
This walk is the first day (outward bound) of a two day walk. The return journey is described here
There is nothing better than walking in these mountains. The air is fresh, evoking a sense of space and wildness. The rivers are clean, bubbling down from their watersheds, over rock strewn beds. There is wildlife all around. Here you can see herds of reindeer, arctic hares and (if you are very lucky) lemmings. There is a sense of solitude and quiet if the weather is fine, and a sense of challenge and adventure if it is not. This music sums up my feelings in this part of the world. I find it going through my head as I watch the clouds in the valleys in the mornings, trying to guess what the weather will be like.
This is a the first part of a two day walk. It follows the final (or first) section of the Troms Border trail. It starts in Finland and after climbing into the hills descends to its end in a forest of birch, with views of cloud-wrapped peaks on the horizon.
Walk data
Distance: 13.1 miles (21.1 km) (approximately)
Grade:Moderate in summer. In winter temperatures may well below freezing and there is likely to be lots of snow, under these conditions this would be specialist walking, not to be undertaken without a guide.
Start Point :  Kilpisjärven Retkeilykeskus, Kilpisjärvi (920,595)
End Point : Goldahytta (801,626)   
Facilities: The  Retkeilykeskus has a restaurant, a shop selling limited supplies. It has lodge and rooms to book, and offers some places to pitch tents. It has saunas, a drying room,laundry facilities for residents. The village of Kilpisjärvi , about 3 miles (5 km) south east along the E8 from the start point has a supermarket, a shop selling trail clothes, restaurants, hotels and lodges
Transport: public transport: There are buses from  Rovaniemi 267 miles (429 km) in Finland and from Tromso 103 miles (165 km) in Norway. Services are primarily in summer and Autumn. See here for further details. driving: Kilpisjarvi is on the E8 (highway 21) from either Norway of through Finland.
Maps and navigation: Skibotndalen 10149, published by Nordeca  and  Halti Kilpisjärvi published by  Karttakauppa. Both are 1:50000 scale. The Karttakauppa map has excellent detail on the Finnish side, but pretty much only contours and names on the Norwegian side. The Nordeca map has good detail on both sides, and this is the map used for reference in this walk. Coordinates are taken from it. A compass is essential as visibility can be very bad if there is fog or rain. Phone signals, once up in the mountains may be intermittent or non-existent. Always leave your route and coordinates with somebody. Carry a whistle.
Gear : If you are staying in the hut you will still need a sleeping bag, as these are not supplied. If you are not, you will also need a tent and cooking gear. I would advise taking a tent anyway, as it is possible to get lost or injured and you do not want to spend the cold hours exposed to the elements here, even in summer. You need good, strong, waterproof, footwear: Certainly not trainers. The midnight sun here lasts from the end of may to almost the end of July, during the early part of August it will not get dark even when the sun has dipped below the horizon, but as the month progresses there will be increasing hours of twilight, so taking a torch depends on when you are going. Waterproof and warm clothing, including a hat are essential.And you will have to carry your own food. Sticks and crocs for the river crossing are advisable.
Walk overview
The longest single stretch is the first, which is easy walking along the E8. The only challenge is making sure you locate the start of the Troms Border trail shortly after crossing the border into Norway. There is an undulating climb into the mountain passes, with some small streams and a river to cross.This is followed by a longish section over a rock field, and shortly after this a fairly steep descent through a forest of birch and rowan, which is usually wet and boggy, down to the huts at Golda
Route Map
stage 1 : Route map and elevation
stage 2 : Route map and elevation
stage 1 : Route map and elevation
Stage 1 :  Kilpisjärven Retkeilykeskus to the Troms Border Trail along the E8, 5.2 miles (8.4 km)
This walk starts at the Walking Centre a few kilometers from the Sami village of Kilpis on the side of a large, long lake (like a loch) called  Kilpisjärvi. It is worth visiting the village, where you can get traditional Finnish food, and listen to the huskies barking and howling in their compounds. It also has a supermarket and other shops. And most importantly in my view, good, strong, simple coffee. 
The Walking Centre, Kilpisjärven Retkeilykeskus, has everything that you could want, whether you are starting a long hike and want to get packed and supplied, or if you are finishing one and want to get rested, showered and well fed (in any order). It is also next to one of Finland’s most popular fells, the Saana, which you can walk up in a few hour for magical views of Finland’s arctic landscape. 
This stage of the walk is very straightforward. Leave the Walking Centre and turn right (more or less northwestard) onto the E8, which is the major road in this area.
Finland is relatively flat, but ahead you can see mountains. This is Norway which is only five miles (8 km) away. It is odd how the mountains start as soon as you pass the border. 
Being a northern Finnish road, you are quite likely to see herds of reindeer grazing to the side, crossing the road, or even walking along it, which they seem to do to with the intent of slowing down the traffic. For although they are shy animals and will run away if you approach them quickly or noisily, they seem to be unfazed by traffic and will amble along with an impatient truck behind them until they feel they have done their bit for road safety. click her for an example. if you see a herd by the road, and you are quiet and patient, and slow, then you can sit down and watch. Initially they will move away from you, but if you don’t appear to pose a threat they eventually  return to their grazing. Do not feed them under any circumstance. They belong to the locals, and they have very delicate nutritional needs, which are all catered for by the flora that grows in the tundra, especially reindeer moss (which,incidentally, is also used to make aquavit, which you can get in  the bars in town).
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The E8 from Kilpisjärvi looking towards Norway
The road slowly descends for a while and then begins to climb for about 4 miles (6.5 km). It slowly leaves the lowland and the sides of the road become progressively rockier. To the right are moor-like hills, and to the left the feet of the mountains.  Eventually on the right you pass a mountain called Korkea-Jehkas, (935,639) which reaches just over 900 meters (from the road level which is at about 500 m). It has steep cliff sides and is often, topped by clouds, while on the left the road drops down to a small lake, Siilasjärvi, with a small island on the far side.
Shortly after this you reach the Finland/Norway border. (900,669)There is a customs building and often police cars outside, but the border is ‘open’ and it is extremely unlikely that the border guards will want to stop you, even to check your passport.
After passing the border keep a keen eye on the left side and you will soon see  a trail leading northwest in the direction of the hills.(899,675) There are numerous little paths going off on both sides of the road, but the one that is our trail is marked with a stone painted with a red ‘T’. This is the symbol for the Troms Border Trail (although sometimes it is just a red splotch). These markers will guide the rest of the day.
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Lots of interesting Fungi can be seen on this trail. The leaves are cloudberry. The fruit of this is delicious
Stage 2 : From the E8 to Nilppagielas. 4.7 miles (7.5 km) 
This section of the walk follows the Troms Border Trail, using as guides the red ‘T’s and circles, painted on tall stones or small cairns, as shown below
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Way marker on the Troms Border Trail
The path climb gradually up plant clad slopes for about ,3 miles (5 km), before leveling out in a rocky terrain with small lakes dotted around it.
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The lakes of Siilvasjärvi  and Kilpisjärvi from Bossovárri, with clouds bringing rain.
Shortly after leaving the road the trail begins to bear westwards and climbs over the feet of a small hill and passses a small lake to the left, before descending gently to the marshy land that sits on either side  of the Bossohohka. This is the only water course that can’t be stepped over. If it has rained a lot it may be deep and fast, so care is needed. I took my boots off, put on my Crocs, loosened my rucsac, and used my sticks to wade across. The waters was very cold, and very refreshing. I sat on the bank on the far side while my feet dried,  and looked at some rather ominous clouds that were coming up from the south. Although only a mile and a half (2,5 km) from the road,it felt as if I was nowhere near any civilisation. Some birds whose name I don’t know were making pipping noises in the marsh land to by the river. A thin chilly wind ran through the tundra. To the southwest the tall top of Goallàroinnibba was lost in low cloud.
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 One of many little stream running down to the bog at Bossojohka
After the water crossing the trail bears southwards and the again southwest, running around the feet of  Goallàroinnibba   Here the rain caught up with me and came down, cold and and misty. One of the advantages of walking this time of year this far north is that it won’t get dark, so I could take my time and sit in my storm shelter and read, avoiding a drenching, listening to the rain pattering on the plastic shell.
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Low visibility : Misty rain near Nilppagielas 
The trail now continues southwestwards into Nilppagielas, which is an flat area of rockfields and lakes. The trail markers here are (fortunately) frequent and obvious. Sometimes merely sticks, and often artfully constructed towers of rocks, one was at least a meter tall. They must fall over, only to be replaced by the dedicated people who volunteer for the DNT.
This stage ends  (835,653) in this stony area, shortly after crossing a little stream that rolls southeastward into the lake Nilppanajàgajàvri, a sort of lumpy horseshoe shaped water to the left of the track. The slight bowl shaped depression in this par of the rockfield somehow deadens the sound, and the only noise is to be heard is your own boot on the rocky surface.
Stage 3 :  Nilppagielas to Goldahytta.  3.2 miles (5.2 km)
In this section the trail leaves the rockfields and descends through a forest of small trees and bogs, down to the hut and a place to camp. 
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The end of the rocky terrain and the edge of the descent to Goldahytta, showing one of the way markers made of piled stones.
This is typical arctic woodland: Little white barked birch trees, thinly spread in marshy ground. The streams from the numerous small lakes on the plateau that we are descending from run through these woods to the valley below. It is squelchy territory at the best of time, and after rain even more so. Take care to follow the markers, as you concentrate on avoiding slipping or putting your foot in a soggy hole. The air has a wonderfully peaty scent.
At the bottom you will find the Goldahytta, which is really three huts and a latrine block. If you have a key, you will find that you are probably the only person in the hut, even in summer, so you can fire up the woodburning stove, hang your wet gear on the drying racks, and sit in a chair with your dinner on a table and stare at the woods outside, This is an especially comforting thing to do if it is raining.
I wasn’t using a hut, and of course it started raining again. It is not difficult to find a clear area near the huts, and with a lot of cursing I soon had my tent up. As soon as I got in it the rain stopped. The other advantage of the huts, I now remembered, is that hardly any mosquitoes can get in them They do so love damp woods!
Some very well equipped Norwegian walkers passed by and said ‘hei’, then disappeared off  westwards along the Border Trail, but apart from these I saw no other people.
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Camp at Goldahytta
The lowering sun began to make silhouettes of the tall peaks to the west, and thick clouds gathered around the their feet (see picture below). I have trouble falling asleep when it won’t get dark. It feels a bit like cheating. But a good walk over mountains in the unpolluted air is a natural soporific, and it was only a couple of hours after eating that I was snoring gently.
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Mountains and cloud from Goldahytta 
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brydeswhale · 8 years ago
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Top Ten Wolf Names
@northstarfan, top ten best Wolf names, but I don’t know if they’ll be very interesting to you.
I actually found this a really hard list to compile, although I do admit I didn’t allocate too much time to it. It’s mostly WARP canon wolves, with the exception of a Wild Hunt character.
One thing that became very, very clear while going through this list was the fact that, like cat and rabbit owners, the Wolfriders prefer the rule of cool when it comes to wolf names. This might also be an element of how, until post KOTBW, the wolves were not mounts or pets, but full fledged members of the community in their own right. 
So, one of the things I incorporated into my list was how the name indicated something about the wolf’s elf friend, as well as the wolf itself. I wanted to think about why someone might give a certain name, and what that reflected on the elf. 
10. Holtfinder
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So, Holtfinder is Moonshade’s new wolf friend, as of “The Quest Begins”. Most people might not know it, but Moonshade’s wolf is one of the two that dies during the desert trek. Obviously, this is a new wolf friend, acquired during the sojourn in the desert.
You might picture Holtfinder as a squirming puppy, the kind that spends their time trying to find a little den to snuggle in, maybe under the blankets with Moonshade, and being named for that reason.
However, Moonshade is noted for being one of the Wolfriders who adjusts the most badly to Sorrow’s End. Even up until Cutter decides to leave, she’s asking if they can come along, back to the forest. Moonshade is often portrayed as happiest in the woods, and in the holt(making her sudden decision to turn into a palace dweller very jarring), and her decision to name her wolf friend after this desire may have symbolized her homesickness and desire to return.
9. Smoketreader
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One Eye has always fascinated readers, even me. From his outfit, like Scouter’s, it’s straight out of a book of Fairy Tales, to his missing eye, to his relationship with Clearbrook, we love him, unquestionably, completely dismissing the fact that he is actually incredibly boring. Perhaps the appeal is that his character is nothing more than what we choose to make of it, and that he doesn’t look like our fathers.
Smoketreader would have been higher on this list, except that I have been completely misremembering his name as Stormtreader, so, I had to reconsider it.
Smoketreader is a simple, straightforward name. One Eye’s few characterization points include that he is a simple, straightforward elf. Smoketreader makes sense in that way, if you’re trying to convey that your wolf is as quiet as smoke. Or maybe he named him because he ran out of the smoke during the fire.
This is mostly an excuse to point out that One Eye got a wolf friend during his eye loss. See, while the humans were burning his eye out, he sent to his wolf-friend, who had died months ago. Another wolf answered this sending, and it’s romantic to imagine that Smoketreader’s name came from his arrival. One Eye’s remaining eye sees his rescuer through the smoke of the burning brand descending toward his remaining eye.
Then Wolfrider happened and Wendy forgot what timelines were, so...
8. Bundles
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While I stand by my multiple previous statements about Tyleet and her entire childhood being a timesuck of epic proportions, that it adds nothing to the story, and that it takes precious comic book space away that might have been devoted to Venka, she does give her wolves good names. “Bundles” is adorable, exactly the kind of name that a little girl might give to her puppy, based more on, well, how the word sounds than what it might mean.
7. Silvergrace
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Amazingly, there aren’t a lot of shots of Silvergrace with Rainsong, her elf friend. There aren’t any body shots of Silvergrace at all, this is a random wolf with puppies that helps call the Wolfriders to help Cutter after Bearclaw dies.
Silvergrace and Newstar are both simple, descriptive names, but what they describe is pure loveliness. It’s as easy to imagine Silvergrace sliding like mercury through the world as it is to imagine Rainsong looking at her newborn daughter and seeing her as a bright burst of hope following a horrific tragedy. Woodlock must have named Wing, because Mender is another descriptive name, full of hope. Rainsong is a mother and a poet.
6. Filcher
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Filcher is, basically, one of the bright lights of FQ. He provides some fun and humour in the frankly terrible series that it otherwise lacks.
Cutter likes to give wolves obvious names. “Nightrunner” and “Holdfast” were a little too symbolic, though, whereas one can easily see Cutter giving Filcher his name in a moment of amused frustration. Cutter’s wolf friends are usually dignified or angsty, but Filcher is pure joy, and you get the feeling that Cutter felt the same way.
5. Snapper
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Snapper is a pretty indication of how Bearclaw names wolves, with a possible predecessor named Crest. He likes quick names that indicate a physical or personal characteristic of the wolf in question, which goes with his mental tendencies to snap judgements and impulsive behaviour. The wolf snaps? Snapper, forevermore.
4. Blackfell
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More an omen of Bearclaw’s descent into violence and hatred than a true wolf friend, Blackfell was always unusual in both his introductions. In Blood Of Ten Chiefs, volume 1, he appears as a stranger wolf who, having lost his cubs, has stolen a human child for his mate to care for. This story shows Bearclaw as a hero, who returns the child and allows Blackfell’s mate to care for Cutter and Amber’s new baby, Nightfall. Yeah, Warp has always been this bad.
In Wolfrider, Blackfell is almost demonic, otherworldly. He reinforces Bearclaw’s violence, and, almost until the end, seems to delight in it, although he does have a genuine affection for Bearclaw. He’s not a member of the pack, but the leader of another pack that neighbours with the Wolfriders. 
Both times Blackfell is not named by Bearclaw. He knows Bearclaw’s soulname, and Bearclaw knows Blackfell’s name, as if it appears inside him. And what a name it is, evocative of the black dogs of British legend, the foretellers of death and misfortune. He disappears after Bearclaw’s death like the ghost dogs of legend. It’s tempting to wonder if Timmain and Kimo are truly the only shapechanging elves who took to the form of wolves.
3. Patch
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Patch has a sweet backstory. Sort of?
Um...
Patch is actually a gift from Teir during his stalking phase.
But Patch is a good point about how Ember resembles her grandfather. Clearly named named for the smudge of black fur on his nose. Ember went for the obvious here. Patch is loads of fun, and Ember clearly adores him, but she just as clearly made a choice about his name in about three seconds.
2. Warfrost
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Most people go for the obvious when looking for images of Warfrost, and I have to admit that he’s pretty cute when he wants Cutter’s attention, but for my mind this image of two damaged souls barely reaching out for each other is the best illustration of Cutter’s tenuous bond with his second wolf.
One of Cutter’s many poetically named wolves, Warfrost is my favourite, so he might not deserve to be on this list, let alone this high on the list.. He had even more personality than Nightrunner, with abuse and imprisonment making him stubborn and independent. He always made it clear that he just happened to be in the same place as Cutter, doing the same thing, and that it didn’t have anything to do with love. “Warfrost” was named for Cutter’s hope for recovery, both for his tribe, himself, and for this strange, fierce wolf. 
Warfrost died during Cutter’s long wait. It was another loss for Cutter, one more wound among many, but the old warrior had clearly found his peace, and I’d like to think he’s looking at Cutter and hoping his old friend finds his.
1.Choplicker
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It’s one of the great moments in Elfquest.
Back when WARP still pretended that the Wolfriders had ritual and traditions beyond “the (poorly defined) way”, Wolfrider children expecting their first Wolfrider waited outside a wolf den for a pup who emerged, expectant of loving bonds.
Choplicker’s name illustrates Ember’s childhood personality perfectly. Impetuous, happy, not afraid to be a little goofy. Suntop, like Cutter, is a poet, Ember loves to go with whatever comes in her head. “Choplicker” is obviously her first thought on confrontation with puppy kisses. Choplicker himself never outgrew his goofy name, and we were all the happier for it. It’s the perfect name, both for him, and for his rider.
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eddiejpoplar · 6 years ago
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Best Cars of the 2018 Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance
The 1937 Alfa Romeo 8C 2900B Touring Berlinetta that won the Best of Show prize at the 2018 Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance is certainly an amazing machine, but there’s far more to the Concours than naming a single best car. We polled our editors and contributors for some of their favorites spotted Sunday on the 18th fairway.
Tucker 48s Take Over Pebble
It’s exceedingly rare to see a singular Tucker 48 outside of the walls of a climate-controlled automotive museum, so running into 12 Tuckers lined up like a dealership sales lot was surreal. Even in the company of Marmon Sixteens and Hispano-Suizas, the pack of earth-toned Tuckers was an unbelievably special sight. —Conner Golden
1948 Talbot Lago T26 Grand Sport Figoni Fastback Coupe
This gorgeous Figoni-bodied Talbot Lago features classic teardrop styling, elegant chrome accent trim, and even a clear pop-up sunroof, a rarity for its day. Post-war cars struggle to win Best of Show at Pebble Beach, but the Czech-based owners of this car can take solace in their First in Class win in the Postwar Touring category. —Rory Jurnecka
(Not So) Fastback
I’m with Mr. Jurnecka on this one. Predicting an overall Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance winner is never as straightforward as it seems, and the Talbot Lago is a case in point. The T26 Grand Sport Figoni Fastback Coupé seemingly has it all: imaginative styling, interesting custom details (including chrome “zippers” above its center headlamp from its original owner, the so-called Zipper King), a heroic rescue following 48 years of storage, and novel styling. Sure, the Best in Show–winning Alfa had understated qualities that could be described as safe, but it goes to show sometimes you never can tell. —Basem Wasef
The Cadillac Mind Melt Is it a Delahaye? A Delage? Or maybe some other dreamy, French Curvy scoop of rolling sculpture? This kinetic object d’art, it turns out, is actually a good ol’ fashioned Caddy—specifically a rather special, 1937 Cadillac Series 90 Hartmann Cabriolet originally commissioned by international playboy Philippe Barraud. Wrapped in fluid sheetmetal that could best be described as Figoni et Falaschi-esque and powered by a narrow-angle V-16, this particular Caddy’s impossible, 22-foot-long proportions made waves. Many wagered that this swoopy cab would win the top Concours prize, but it settled instead for the class win in its American Classic Open category. Shame, as this Cadillac seemed to have it all: a great story, stunning lines, and elegance for miles. —B.W.
1937 Cadillac Series 90 Hartmann Cabriolet I see we’re in agreement on some of these choices, which isn’t always a guarantee when it comes to the Automobile staff and its varied tastes. I think that fact speaks to just how exceptional some of these standout cars are. This Cadillac isn’t straight out of The Great Gatsby, and it was created a dozen years too late for inclusion in the novel, but it certainly channels author F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterwork. You don’t have to have even a passing interest in cars to take note of this one: a one-of-a-kind coachbuilt Cadillac commissioned by a wealthy Swiss gentleman 80-some years ago—a car many indeed pegged as the favorite to win the Pebble Beach Concours’ top award. No, it didn’t, but it checked a lot of boxes: rarity, an interesting history, immaculate design, and meticulous resurrection. Best of Show recognition or not, no one who laid eyes on it could look away.  —Mac Morrison
1970 Ferrari Modulo 512 S Pininfarina Coupe Jim Glickenhaus, founder of Scuderia Cameron Glickenhaus and owner of some very rare cars, brought this 1970 Ferrari Modulo, which he managed to wrest away from Pininfarina’s long-term ownership. This wild 1970 concept car was based on the low-slung chassis and racing powertrain from a Ferrari 512 S endurance prototype sports car. The roof slides backward to allow entry, and a perforated engine cover allows onlookers to see the race-tuned V-12 that lies underneath. —R.J.
Ferrari Modulo… You Know, for Kids Did you steal my notes, Jurnecka? Frankly, Pebble’s Pre-War-a-Palooza can alienate some of the younger showgoers who lack a penchant for brass and wicker. For the (slightly) more youthful set, the 1970 Ferrari 512 S Modulo Pininfarina Coupe owned by James Glickenhaus ticks a whole lot of boxes: pivotal role in the game-changing supercar wedge movement? Check. Just-in-time engine restoration to make it mobile and Pebble Beach eligible? Check. Racing chassis, 5.0-liter V-12 under Perspex, and boggling doorstop silhouette? Triple check. The Modulo may not have won Pebble, but it certainly did win the hearts of more than a few enthusiasts in the crowd. —B.W.
1966 All American Eagle Special
Now owned by well-known restorer, collector, and all-around performance-car guy Bruce Canepa, this All American Racers Indy car might have been overlooked, especially by some young members of the Pebble crowd. And that’s a shame, as it is flat-out gorgeous. Its provenance might not be as impressive as some of AAR founder Dan Gurney’s other racers, as it never won a race. But it is the car the man himself ran at Indianapolis in ’66. This example, chassis No. 201, is the first of six such race cars AAR built that year; unfortunately, it and Gurney were taken out in an opening-lap crash at the Speedway.
Regardless, it was a gem on display at Pebble, a race car from a bygone era when beauty was appreciated almost as much as performance. The good news is, an even younger crowd will soon be exposed to it after it won the Gran Turismo Trophy (the Concours award associated with the famous video game), meaning this sublime competition car will (sooner than later, we hope) appear in the massively popular racing franchise. —M.M.
And the Best Spare Tire Award Goes to … The 1966 Ford GT40 Mark IIB. This final version of the GT40 race car is special, even though its favored status at Le Mans was thwarted by a blown head gasket in ’66, and it failed to finish again the following year after 13 hours of competition. We love its legendary lines and sexy gold livery, but we really dig the magnesium spare wheel tucked perilously close to the drivetrain; gotta love 1960s racing. —B.W.
1966 Ford GT40 Mark IIB Coupe I’m a sucker for GT40s, and as Basem notes above, this gold-sprayed coupe with white striping is one of the most stunning I’ve seen. Seemingly every GT40 of the 1960s has a story, and this car is no different. It was driven in the ’66 24 Hours of Le Mans by Dan Gurney and Jerry Grant and started on the pole, but a radiator issue hosed its chances and it didn’t finish. After being upgraded to IIB-spec, it raced at Le Mans in 1967 but crashed out. There is some controversy around this particular car as its chassis number of 1047 was somehow mixed up with another sister car known as 1031. —M.F.
File Under: Strong Finishes As if an imposing Rolls-Royce doesn’t say enough about the class divide between rich and poor during imperialist India, this 1927 Rolls-Royce Phantom I Windovers limousine goes the extra mile with its stunning polished aluminum finish. The texture of bare metal must have required hundreds of man-hours to perfect and is just as telling of the car’s meticulous ownership history as it is about the marque’s 20th century origins. —B.W.
1958 Continental Mark III Convertible It is next to impossible to truly communicate the scale of this battleship in words and photos, but here goes. Holy hell, is this thing big, long, and massive! From the era when American land yachts roamed the interstates, as the largest unit-construction car ever built, this was one of the biggest of them all. This was the last year the Continental wasn’t badged a Lincoln, as it was its own sub-brand at the time. Powered by a 430-cubic-inch V-8 with around 375 horsepower, it is a whopping 229 inches long, but not exactly super heavy at around 5,000 pounds. Imagine trying to park this leviathan anywhere. That said, we’d love to try, after driving it everywhere, of course. —M.F.
1953 OSCA MT4 Frua Spider OSCA was a special class at the 2018 Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance, and the largely open-top race cars were an impressive lot. Known officially as Officine Specializzate Costruzione Automobili—Fratelli Maserati S.p.A., OSCA was an Italian manufacturer of racing and sports cars established in 1947 by the Maserati brothers, and it lasted until 1967. This particular car caught my eye, with its stunning blue, white, and red accented livery and white wire wheels. Many aficionados consider the MT4 the most successful race car the Maserati brothers ever produced, as it became a force in the under-1,500cc class during its era. —M.F.
1949 OSCA MT4 Siluro The Concours’ clutter of OSCAs consisted primarily of itty-bitty competition barchettas, and there weren’t any eyesores in the bunch. But I took particular interest in the 1949 OSCA MT4 Siluro. Or more specifically, the Siluro’s floating shift tube that extends from under the dash. It’s a feature entirely driven by engineering, but it’s so much more dramatic than some of the aesthetic extras sprinkled on some of the flamboyant sleds on the show green. —C.G.
1963 Citroën DS19 Chapron
The inimitable Citroën DS is hardly the most highfalutin car to escape France. While not as Spartan as the 2CV, the DS was reasonably egalitarian and became a symbol for accessible design and smart engineering. Citroën made roughly 1.5 million of the things, after all.
Peter Mullin’s 1963 Citroën DS19 Chapron Concorde is a bit different. A star coachworks designer for the likes of Delahaye, Delage, and Talbot-Lago, Henri Chapron penned the near-perfect bodywork for the Concorde, reinterpreting the DS’ funky aeronautical shape into an effortlessly elegant coupe marketed toward a buyer looking for more luxury. Only a handful of these were made, so this was a rare chance to see a Concorde in public. —C.G.
1935 Rolls-Royce Phantom II Continental Gurney Nutting Streamline Coupe There was a special class at the Concours d’Elegance this year, “Motor Cars of the Raj,” featuring a number of incredibly elegant coachbuilt models like this magnificent example of a Rolls-Royce Phantom II Continental, all brought over from India just for the show. (Apparently, all of the cars’ owners had to ship them to Pebble three months prior to the big day—quite a commitment.) This particular car won its class and also the Lucius Beebe Trophy as the best Rolls-Royce of the Concours, and it’s easy to see why, looking resplendent in its green and yellow paint scheme. In fact, this car is so fabulous, it was chosen as the cover car for this year’s official Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance poster. —M.F.
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xavierscos · 8 years ago
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Stuff to post w art today:
For the robosona ref:
Yup here’s my botsona!!!! Here’s some extra info on him!!!
·         He has inner fans to keep him below a certain temperature (one of them is busted)
·         If he gets too flustered/excited and goes past a certain temperature, he’ll blue screen and crash
·         If he gets too stressed he’ll do that weird color static thing computer’s do and then he’ll crash
·         Has a volume + power button on the side of his head. You can mute him by turning down his volume button (which will then result in him communicating through emojis and such)
·         He can use emojis when he’s not muted but he doesn’t really like doing that. The only emoji he uses no matter his volume level is the knife emoji
·         Can display words one at a time on his screen (the most used are: various curses such as FUCK, CUNT, ASS, SHIT; YES; NO; MOE; C-3Y). the word ERROR shows up when he crashes/does the blue screen thing
·         Pupil can change shape (hearts, eye swirls, money symbols, etc)
·         His cat companion Booby (yes based after my cat Boobs) was actually stolen! Yup! This lil bot fella stole a cat from someone’s house and the cat just ?? went with it?? And bonded with the bot??? anyways story is xai was homeless for a lot (he still is but now he travels) so every day when the person went off to work he’d sit at the fence and pet the cat bc booby would hop over it and he’d feed the cat and shit and one day he just. ran off w the cat
<b>Liquid mood-color chart </b>
Purple – standard mood, average
Pink – lovesick/lovestruck, doting, affectionate (tints the purple a bit more pink around ppl he genuinely loves buuut gets really bright when feeling Extra Affectionate)
Blue – sad, sullen (darker means feeling worse)
Red – angry, outraged (brighter means angrier)
Yellow – excited, energetic (different from happy – brighter means more energized)
Dark green – jealous, bitter, resentful
Bright green – disgusted, grossed out,
Pinkish-red – embarrassed, flustered, nervous,
Blue-green – apologetic, guilty
Neon/cyan blue – Frightened, panicking, scared
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For the Duckpaw/Perse + alters
Hey yall as u kno duckpaw/perse has DID so I,, finally made art of her alters anyways let’s go
WC name | Human Name | Info | <b>How to tell if WC form is fronting</b> | <i>How to tell if Human form is fronting</i> |
 Mudpuddle | Mariana | She/Her. She’s the essential “caretaker” of the system. Makes sure the body isn’t damaged beyond repair and will take care of the body after Duck/Perse has had a bad episode. | <b>She constantly grooms her fur so it curls upwards slightly rather than Duckpaw’s straightforward style. Speaks in a soft, low tone.</b> | <I>Curls her hair w/ a curler. Wears blouses, dress pants, boots.</i> |
Patches | Dudley | They/Them. Tends to stick up more. Will front when Duck/Perse is being pressured to do shit she doesn’t like and/or recalling blocked out memories. Irritable, snarky, snide. Tends to be rather smug and a know-it-all. Yells @ ppl who pisses them off. | <b>Doesn’t groom as much as Duck or Mudpuddle, so fur kinda sinks down ish. Not really too far but. Still spiky like Duck’s. Cranky, loud. Will typically let u kno they’re fronting</b> | <i>Wears suits and ties, or dress shirts and pants. Wears hair up in a bun.</i>
Bugs | Bud | He/Him. Prefers to isolate himself, distances himself away from friends and shit. Doesn’t interact much unless necessary. Sleeps a lot and eats a lot. | <b>Will run off from camp and hide out in territory. Doesn’t groom, collects dirt in fur. Doesn’t really talk around others either.</b> | <i>Won’t change out of pajamas, doesn’t brush or wash hair, locks himself in the room.</i>
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That ross/perse picture
Oooohhh boy lemme dive into the history of human au ross + Persephone real quick uh
<b>Trigger warnings: Physical abuse, sexual abuse, mental/emotional abuse, psychological trauma, death, pedophilia</b>
Ross had 4 other siblings and he was the youngest – his mother died after giving birth to him, so he always kinda carried around this guilt that he was the reason his mom was dead. His dad always kinda was distant/didn’t spoil him as much as the others, but he still cared for ross and shit. When ross was about 10 or so he was driving with his siblings while he talked 2 ronnie on the phone. Another car kinda rammed into them and they got in a pretty bad car wreck which Ronnie heard over the phone so he called ross’ family and shit. Reyes and hollyanne and his dad all came and a couple of ross’ siblings died on scene; he was hospitalized with one other sibling. He had a broken arm and a couple fractured ribs, bruising and lacerations but he was alive – his sibling was in a coma and didn’t come out.
Ross’ dad was kinda resentful bc he lost all of his kids besides ross and he already kinda resented ross for taking away his wife so he like. flat out ignored ross, didn’t talk to him, didn’t really do anything. Hollyanne started picking ross up to and from school bc he started missing bc his dad wouldn’t drive him. Eventually ross and his dad moved in w hollyanne and reyes (and then addar and Persephone came along). ross’ dad started saying some nasty comments over a period of a year or two that started to bring ross’ waaaayyyy down so ross turned to another guy (said guy was 18, ross was 13-14) who flattered him and told him nice shit. This guy took advantage of ross + ross’ insecurities and slept with ross more than once (despite ross saying he wasn’t comfortable the first few times)
The family caught ross + the guy in his room one night and hollyanne/reyes were pissed @ the guy bc this dude is 18,,preying on a 14 y/o so they kicked the dude out (they started filing for charges/restraining order after) but ross’ dad was pissed @ ross bc this wasn’t “right” (ross’ dad was a firm believer in abstinence and also this is an adult with a child and ross’ dad kinda blamed ross for not realizing what was happening was bad) so ross’ dad’s belittling started getting worse and worse afterwards and one day ross kinda said something back and ross’ dad hit him over the face and hollyanne/reyes were like “alright you have to go like right fucking now” so they kicked ross’ dad out and he left w/out looking back and ross hasn’t spoken to him in a while
Ross is now a bitter dude who thinks his only value in life is sex/sexual purpose and he doesn’t believe he can amount to anything good so instead of risking shit (like failing grades or job interviews or whatever) he bribes ppl 2 either do shit for him or give him shit (take a wild guess abt how the briberies work)
 Persephone has like 98% of her memories from her childhood blocked. Her mother died a little bit after her first birthday and no one knew who her dad was so she went into care under her uncle and her uncle was,, kinda poor so he had a bunch of friends/family he lived with. Persephone saw a lot of death growing up (people overdosed on drugs, sickness related, people got shot) and that kinda stuck with her through her life so she has a phobia of death stimming from that. Also some of her uncle’s friends started getting uh, handsy with her and touching her and shit so that has ,, stuck with her. She’s blocked out the memories but if she tries to recall them she’ll have a bad mental reaction. Eventually she managed to book it during the middle of another move (the family moved around a lot) and she kinda wandered the streets for a few days until hollyanne/reyes spotted her and took her in. eventually after a little bit of living w them she came out as a trans girl so now holly and reyes r helping her with her transition n shit. Also they got her professionally diagnosed
When she was in like 7th grade ross had brought home some dude he worked with on a science project. The guy was a senior but took some lower classes and shit,, also he’s addar. Anyways addar was always rlly friendly w Persephone and gave her a lot of brotherly attention and holly was eventually like “Hey do u mind babysitting ross and perse while reyes and I go out and do some errands” and addar was like “sure!!!” eventually they all got super close and addar moved in(?) so now theyre all one big happy family :”)
 Uh characters mentioned belong 2: :devberryboats: :devbabysiut: :devppurble:
((pls don’t read this if the triggers will cause bad shit just lemme kno what u wanna hear abt the history ill give u an abridged version of where ur charas r involved))
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