#javelin studies

[javelinbk]

Paul McCartney doesn’t stroke hands with guys: a study

[tosahobi-if]

Back muscles you say? I think it’s very important for…. Science. To share this. (If you don’t mind)

JSAJFSJ I FEEL LIKE I JUST ACTIVATED SLEEPER AGENTS (i'll probably share them when i feel a little more confident about my anatomy! i'm still learning right now hehe)

[manicali]

On one hand: AHHHHHHJH ITS FUCKING OCTOBER FUCKERS ITS SPOOKY SEASON BITCHESSSSS

Ont the other i have a test I will fail in four days please kindly stab me with a javelin until i wiggle on the ground and die like a trout

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

AMC AMX-4, 1967. A 4-door version of the American Motors eXperimental concept that was effectively a fastback saloon version of the first generation Javelin. It never made it beyond a fibreglass prototype

[omarwolaeth]

Best not overuse cursed items

[sophswritingthings]

PART 9 🫠🫠🫠

So you know how Mizu went to assassinate that one girl and when coming back from the successful kill that some random kid she decided to trust actually snitched on her?? (Cant trust kids for shit anymore 😔😔), well i had an idea for reader and her to fight off the army like the badass couple they are.

So when the army comes around and says their grand plan and how they are gonna wreck shit up. Mizu ofc tells Ringo to bring everyone down to the cellar to keep them safe and shit, including reader of course because reader is just a magnet for trouble atp but Reader says “absolutely not” and goes to help her wife. Since she’s an Ex-Shinobi she definitely knows how to sneak around and be stealthy so she readies herself and even makes makeshift weapons like a rope javelin and smoke screens.

So when Mizu is out struggling with her wound, reader is out killing the rest of the other stupid men because she still has anger nestled in her from her Frenemy encounter. Some of the men even recognize her to be daughter of the infamous Shinobi “black death” (or smth idk, making this part while doing trigonometry homework 😓😓). And reader just doesn’t respond and kills them heartlessly. And then she helps Mizu and they fight together with such precision it’s beautiful.

At the end of the fight, The guards who were looking for akemi found her ofc and Reader wanted help even if Akemi was threatening to kill Mizu but Mizu just stops Reader and reader is like “☹️ i wanted to help her though.” (Best i can come up with while studying and doing homework 😭😭)

pairing: mizu x fem!apothecary!reader

warning(s): heavy blood, injury, swearing

a/n: really can’t trust them little bastards anymore 😞 and not the trigonometry homework 😭 I pray for you bestie

summary: after returning from your little encounter; you find a child snitched on mizu for doing her work. the thousand claw army shows up; and you and your wife are ready to fuck shit up.

word count: 1,225 words / 6,751 characters

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

bang—ban—ba—b—

your eyes flash up to the door, suddenly snapped out of your anger. 

mizu slowly gets to her feet, sliding her hat back on her head. you follow close behind—you promised never to leave your wife’s side, and you wouldn’t.

you step outside the brothel, the workers pooling outside behind you.

your eyes widen, recoiling back when you saw the thousand claw army; a young boy nestled at their side. 

mizu looked absolutely pissed when she saw the boy. 

oh, god. what now?

you turn your attention to the man, held by his hair. 

slash.

blood tricked down his throat, practically gushing onto the floor as his eyes rolled back and body went limp.

you’d seen so much death you didn’t even flinch.

mizu, promptly, threw off her overcoat, hat and glasses.

she didn’t give a shit who saw, right now; they’d all be dead soon, anyway.

“ringo,” mizu narrowed her eyes, placing an arm out protectively. “get them all downstairs.” she said in a hushed voice, ushering everyone inside as she boarded up the door. “keep them there and stand guard, don’t leave, you hear me? unless I say so you stay down there.”

everyone began being ushered downstairs, you stay still, holding your ground.

“you too,” she hissed, looking up up and down for a moment.

“oh, no.” you place a hand on her arm, “we are in this together; always have been. I know what I’m doing—two is better than one fighting a whole army, isn’t it?”

she narrows her eyes further, letting her eyebrows furrow being sighing.

“do as I say,” she whispers, “stay in the dark and stay out of sight. strike only when a few are around; never take on a whole group at once.”

you nod, squeezing her hand.

“we’ve got this, don’t worry.” 

you smile. you seemed so sure; it soothed her worries that something would happen to you—if only a little.

you slink into the darkness, pressed up against the wall. your wife is on the other side; glancing down the hall every so often. you have three kunai's in between your fingertips, and a small javelin type weapon in your other hand.

the thundering footsteps of the thousand claw army storm past you, never even stopping to look for you. after they separated, a little, mizu glanced at you—she gestured you forward.

you tossed one of the kunai's at the back of one of the men's throat; piercing through with a sharp “plunk” sound.

you took the next man, slipping past him as he attempted to swing it you—your small size coming in handy. you dash under his arm, grabbing his bicep and slashing the javelin across his throat with precision.

you may have been covered in blood, but you had plenty of pent up anger from your earlier encounter. the adrenaline of fighting was pumping through your body; you weren’t sure how long it'd been since you fought.

mizu grabbed your hand, pulling you along to the next area. you slunk into the darkness, peering around to see three more men come into your vicinity.

mizu slashed her sword across his waist, chopping one in half. you took on a different one; tossing your kunai's and pinning him to the wall with puncture wounds in his chest and legs.

you pulled them all out; smirking as he fell to the ground lifeless.

you tossed one of your kunai's to your wife, who caught it quickly—stabbing it through the warriors chest. it was laced with poison, so if the would didn’t kill him, the vile certainly would.

mizu groaned, scooting up against the wall—tucked away into a skinny hall. 

you're heart dropped—

—she was holding her stomach. four stab wounds from the claws punctured her skin.

you rush to her side, sliding onto your knees. you place pressure on her wound, slipping some bandages out of your kimono. you had no herbs or poultice right now; but as long as mizu didn’t bleed out, you'd be fine.

you leapt to your feet, leaving her to breathing heavy and struggling with her wound.

five men surrounded you.

you'd watched mizu handle the same situation with beautiful precision.

you could try.

you grabbed one of their arms, as they reared up to claw you with those metal claws of theirs—you sweat your foot under their feet, knocking them to the floor as you punctured his chest with your makeshift javelin. 

you tugged it out of his chest, turning around and slashing another’s throat—you tossed your poisoned kunai's at two others, stabbing their heads and knocking them to the floor.

you kicked the last one to the floor, digging your heal into his stomach.

you tossed the javelin down at him, letting out a scream before going limp.

“how many,” you huff, gazing at mizu, who was looking at you with almost lovesick sparkling eyes. “more?”

“plenty more..” she tried to get up, groaning as she fell back to the ground.

“careful..” you hiss, eyes narrowed. you wiped a dash of blood from your face.

“I’ll be fine,” she heaved herself to her feet, latching around you as you made your way outside. she had her weapon in one hand, your hand in her other.

you gazed at the hundreds of soldiers.

just you and your wife… fighting all them off.

seemed reasonable enough.

you hopped into battle, the two of you having each other’s backs the entire time. mizu, every so often, would pass you her weapon—and in turn you'd pass a few of your kunai's.

it was like a wedding dance; at least, your version of it, since you never had one.

you're breathing was heavy—and your entire body was soaked in blood, as was mizu’s. some of it was hers, most of it… wasn’t.

she reached out for your hand. she placed a tender kiss on top of it;

“thank you, my love. but please… never offer to fight with me again.”

her words make you giggle, placing a kiss to her cheek.

“whenever you need help, my darling, I will offer it—over and over again even if it gets me killed every time, in every universe,” you smile softly.

“mizu!”

“master!”

the two calls sound from the brothel doors, akemi and ringo, both covered in dashes off blood—come running out.

guards. warriors. more of them.

your head whips to the side; your eye widening as more guards approach. though they don’t seem violet, your hand stands readied in case they chose to be.

“we are here to collect princess akemi of kyoto,” they announced, gazing at akemi.

“no,” akemi hissed. “you won’t let them take me. right, mizu?”

mizu gazed into her eyes for a moment. she sighed, adverting her gaze.

“take her,” mizu hissed.

“what?!” 

akemi exclaimed, her voice hollering out mizu's name as she was lifted and taken away by the guards.

her screams hurt your heart, covering your ears so you didn’t have to hear them.

when it died off; you gazed at your wife.

“we should have helped her,” you murmur. “I wanted to help her.”

“we can’t help everyone we come across,” mizu settles down on the curb of the street. “she would only weigh us down; we don’t need the bounty of some stollen princess on our shoulders.”

you advert your gaze, “I suppose we do not.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[adrift-in-thyme]

I worked on the fic as promised and…it got out of hand. So instead of a snippet I’ll just give you guys the whole thing XD Thank you all for providing that extra nudge I needed to finish it!

Though there’s nothing too descriptive here, there are brief mentions of blood, injury, and captivity. So be careful and take care of yourselves <3

————————————————————-

There is another fae in their group.

Hyrule has sensed it since he joined this little band of heroes. Fairy magic is soft, gentle, easy to miss when it is not in concentrated amounts. But there is a strength to it, an unbreakable force that little else possesses.

While the dark arts are vicious, like a javelin through the heart, fairy magic is soothing and unshatterable. Dependable and comforting.

There are many different magical signatures amongst the men and boys who share his name. Some torn apart and melded back together into something stronger. Others as mighty as a gale force wind, or as swift and discerning as a rabbit, as decisive and resilient as a barricade. Still others as fierce as a soaring hawk, as vicious and protective as the wolves that prowl the forest, as crafty and quick as the mischievous foxes that sometimes play around Hyrule’s feet.

Hyrule keeps his eye on them all as they travel, discovering who they are, watching their tells, learning the ways their faces portray their emotions even when they attempt to cloak them. And he wonders who amongst them is a brother in more ways than shared spirit. Who among them flits on a pair of silken wings.

He wonders until the day Time breaks.

Their journey is a long, arduous one, treacherous and laden with pitfalls. It’s only natural that it would take its toll. Still, Time holds out impressively. Even while he studies him with the other heroes, Hyrule never sees that mask of his slip, never sees a chink in the armor he wears.

At least, not for the first three months of traveling together.

But then, one day, there is an accident. A simple slip up born of exhaustion. During a battle with a group of black-blooded beasts in Twilight’s Hyrule, Warriors doesn’t see a monster lunging for him. Not until it’s too late.

And when he crumples into a limp, bloodied heap, Time’s mask shatters.

He doesn’t manage to piece it back together for the rest of the day. Not when he carries Warriors back to camp. Not when he lays the captain down on his bed mat and helps Hyrule tend to him. Not even when Warriors comes to, groggy and sore but very much alive and very much himself.

The captain teases him about being over protective. Time’s answering smile is a hollow one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

The injury had been a severe one, Hyrule won’t deny that — perhaps, more so than any of them have endured thus far. But Time seems to take it the hardest of any of them. And Hyrule can’t help wondering if maybe, just maybe there is something more behind his behavior.

Could it be that Time has been feeling the overwhelming nature of this quest the same as the rest of them, caving beneath its weight but unwilling to show it?

So, during dinner that night when Time sets aside his untouched food and slips silently away, Hyrule trails after him.

He goes a short way into the surrounding forest, footsteps soft, ears pricked for any sound of disturbance. Then, he stops, casts a quick glance around him…and disappears.

Hyrule peeks out from the cover of a nearby bush, eyes wide as he stares at the place where the old man had stood. For a long moment, he remains motionless, thoughts whirring, trying to decipher what has just happened.

Hero of Hyrule or not, people don’t simply dissipate like the morning mist. Though, with Time’s seemingly endless collection of masks, he supposes something of the sort is possible. Still…

Hyrule frowns.

There is something else here, hovering in the damp night air. A familiar magic that now drifts lazily over to him in delicate wisps.

Hyrule straightens. His brows dip further.

He knows what Time’s magic looks like, smells like, feels like. It is difficult to ignore, after all, tangled and tortured as it is. Such power is meant to flow freely. But Time’s has been grasped in hands that are not his own, grasped and mangled, suffocated, stretched to its breaking point and further, morphed into something completely unlike what it must have been at the start.

It is nauseating to behold at times. Right now, however, right now Hyrule can’t bring himself to look away. Because threaded in between the heartbreak and pain are gentle strands of the faintest blue fae magic.

The traveler steps forward. His eyes travel over the trail Time’s power has left behind, leading all the way up into the highest branches of a nearby oak. If he squints, he can make out a tiny dot among the lush leaves, shimmering emerald.

His lips part in a silent “oh.” He dares to take another step forward, then another and another, wings issuing from his back as he goes, body shrinking until it too can soar up to the haven of foliage.

Time doesn’t startle when he lands quietly on the branch. He remains sitting where he is, legs hanging over the edge into the open air, wings wafting gracefully back and forth. Hyrule stares at them, almost taken aback by their beauty.

He should have expected it, he supposes. Every fairy’s pride is their wings, after all. But Time’s unforgiving plates of armor, his dull gray tunic and obsidian trousers, the glowing marks of crimson and navy blue adorning his face – they provide such a severe air. Strength, dedication to duty, and unyielding courage are what they convey.

His wings, however, they speak of softer things, fragile things held close and treasured.

They are long, sweeping along the height of Time’s body in flowing curves like those of a butterfly. Their translucent surface is colored a deep emerald and adorned with veins of pale pink. They remind Hyrule of the vibrancy of the forest after a long, hard storm; of the look of leaves when the emerging sun caresses their dewy surfaces.

He walks closer, almost enraptured by this sight. Perhaps, he should turn away from something so vulnerable. That is likely the polite thing to do. But he has traveled far beyond politeness now, mesmerized as he is by this discovery.

And when Time says, “Hello, Hyrule,” there is nothing in his tone to communicate that this is an invasion of his privacy. On the contrary, he sounds calm, unbothered. He pats the spot beside him and slowly, Hyrule settles down upon it. Their wings nearly touch.

“So, it’s you,” he says, awkward and awestruck.

A small smile quirks the old man’s lips. His gaze remains trained on the heroes gathered far, far below them. Their laughter and chatter float up to them in bubbles of murmured joy.

“Yes, it’s me,” he says, mildly, as though this meeting is no shock. As though he has been expecting it for a long while.

Silence settles for a moment as Hyrule scrambles for what else to say.

“How?” Is all he can come up with.

Time chuckles. Hyrule is certain the sound is lighter than usual.

“I’m not sure.” He cocks his head, bangs falling aside so Hyrule can see his markings. “I have theories, of course, but I have no way to prove any of them. And those who might have been able to explain are long gone.”

His voice is good-natured enough but the words carry a weight that Hyrule can feel in his soul. He ducks his head.

“I’m sorry.”

Time shrugs. “Their fates were not your doing. There is no need for you to ache for them. Or for me.” He turns now, a smile brightening his face once more. “What about you, Hyrule? What is the nature of your transformation? Were you born with it?”

“Oh, it’s just a spell,” Hyrule replies, quickly. “Though, I’ve wondered if I was born with fae blood in me. I don’t think it would’ve worked otherwise.”

Time hums, thoughtfully. He is quiet for a moment, once more staring down at their comrades.

“I wondered why I felt the presence of one of my brethren amongst the group. But it wasn’t my place to pry. Besides, I assumed it was only a matter of time before I discovered who it was. Secrets don’t stay concealed for long in a group such as ours.” He grins. “It seems you found me first, however.”

Hyrule laughs. “It sure seems that way.”

“That isn’t why you followed me though, is it?” The old man’s gaze is sharp and discerning as he pins Hyrule with it. The traveler fights not to sink into himself beneath it.

“No.” His voice is a bit smaller than he wants it to be, embarrassment sneaking into it against his will. “It isn’t.”

Time nods and looks away again. Stance relaxed, expression guarded, he waits. Hyrule swallows, gathers his courage, and continues.

“I saw how upset you were about Wars.”

Time flinches almost imperceptibly. The walls that had gone relatively low rise again so far Hyrule is taken aback by it. Yet, he plows on anyway.

If anything, Time’s reaction validates his decision further.

“And…I saw how you tried to hide it, too. And I wanted to make sure you were okay. Because you don’t, old man, you don’t have to hide what you feel.” His gaze travels to those magnificent wings again, grander than his own, yet so similar. “Or what you are.”

“It’s dangerous,” Time murmurs. “You know that, traveler.”

Perhaps, he is talking solely about feelings and the open expression of them. But Hyrule sees a bottle anyway, brimming with desperate magic, translucent sides smeared with blood and tears, it’s top shut so tightly the air has grown thin.

“Not with us,” he says, firm despite the dizzying rush of fear the memories bring. “Not with me.”

He scoots closer. His shoulder bumps against Time’s, their wings brush. Time’s next exhale catches at the end.

To anyone else such proximity would be touching enough, a display of closeness between two brothers in arms and spirit. But Hyrule knows that to fae it means even more than that.

Wings are not only the pride of the fairy people. They are also their greatest power — and their very life. To allow someone else to touch your wings so freely is a show of trust as momentous as when Time had shown them his ocarina. Not the one embued with sacred magic and given to him by Lullaby. No, the one that is even more precious to him that even that one. The one Sariah had given him so very, very, (very, very, Hyrule adds for good measure) long ago.

The stiffness that had seeped into Time’s posture eases slightly. Hyrule feels a smile stretch across his face.

The two of them grow silent, allowing the symphony of night creatures to fill the space between them. Hyrule swings his legs, back and forth, back and forth, listening to the crickets and owls singing in time with the laughter of his brothers. Time still looks down upon them.

Watching over them, Hyrule realizes with a sudden burst of warmth.

Their leader can seem cold sometimes, distant. Little had he known the depths of his love for the heroes with whom he shared a spirit of courage.

There is much, he thinks in wonder, that he doesn’t know about the old man.

Beside him, Time sighs and exhaustion permeates it. “You all aren’t going to give up on me, are you?”

Hyrule sends him a grin. “Nope. We’re not gonna stop until we know all your secrets. All of them. And we’ll know because you’re comfortable enough with us enough to share them, because we’ve earned your trust enough to be gifted them.”

Emotion burns in Time’s eye when he turns to the traveler. His face is more vulnerable than Hyrule has ever seen it before — even when Warriors fell.

“My trust isn’t easy to earn.”

“And Hyrule isn’t easy to save.”

Time holds his gaze for a long moment. Then, he smiles. It is small, almost shy, but Hyrule knows it is a gift. The first of many, if he’s lucky.

“Well, then, I suppose you’re amply prepared for such a challenge.”

Hyrule leans in closer, pride welling within him when Time returns the gesture, and his grin grows.

Yeah. He thinks, watching with wide eyes as fairy dust floats around them. I am.

We all are.

[whencyclopedia]

Gymnasium

The Gymnasium was a Greek building originally used for athletic activities but which came, over time, to be used also as a place of study and philosophical discussion. In the Hellenistic Period, gymnasia became highly standardized both in architecture and function and continued their important role in a young male's physical and general education. They became a common feature across the Greek world and were adopted and adapted by the later Romans, eventually evolving into the huge multi-purpose complex that was the Roman baths.

Origins of the Gymnasium

The name gymnasium (gymnasion) derives from the Greek word for nudity (gymnos) as all exercise and sports were done by the male only members in the nude. The earliest recorded examples of gymnasia date to the 6th century BCE and were simple affairs consisting of an area of packed earth shaded by trees located somewhere close to a river or spring. They were especially common at sanctuary sites such as Delphi, Olympia, and Nemea.

The gymnasium may have evolved from the necessity for a dedicated space where young Greek men (ephebeia) could train and improve their fitness to make them ready for warfare. In battle they would fight as hoplites and so have to wear heavy bronze armour and carry a large bronze shield. Another view is that gymnasia were reserved only for the aristocracy and so came to be a place where men could demonstrate their physical, as well as their social, superiority to the lower, agricultural class.

The typical sports practised were wrestling, running, boxing, jumping, discus, and gymnastics. Many would have been accompanied by rhythmic music. Sports useful for warfare included archery, javelin, armed combat, and using catapults. Sports were supervised by a trainer or paidotribe, perhaps an older athlete who had gained experience at the great Games of Greece. An aleiptes was responsible for oiling and massaging members. Each year a competition might be held too, the Hermaia, where members of the gymnasium participated in a torch race and competed in three categories of events: vigor (euexia), discipline (eutaxia), and endurance (philoponia).

Continue reading...

[lucky-clover-gazette]

kings rising highlights & annotations

chapter 9

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

The next morning, they had to sit next to each other.

me when i’m a high school junior and had a huge falling out with my best friend who i’m totally not in love with last night but we still have to coexist in ap english class

The joint thrones today were under a silk awning, raised to protect Laurent’s milkmaid skin from the sun.

BRUTAL

Lady Vannes murmuring into the ear of a new female pet

oooooh what happened to the old one? drama alert!!

A part of Damen acknowledged, a little guiltily, that Laurent probably hadn’t deserved to get thrown around the training arena as a result.

laurent would disagree

Nikandros said, without looking next to him, ‘Your uncle has wiped out half of our army with two hundred men.’ ‘And a belt,’ said Laurent.

nikandros private twitter vent #11. incoherent violent stick figure jpegs

Damen said, ‘At least someone else has a chance to win at javelin.’

i understand that people like sports and it’s a fun thing to add to a pretty serious story but i am the buzzkill here and ugh. sports

In the stands, slaves rhythmically raised and lowered fans and brought shallow cups of wine that everyone drank except Laurent.

me getting ginger beer at the bar yesterday while the dude i was with drank an espresso martini and two whiskeys

He came forward naked, as was the custom in Akielos.

i feel like violent dangerous sports are a really good occasion to wear MORE clothing, but go off i guess

The two men scooped oil from the receptacle brought to them by the stewards, anointed their bodies with it, then they slung their arms around one another’s shoulders, and, on the signal, heaved. The crowd cheered, the men grappled, their bodies straining against each other in slippery hold after slippery hold, until Pallas finally had Elon panting, on the grass, the sounds an eruption from the crowd.

this is like the not-evil twin of the veretian court wrestling

Damen rose from the throne, and put his hand to the gold brooch at his shoulder. His garment dropped and the crowd roared its approval.

you know, damen’s lack of freaking out about some of the indignities of the veretian court make more sense now

‘Good fight,’ he said, taking his place again on the throne beside Laurent. He waved over some wine. ‘What is it?’ ‘Nothing,’ said Laurent, and found somewhere else to put his eyes.

hang in there buddy

‘What can we expect next? I really feel,’ said Vannes, ‘it might be anything.’

i love the slight disdain here

‘Who did this to you?’ ‘I did,’ Laurent said. Damen turned. Laurent stood in the entryway of the tent. He was arranged with elegant grace and his lazy, blue-eyed attention was all on Nikandros. Laurent said, ‘I meant to kill him, but my uncle wouldn’t let me.’ Nikandros took an impotent step forward but Damen already had a restraining hand on his arm. Nikandros’s hand had gone to the hilt of his sword. His eyes were on Laurent furiously. Laurent said, ‘He sucked my cock too.’ Nikandros said, ‘Exalted, I beg permission to challenge the Prince of Vere to a duel of honour for the insult that he has done to you.’ ‘Denied,’ said Damen. ‘You see?’ said Laurent. ‘He has forgiven me for the small matter of the whip. I have forgiven him for the small matter of killing my brother. All praise the alliance.’ ‘You flayed the skin from his back.’ ‘Not personally. I just watched while I had my man do it.’ Laurent said it with a fronded, long-lashed gaze. Nikandros looked physically sick with the effort of repressing his anger. ‘How many lashes was it? Fifty? One hundred? He might have died!’ Laurent said, ‘Yes, that was the idea.’

LAMEN HR COMPLAINT #8

god i FUCKING love this little confrontation. i appreciate how we can start easing into some more comedy with these specific characters, because nobody here is like actively enslaved or abused. they’re all on even footing, so shots can be fired for fun, and can be read as such. the analysis here, in short, is that damen and laurent are both insane about each other and nikandros just has to deal with it. laurent thinks it’s amusing to mess with nikandros, and to a lesser degree damen. and damen tolerates it because he knows laurent behind his performative cruelty, but can’t possibly explain that to nikandros. regardless, laurent has immunity from damen, which means he also has immunity from nikandros.

this is also a good way to show how both damen and laurent have started “settling” the matters of damen killing auguste and laurent punishing him in vere, since the last scene where both subjects were heavily referenced.

Angry as he was, Nikandros wouldn’t disobey a direct order. His training was too deeply ingrained.

i like this subtle moment. damen grew up in the same culture, yet one of his main Things in this series has always been disobeying orders he disagrees with. built different!

‘Why would you do that? He’ll defect.’ ‘He’s not going to defect. He is your most loyal servant.’ ‘So you push him to breaking point?’ ‘Should I have told him I didn’t enjoy it?’ said Laurent. ‘But I did enjoy it. I liked it most near the end, when you broke down.’

laurent calculated and performative cruelty to protect himself from being vulnerable, you know the drill by now

‘You didn’t have to come here. You could have sent a messenger.’ In the pause that followed, Laurent’s gaze shifted involuntarily sideways. A strange prickling passing over his skin, Damen realised that Laurent was looking at the polished mirror behind him at the reflection of his scars. Their eyes met again. Laurent wasn’t often caught out, but a single glance had betrayed him. They both knew it. Damen felt the hard ache of it. ‘Admiring your handiwork?’

damen: i know you came here on purpose to spend time with me alone when you totally didn’t have to laurent: [very obviously checks out damen’s bare back, and not just for the symbolism reasons] damen: you want to look at me so bad (because you have an emotional attachment to the marks and you want to torture us both about it, and also because you think i’m hot. in both cases you’re the desperate one here, i win)

‘I’ll join you after I’ve dressed. Unless you want to step closer. You can help stick in the pin.’ ‘Do it yourself,’ said Laurent.

this sounds like their prince’s gambit-era antagonistic, vaguely horny, reluctantly fond banter. we’re getting somewhere!

The fever pitch of the crowd was bloodthirsty. The okton brought that out in them, the danger, the threat of maiming. The second of two targets was hammered onto its struts, and the attendants gave the all clear. In the heat of the day, anticipation was an insect buzz, rising to a commotion on the south-western side of the field.

this is such a fucking terrible idea you are in a WAR. damen you are going to be KING. why are you risking your life to play a sports right now. it would be like if the person about to cure a disease decided to play a game of bowling with a 80% survival rate right before they finished the vaccine

Damen heard the reaction of those around him. The Veretian Prince was, at a glance, Damen’s athletic inferior. Certainly, he avoided the training fields. No Akielon had ever seen him fight, or take exercise. He had not participated in any of today’s contests. He had done nothing more than sit, elegant and relaxed, as now. ‘Veretians do not train in the okton,’ said Damen. ‘In Akielos, the okton is known as the sport of kings,’ said Makedon. ‘Our own King will take the field. Does the Prince of Vere lack the courage to ride against him?’

makedon wants that twink obliterated

Damen waited for Laurent to sidestep, to evade, to find, somehow, the words to extricate himself from the situation. The flags fluttered loudly. The stands were silent, to a man. ‘Why not?’ said Laurent.

FSIUFHSDIUFHSDF i love laurent so much it’s unreal. this is the same response you’d give if a friend asked if you wanted to get takeout on a thursday night. “yeah, why not?” mr. “probably” laurent strikes again

Mounted, Damen faced the course, holding his horse ready at the starting line. His mount shifted, fractious, eager for the horn that would signal his start. Two horses down from his own, he could see Laurent’s bright head.

their horses who are canonically in love with each other get to do homoerotic sports too!!

But the true challenge of the okton was this: if you missed, your spear might kill your opponent. If your opponent missed, you were dead.

i was going to say “thankfully there are no real-life sports that sacrifice the physical well-being and possibly lives of eager-to-impress youths looking for glory and compensation” but then i remembered american college football exists

Laurent could also throw a spear. Probably.

probably.

But all of that meant nothing in the face of the okton. Men died during the okton. Men fell, men suffered permanent injury—from a spear; from hooves after a fall. Out of the corner of his eye, Damen could see the physicians, including Paschal, who waited on the sidelines, ready to patch and sew. There was a great deal at stake for the lives of the physicians, with royalty from two countries on the field. There was a great deal at stake for everyone.

not beating the american college football allegations

Damen could not aid Laurent in the contest.

he’ll kill one of his own people by throwing a sword across a clearing to save his captor in book 2, but he won’t use his kingly authority to say “hey guys maybe let’s not put both of the army’s leaders, one of whom is the love of my life and also my divorced husband, in the hunger games right now”

There was something intellectual in the way he assessed the field, and it set him apart from the other riders. For Laurent, physical pursuits were not instinctive, and for the first time it occurred to Damen to wonder if Laurent even enjoyed them. Laurent had been bookish as a boy, before he had re-formed himself.

“he should be at the (afterschool dungeons and dragons) club”

Laurent dealt with the danger of the okton by simply behaving as though it did not exist.

that tracks externally, but i also think that inside laurent’s brain he does acknowledge it, he just has a precise threshold of acceptable risk

Instinct reacted before thought. The spear was driving towards his chest; Damen caught it out of the air, his hand closing hard around the shaft, the momentum of it wrenching his shoulder back. He absorbed it, tightening his grip with his thighs to keep himself in the saddle.

this would be even more impressive if it was not the solution to a dangerous situation you ACTIVELY MADE HAPPEN

All his attention was on the other spear, flying towards Laurent. His heart jammed in his throat. On the other side of the course, Pallas was frozen. In that stricken moment of choice, Pallas could only decide whether to dodge and risk his cowardice killing a prince, or stand his ground and receive a spear to the throat. His fate was tied to Laurent’s, and unlike Damen, he had no recourse for what to do. Laurent knew it. Like Damen, Laurent had seen it early—had seen the strut collapse, had judged the outcome. In the handful of extra seconds that this afforded him, Laurent acted without hesitation. He released his reins—and as Damen watched, as the spear flew right for him—he jumped, not out of the way, but into the path of the spear, leaping from his horse to Pallas’s, dragging them both to the left. Pallas swayed, shocked, and Laurent bodily kept him down low in the saddle. The spear sailed past them and landed in the tufted grass like a javelin.

an akielion wouldn’t think to do THAT, would they!!

(also, love the little parallel to prince’s gambit, with damen ripping the grate out of the wall and laurent’s meticulous scheming. here it’s not as much a competition as it is a mutual/cooperative victory, with damen stopping the javelin mid-air and laurent intelligently evading the other one headed towards him)

The crowd went wild. Laurent ignored it. Laurent reached down and neatly filched Pallas’s last spear for himself. And, keeping Pallas’s horse at a gallop—as the sounds of the crowd swelled to a crescendo—he threw it, sending it flying right into the centre of the final target. Completing the okton one spear ahead of Pallas and of Damen, Laurent drew his horse up in a little circle, and met Damen’s gaze, his pale brows rising, as if to say, ‘Well?’ Damen grinned. He hefted the spear he had caught, and from where he was on the far side of the course, threw; let it go sailing over the full, impossible length of the field, to thunk into the target alongside Laurent’s spear, where it rested, quivering. Pandemonium.

they are both That Bitch. perfect for each other, and now everyone knows it (kinda) <3

After, they crowned each other with laurels.

cute

There was a warmth in his chest whenever he looked at Laurent. He didn’t look often for that reason.

Their men would ride out unified, and if there was a crack down the centre, no one knew about it. He and Laurent were good at pretending.

no they’re not. they’re just becoming more entertaining and endearing than annoying and frustrating, so people are more likely to listen to them

Laurent took his place on one of the lounging couches like he was born to it. Damen sat alongside him.

and all was right with the universe

The whole room went silent. Makedon and Laurent faced one another. The silence stretched out. ‘You have the mind of a snake,’ Makedon said. ‘You have the mind of an old bull,’ said Laurent. They stared at one another. After a long moment, Makedon waved at the slave, who came forward with a fat-bellied bottle of Akielon spirits and two shallow cups. ‘I will drink with you,’ said Makedon.

i love this unlikely friendship. laurent is being socialized like a feral kitten

Laurent glanced at the wine that the slave had poured, and Damen knew with absolute certainty that if it was wine, Laurent wasn’t going to drink. Damen braced himself for the moment when every scrap of goodwill that Laurent had garnered for himself was thrown away—as every tenet of Akielon hospitality was insulted, and Makedon swept forever out of the hall. Laurent picked up the cup in front of him, drained it, then returned it to the table. Makedon gave a slow nod of approval, lifted his own cup, downed it. And said, ‘Again.’

extremely loud airhorn goes off SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS

Later, when a great many overturned cups scattered the low table, Makedon leaned forward and told Laurent he must try griva, the drink from his own region, and Laurent downed it and said it tasted like swill, and Makedon said, ‘Ha, ha, true!’ Later, Makedon told the story of his first games, when Ephagin won the okton, and the bannermen grew misty-eyed, and everyone had another drink. Later, everyone roared when Laurent was able to balance three empty cups on top of each other, while Makedon’s cups fell over.

is this just what frat parties are like?

Laurent maintained a scrupulous posture until they were all gone, his eyes dilated, his cheeks slightly flushed. Damen spread his arm over the back of his own seat and waited. After a long moment, Laurent said, ‘I’m going to need some help standing up.’

i love that damen just Waited. he knew. he wanted laurent to admit it. they’re so funny

He wasn’t expecting to receive Laurent’s full weight, but he did, a warm arm slung around his neck, and he was suddenly breathless with the feeling of Laurent in his arms. His hands came up to steady Laurent’s waist, his heart behaving strangely. It was sweetly, impossibly illicit. He felt the ache in his chest. Damen said, ‘The Prince and I are retiring,’ and waved the lingering slaves out. ‘It’s this way,’ said Laurent. ‘Probably.’

‘Is today the first time you’ve been beaten in an okton?’ ‘Technically, it was a draw,’ said Damen. ‘Technically. I told you I was quite good at riding. I used to beat Auguste all the time when we raced at Chastillon. It took me until I was nine to realise he was letting me win. I just thought I had a very fast pony. You’re smiling.’ He was smiling.

drunk laurent happily telling damen about auguste :’) also the “you’re smiling” is so adorable, i love how we’re getting some dorky soft laurent finally. he contains multitudes. this, like, “suddenly aware that he’s being cute and appreciated for it, slightly indignant but also allowing it because it’s damen who thinks he’s cute” thing is wonderful and tbh i hope i can someday allow myself to be like that too :)

‘Am I talking too much? I can’t hold alcohol at all.’ ‘I can see that.’ ‘It’s my fault. I never drink. I should have realised I’d need to, with men like these, and made an effort to . . . build up some sort of tolerance . . .’ He was serious. ‘Is that how your mind works?’ said Damen. ‘And what do you mean, you never drink?

drunk laurent is so funny. and i love how damen is amused, endeared, and absolutely fascinated by the inner workings of this man. me too.

also, it's insane that laurent would ever ask if he's talking too much. taking too much is like his entire thing

side note: this is 100% how i am when i use any kind of mind-altering substances, like a sedative before a root canal. i remember detailing how i felt in my notes app at the time and then reading it later and being both impressed by the determination to remain incoherent and amused by the inserted notes of “why am i laughing” “why is everything funny”

You were drunk the first night I met you.’ ‘I made an exception,’ said Laurent, ‘that night. Two and a half bottles. I had to force myself to get it down. I thought it would be easier drunk.’ ‘You thought what would be easier?’ said Damen. ‘“What”?’ said Laurent. ‘You.’ Damen felt the hairs rise over his whole body. Laurent said it softly, and as though it was obvious, his blue eyes a little hazy, his arm still around Damen’s neck. They were gazing at one another, halted in the half-light of the passage. ‘My Akielon bed slave,’ said Laurent, ‘named for the man who killed my brother.’

“no shit, i got drunk”

It wasn’t unusual for two young men to wander the halls together, swaying, after a revel—even among princes—and Damen could pretend for a moment that they were what they seemed to be: brothers in arms. Friends.

you guys got publicly married-divorced and laurent told an entire army that you fucked each other multiple times. you wear matching arm cuffs. even your horses are in love. be so serious rn

The guards on either side of the entrance were too well trained to react to the presence of royalty leaning all over each other.

They Pretend They Do Not See It (not an HR complain bc they’re not really bothering anyone or breaking rules)

‘No one is to enter,’ Damen ordered the guards. He was aware of the implication—Damianos entering a bedchamber with a young man in his arms and ordering everyone out—and he ignored it. If Isander suddenly had a startling reason why the frigid Prince of Vere had foregone his services, so be it.

oh nooooo what a shame if isander backed off from your man, what an unintended and unfortunate consequence, oh nooooooo

Laurent, intensely private, would not want his household present while he dealt with the effects of a night’s worth of drinking.

just got a vision of laurent as heather chandler in the hangover/death scene. wearing that cunty little robe and talking shit

Laurent was going to wake with a blinding headache fuelling his corrosive tongue, and pity anyone who ran into him then. As for Damen, he was going to give Laurent a push in the small of his back and send him staggering the four steps to the bed. Damen unlooped Laurent’s arm from his neck, disengaged himself. Laurent took a step under his own power, and lifted a hand to his jacket, blinking. ‘Attend me,’ Laurent said, unthinkingly. ‘For old time’s sake?’ said Damen. It was a mistake to say that. He stepped forward and put his hands on the ties of Laurent’s jacket. He began to draw the ties from their moorings. He felt the curve of Laurent’s ribcage as the tie threaded through its eye. The jacket tangled at Laurent’s wrist. It took some effort to get it off, disordering Laurent’s shirt. Damen stopped, his hands still inside the jacket.

:)

Under the fine fabric of Laurent’s shirt, Paschal had bound Laurent’s shoulder to strengthen it. He saw it with a pang. It was something Laurent would not have let him see sober, a keen breach of privacy. He thought of sixteen spears thrown, with a constant effort of arm and shoulder, after rough exertion the day before.

fuck, that’s right. damn laurent

Damen took a step back, said: ‘Now you can say you were served by the King of Akielos.’ ‘I could say that anyway.’

he may be white girl wasted but he’s still our laurent

Lamp-lit, the room was filled with orange light, revealing its simple furnishings, the low chairs, the wall table with its bowl of fresh-picked fruit.

this time, the fruit basket guy just showed the kitchen staff a bunch of ao3 fics tagged “in vino veritas” and told them to make it work

Laurent was a different presence in his white undershirt.

makes him sound like a cryptid. blonde man jumpscare

They were gazing at each other.

we know.

‘I miss you,’ said Laurent. ‘I miss our conversations.’

he would not have admitted this under torture

(also, i really like how he misses their conversations first and foremost. laurent really does love damen for his mind and heart, more than anything else. damen is the same, but he's a lot more vocally into the other parts of laurent too)

It was too much. He remembered being strapped to the post and half killed; sober, Laurent had made the line very clear, and he was aware that he had crossed it, they both had.

damen is still afraid to potentially take advantage of laurent, especially because of what happened the first time laurent interpreted his advances in such a light (ow)

‘You’re drunk,’ said Damen. ‘You’re not yourself.’ He said, ‘I should take you to bed.’ ‘Then, take me,’ said Laurent.

Laurent lay where Damen put him, on his back in a half-open shirt, his hair tumbled, his expression unguarded. His knee was pushed out to the side, his breathing was slow as one in sleep, the thin fabric of his shirt lay against his skin, rising and falling with it. ‘You don’t like me like this?’

first thing, good for him. second thing, not good for him, because trauma, and the fact that he sees himself as a sexual object (i went a lot more into this during the chapter 7 re-analysis)

‘You’re really . . . not yourself.’ ‘Aren’t I?’

i do think damen means this as a “you could punish me for taking advantage,” but i also think there is the fact that damen doesn’t want a version of laurent who isn’t in his right mind (like slaves, who aren’t given the ability to have minds of their own). this calls back to the whole “you like it simple” thing in chapter 7, and it’s pretty satisfying to see damen prove laurent wrong!

‘I tried to kill you. I can’t seem to go through with it. You keep overturning all my plans.’

said with hearts in his eyes <3

Damen found a water pitcher and poured water into a shallow cup that he brought to the low table by Laurent’s bed. Then he emptied the fruit bowl of fruit and put it on the floor alongside, to be used as a drunk soldier might use an empty helmet.

THEY WORKED HARD ON THAT THEMATICALLY RELEVANT FRUIT BASKET >:( although perhaps this is its true thematic relevance? a means of damen helping laurent care for himself in recovery?

‘Laurent. Sleep it off. In the morning, you can punish us both. Or forget this ever happened. Or pretend to.’ He did all of this quite adeptly,

at least he’s getting more self-aware about his own blind spots, or at least his ability to have them

Laurent, falling through scattered thoughts into sleep, said, ‘Yes, uncle.’

i think this line honestly might have been a step too far. not necessarily because it’s a bad thing for laurent to say, i get that it makes sense for him to associate this kind of vulnerability with [redacted], and it’s even possible that laurent doesn’t drink now because the regent got him drunk before he [redacted].

why i think it miiiiiiight not work, is the fact that damen doesn’t oh fuck wait i JUST made note of a line where damen acknowledges how he can “quite adeptly” ignore things, literally a few sentences ago. i can’t even say he would have noticed, or made note of it, because that is his character. and the irony is like right there on the page. it’s frustrating to read, but it’s an intentional choice. well played as usual!

[aquatint-101]

Modern AU careers for the Gaang

Aang: elementary school teacher and stay-at-home dad when his kids are growing up. He makes for a splendid househusband for Katara when he doesn't have the weight of the world on his shoulders. Katara: lawyer who runs a legal clinic and an outspoken activist. She was studying for medicine, but she pulled an Elle Woods when Sokka told her she was too "girly" for Harvard Law. Zuko: kind of specific but he drops out of Wharton to become a firefighter, and I'm undecided on whether it's during his bachelor's or MBA. (He also totally did DECA as a high school student but never got past state level). Sokka: engineer who went to a huge college (MIT or Caltech) when nobody expected him to. He's either a civil engineer or an aeronautical engineer. Toph: blind martial artist is the most obvious one, but I raise you: concert pianist. The former is more in character but the latter just cracks me up because the best pianist I know is blind. Suki: Olympic-level athlete in a solo sport measured on performance. So she'd be into running, pole vault, javelin, something along those lines. I think running is the most likely. Sokka is her biggest fan. Bonus: Mai: goes to the same college as Zuko for cybersecurity/informatics, but drops out at the same time as him. She works a day job as a florist and does freelance work as a white collar hacker. Ty Lee: an actual circus performer in the Cirque du Soleil. All her sisters are either doctors, lawyers, or engineers. Azula: has a high position in whatever business Ozai is running and is poised to be his heir. Post-redemption starts one of the most bougie but affordable bakeries in the world.

[professionalranter31]

I have more general headcannons for the Overwatch heroes

Bastion has yet to really figure out their gender, they identify as he/him currently because of their relationship with Torbjorn but they are still discovering parts about who they are

Bob used to have a voice but Ashe’s parents had it removed when Ashe started to treat Bob as her parent instead of them, it had the opposite effect that they had intended. Ashe is determined to find a copy of Bob’s voice so he can tell her his stories again and talk to her while he makes meals and hum to her when she just needs a hug

When Efi began to create Orisa’s Javelin update she let Orisa pick out her own hairstyle, there are several hair styles stored away because Orisa went slightly overboard with picking one out, Efi is currently debating getting into selling hair styles to Omnics she’s made so many that she’s become that good

Brigitte had a habit growing up of trying to make mech suits for various animals, from a jet pack mech for a cat to a flying suit for a squirrel, Torbjorn already warned Bastion that she may try to do this with Ganymede, but he also knows that Reinhardt encourages the behavior

Widowmaker’s brainwashing did not simply affect her current emotions, the way that the brainwashers ensured it worked was that they altered her memories of her past emotions so that she felt like she was faking them instead of actually feeling them. Once that process was done then they implanted that she only feels real emotions when she kills someone and implanted the urge to kill Gerard. It also has to be stated that barely anyone knows that she is actually brainwashed, the only people who do are those that brainwashed her, some of them are dead, and Doomfist. So most people thinks this is the real Amelie instead of the fake. Angela and a few others just thinks she suffered a psychotic breakdown

Ana has a small holo disk that holds articles about all of Fareeha’s achievements, from her promotions to her completed missions, everything. Fareeha does not know about this

Ramattra has been analyzing certain individuals in order to create generals for Null Sector, or at the very least super soldiers (this is in reference to the Null Sector skins some heroes have, I want all of them to be canon to the lore)

Sombra hates hacking Omnics, the first time she tried it felt so wrong that she ended up getting sick. The issue that arises is that with manipulations there is always some sort of choice, no matter how much of an illusion one may be, but hacking an Omnic takes away all choice, and Sombra hates that because it makes her feel like the people she’s hunting down to uncover the conspiracy. She was sick for several days after she hacked several Omnics in Numbani for Doomfist

D.Va is a really good at making meals, and I mean like from scratch, it was something she learned to do when first entering the streaming scene because she didn’t want to become reliant on cup noodles and snacks for sustenance, which is ironic because she absolutely sucks at cooking games, which is made further ironic because Tracer, who can’t make a meal to save her life is amazing at cooking games

Doomfist’s philosophy was born when he lost his arm, he cried out for help but no one came even though he could see that people heard him, but no effort was made to save him. He had to force himself out of the rubble pinning him down, and forcefully tearing his trapped arm off to get out. That is when his philosophy first began to develop

Lifeweaver is constantly studying plants to try and find new effects he could create with his biolight that could help people, but the first plants he researched after he left Vishkar were some of Satya’s favorites. She had a small garden that she would trim and keep from overgrowing, with a bonsai tree to round it all together. The first plants he designed and created after leaving Vishkar and joining the Arcology were from that garden, he keeps a replica in his room to remember his best friend

[javelinbk]

Ringo’s ‘I got you girl’ hand: a study

[rhapsodynew]

#everything you need to know about rock

Keith Richards.

The whale had to literally "grow up to be an instrument." Grandpa Gus, a jazz musician, teased his grandson's interest by hanging an acoustic guitar on a higher wall with the words : "When you get it, I'll let you play."

UK rock musicians are a friendly community where everyone knows each other. Every talented guitarist became famous two or three weeks after his appearance in London. John Wetton did not stay idle for long after the collapse of King Crimson. One day he received an envelope with an invitation to attend a rehearsal of the famous band "Jurai Hip", which needed a professional bass guitarist. In early 1975, Yuri Hip lost one of its musicians, Gary Thane, who died of a drug overdose. John Wetton replaced him, and very successfully. The appearance of an experienced musician in the band changed the atmosphere radically. John, a powerful generator of new ideas, became the real leader of the group.

John Anderson's most famous project after the Yes band was the duo Jon and Vangelis — with the legendary keyboardist and film composer. They first crossed paths back in the mid-70s, and then we'll give the floor to John:

So, I got Vangelis's phone number, he lived in Paris, I went and called him. He said (feigning a rude Greek accent) "Hello." I said, "My name is John Anderson." He asked: "What?" I replied: "I sing in a band called Yes." He said: "Are you a singer? Well, come on over." And I came. I was greeted by a tall and sturdy man in a long caftan. He had a bow and arrows slung over his shoulder. I followed him to a luxurious apartment that was located near the Champs-Elysees. We walked down the long hallway leading to the living room. And then Vangelis took out a bow, pulled the string and shot an arrow along the corridor — it hit the open window exactly. I said: "Vangelis, you could have killed someone." He said, "Oh, don't worry, I'm Greek." I said: "I know you're Greek, but damn..." And he was already busy at the stove. In general, I was crazy about this reaction."

The story of the song "The End" by The Doors.

According to the band members, this song was conceived as an ordinary farewell song after Jim Morrison broke up with his girlfriend Mary Werbelow. During the creative process, however, it gradually became more complicated and modified, overgrown with universal images.

The album version consists of two glued parts. The second, which appeared later, the "Oedipus" part was added to the first directly from the words "The killer awoke before dawn", which can be detected by changing the sound when listening carefully. The song was recorded the morning after Morrison's next "frenzy", possibly still under the influence of drugs. Morrison replaced the censored "fuck you" in the "oedipal" part with an inarticulate mumble.

The song is included in the list of the top five hundred according to Rolling Stone magazine (No. 328); the guitar solo of the song is ranked 93rd in the list of the 100 best guitar solos according to Guitar World magazine.

Richie Blackmore.

During his school years, Richie was actively involved in javelin throwing and swimming. Richie hated his studies and teachers for their formalism and suppression of non-standard thinking among students.

Roger Taylor and his mini-replica, drawn using words from his songs.

[oh-so-romantically-hopeless]

The slight weight in his hands is familiar. It's always been familiar, since the first time he'd managed to bring a suitable weapon into existence. The first time he could remember anyways.

The fizzling of magic against his gloved hands is almost like warmth. The sensation of his magic being drawn from his person into his only does to make it feel like another part of himself, another limb. Maybe it was, in an odd sort of way. It was his after all.

He'd tried other things, trying to gauge which would be the best for him. The best to complete his work.

-

First a bow. It'd be elegant, long ranged, and quick. His namesake used one, how hard could it possibly be?

Much harder than it'd looked initially. He'd ended up with bruised fingers from recoil, an arrow to the foot, and wounded pride. Maybe... The bow was more suited to others anyways.

Next had been a sword, summoned of his own magic (he'd learned since the first attempt that his own was far better suited). That had been too unwieldy, clumsy, and looked horrifying when he used it. He didn't want to stab anyone, even if it was harmless usually it looked... Weird.

Next, a javelin. Long range, but much too big for what he needed. He really needed to find something that didn't look like he was committing murder.

He couldn't quite understand how this came so easily to the others! Not everyone had access to standard skeleton magic, he knew that, he'd seen it with his own eyelights! Eyelight.

They usually made do with other things, and knew what to do with them instinctively. Almost beautifully, like a dance instead of weaponry.

Maybe a few of them were older than him... Much older... With centuries of practice. But even baby bones seemed to handle their magic better than he had in months of attempts!

The whispers of quitting had begun to linger in the back of his mind. It'd be far easier to give up than be thwarted at nearly every turn. Leave this behind, leave his purpose behind in favor of a comfier, less taxing existence.

An eternal failure.

Now... Cupid could let a lot of things pass. Being hunted for sport by other outcodes? He was faster, and had a decent enough hold on his other forms of magic to escape.

Strung up by the multiverse's most volatile destroyer? He'd managed to talk his way out! Sort of!

Stuck in an uncomfortable situation? He could always find the positive in it! The silver lining of any stormy cloud! A constant optimist of his own will and power!

But, he could not- No. He would not be a failure. After all. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again, right?

In the end it'd taken less effort than he thought to get him there. That instinct he'd watched come to the others. What'd he'd been so envious of.

The end of an exhausting day, curled up in the soft pile of blankets he called a bed, watching whisps of his magic flow around his fingers in some manner of sleepy entertainment.

He'd only closed his socket for a moment, letting the warm, familiar fizzle continue to rest in his palm. Only to open it when instead of flowing, it decided to settle into his palm. Heavier, with the same quality, familiar.

He never questioned why it'd formed that way, a firearm that looked like it came out of one of the various alternates of "Mew Mew Kissy Cutie". But he had it, and he loved it. The right weight, long range, and far subtler than anything else he'd tried.

He'd put it to good use.

-

It hasn't been too long since then, but he's already become creative with it. A singular pistol to doubles, to a shotgun, to more. Channeling his more useful, and common, magic through it.

He keeps his hands steady, target right in view. The perfect shot! Pride settles in his chest, he'd gotten so far with it! Once he knew what he was doing of course!

It was only a pairing of friends, instilling platonic interest. Nothing that'd harm anyone, though his magic was rarely used for that. He'd done far too much study, enough to be sure that the two of them would be good for each other.

He lets the fizzling magic grow against his palms, warming up against him as it charged. Finger curling around the trigger in anticipation. Pulled back with the utmost caution.

The culmination of all his effort, his will.

A perfect shot.

[elgaladwen]

A Fresh Start

I didn't have the time or inclination for any of my 'tobers today, so instead have an old Nimardril fic from when she first came to live with her uncle and cousins in Rivendell. She is still in her reckless bratty youth phase here, but this is the beginning of where it starts to calm. I always meant to add more to this, but it's been three and a half years now and I haven't, so we'll just leave it!

Her oldest cousin, Gilithion, belongs to Sewer-princess on here, and featured in my Fictober story the other day. <3

More about Nimardril is here.

Nimardril perched high in a tree, peering downward through the boughs toward where a group of guards trained a short distance away. She felt that she should be with them, for how would her combat skills stay sharp if she were reading texts and studying language all day? But Celebithil, her uncle, had insisted she learn of other things before she continued training with weaponry, or practiced any scouting skills, and he bemoaned the fact that she'd never had proper schooling. Nim wholeheartedly disagreed. She could read, so long as the text wasn't overly dry, and sure, she spoke a dialect of Sindarin that was hard for the Dúnedain and other non-elven visitors to the valley to understand, but why did she need to speak with them anyway? Worse, Celebithil insisted that she learn Westron as well. Why in Middle-earth should she learn Westron, as if she'd ever leave elven lands!

Fuming, she continued to watch the training below, her gaze falling in particular upon one ellon, his movements precise as he hurled javelins through the air, each one catching the moving targets as they were flung upward. She tried to see if she could spy any of her mother in his face, for this was the son of her mother's sister. She'd never met any of her family, outside of her parents, until that day, only a few weeks past, when she had walked into Rivendell for the first time, having traveled here with a group of scouts returning home at the behest of her uncle. From what she gathered, her mother's older sister had moved here long before Nim had been born, and had fallen in love, marrying Celebithil, and bearing him two sons. She'd also died, or passed into the west long before Nim was born, and she'd yet to learn what had happened. She'd only been vaguely aware that she even had family outside of Lothlórien, and certainly hadn't known the names of her uncle or cousins, and with her own parents long gone, who would she have even asked?

Celebithil apparently had not known of Nim’s existence either, until her father's friend back home in Lórien, had seen fit to send messages to Rivendell, asking if her mother's sister still had family there. Nim wondered with annoyance why Curonthos had bothered to do such a thing. Sure, he'd made some promise to her father to look in on her if something ever happened to him, but that didn't mean finding some strict uncle she'd never known she had! Some part of her was glad, though. She wanted to feel as though she belonged somewhere, and she'd been burning too many bridges back home, intentionally or not, and it felt especially good to get away after what had happened with Moradan. Yes, she could use a fresh start.

So lost in thought was Nimardril, that she blinked, only just now realizing the training was done, and she no longer saw her cousin, Gilithion. She was about to climb down, when a voice wafted up to her, quiet but stern. "Good day, cousin. Are the treetops part of your studies this afternoon?"

Nimardril scowled. While her cousins weren't as strict with her as their father, they shared his opinion that she needed to learn things other than combat and scouting skills, and urged her to stop trying to run away from such. "I was just taking a break…" She muttered as she slipped down through the branches, finally landing before Gilithion with a short jump.

"Ah, I will walk you back inside then." Was his reply, as he began to stroll in the direction of the Last Homely House. "I hear your archery skills are quite good. Why not let other skills and topics catch up? Worry not, our father is master of many a weapon, and when you've trained your mind, you will learn more of combat. Both are important."

Nimardril still didn't understand why she needed any scholarly studies to be a scout or soldier, but she nodded, not truly wishing to be rude. As they walked, she thought of trying to appeal to her other cousin, Meneladir, again. But no, he might be more carefree than his father and older brother, but he was a poet and musician, and valued written word and language greatly.

They continued on in silence, and though some might have found this off-putting, Nimardril appreciated Gilithion's apparent aversion to smalltalk. It was nice to share company with another, and not always feel as though you must be conversing. Meneladir on the other hand… Well, Nim found him often amusing, but he would not have taken this walk in silence, instead filling it with song, or some anecdote about a plant or bird they passed.

Thinking of Meneladir as she was, Nim almost thought she was imagining it when she heard his voice carrying toward them, raised in song in some language she didn't understand. She soon saw him coming to meet them however, a tome in one arm, and a lute clutched in the other.

Abruptly ending his singing, Meneladir called out, “Ah, Nimardril! I was just looking for you so that we might read a tale I heard you were fond of- In Westron!”

Less than pleased, but still curious, Nim greeted her cousin, trying to spy the title on the tome, even as he continued, “It is the tale of  Beren and Lúthien, and I must say one of the others here has penned quite a passible translation! It may not be as pleasant in Westron, but it will serve as a good learning tool, no?”

Nim enjoyed the tale mostly for the fact that Lúthien was brave and bold, and stood up to any who might foil her, but her impossible romance with Beren was appealing, too. It all seemed so hard to believe, yet their great-grandson was within this very valley even now.

Nodding, Nim made to follow Meneladir, but stopped, asking Gilithion uncertainty, "Won't you join us?"

Her older cousin gave a shrug. "I could use the rest, I suppose. Lead on."

The three of them made their way to a small lawn in the shade of some trees, the leaves beginning to tint red with autumn.

[creartistiq-blog]

Study of the Figure of a Sabine, present in the foreground of Jacques-Louis David's painting,

The Sabines, 1799, Oil on canvas 385 cm X 522 cm, the Louvre.

By dealing with this subject, David advocates the reconciliation of the French after the Revolution. His style, increasingly simple and pure, is inspired by Greek Antiquity and his desire to confront the great artists of this time.

David also adhering to the theories of the German Winckelmann on the Ideal Beauty, therefore chooses to represent the naked warriors, as represented in Greek sculpture.

David does not depict the abduction of the Sabines (as in Poussin's painting in the Louvre),

Poussin, l'enlèvement des Sabines, 1637/38

but, later, the moment when they interpose themselves between their Roman husbands (on the right) and their Sabine brothers (on the left), showing them their children.

Tatius général des Sabins Romulus général des Romains

At the sight of his wife Hersilia, Romulus suspends the javelin he is about to throw against her father, Tatius, king of the Sabines. Struck by the courage of the Sabines, the two peoples will fraternize. In dealing with this subject, David wanted to advocate the reconciliation of the French after the Revolution. His style, increasingly simple and pure, is inspired by Greek Antiquity.