#kovali

[islahvnt]

If ever there’d been a one singular moment that suffocated everything beyond free will to a young, wild spirited woman, it might have been just this. The four founding walls of the hotel didn’t bother her, little more than a guarding factor against what lay outside. No, it was everything that came with sitting quite precariously within the den of lions who already had their teeth sharpened and poised around her throat. Oh, she could shoulder the blame, if only because it were easier to carry it herself than entrust anyone else to do it for her. The mindless efforts of a woman well beyond her own capabilities had fallen; well and truly fallen into the grips of a world she didn’t want any part of right now; and yet, their false sense of security while they breathed down her neck at every turn was more than enough to anchor her in place and force her into inaction.

Perhaps it was simply paranoia, a stark virus like permanence in the lingering of a come down and as she picked mindlessly at the loose strings of her sweater, Isla knew there was no sense of escape from it but the wildly erratic air outside. Smaller in stature than most, it was almost too easy to slip beyond the scope of those manning the door. Luck only finding her in the flailing arms of a man claiming his son was still out there within the storm — such concern didn’t surmount to a single beat of her heart for anyone she didn’t already know the whereabouts of. 

Luck, however, never ran too prominent for her and as if made all the more obvious by the flickering lightning above, illuminating the most memorable silhouette of a man she’d ever known. It struck a sickness deep within her chest, the ache mottled with a hatred that burnt brighter than any strike in the sky above. Eyes closed and she still could have traced the lines of features in the pitch abyss of the storm looming ever nearer as the wind and rain battered against the pavement only a few feet beyond the doorway. Torrential as it was; it didn’t even come close to the hail within her chest, the vicious hammer of organ against her chest plate as the mere idea of breathing became foreign to her.

Six months — of little more than radio silence, even as she’d gone against the very essence of who she was with pleading messages and baited breath calls; waiting — wondering how any man could simply fall off the face of the earth in lieu of crushed metal and broken bodies of people they’d known. “Didn’t you hear it’s dangerous to be outside tonight?” His voice felt bitter, like acid burning right through her eardrums to interrupt her peace. “Son of a bitch.” A venomous ache that permeated the crippling pain and warped it. White hot, it ran through her veins like acid until it surfaced on usually steeled features with a tumultuous foundation for everything that raged war against her rib cage. “I’d rather take my fucking chances out here.” Perhaps she’d find a happenstance of luck after all and be struck by lightening, or the unlucky downfall of a power line; anything to jar the overwhelming sense of heartache. Isla knew however, as she tightened her coat around her, that an escape so easy would never be offered to her, “Something about drowning and being electrocuted all at once really sets my heart on fire.”

There were a great many things within the somewhat short years of Isla’s life that might have crawled up into the grit of her spine and thought to try and twist until shattered affect left her crippled and wanting little more than some effervescent sweet release of oblivion, but none caught her in a vice like grip much like the man before her. She’d bend and break until she left her own thought of self contorted if it meant maneuvering through the rift of extensively bad luck that assaulted her through consequence of every bad decision she’d ever made. What she couldn’t avoid, however, was the transcendent illumination ripple of sickness that plagued the organ within her chest as every nauseating wave of shifting memory had muscle memory wishing so violently to reach out for him even after being left, quite literally, for dead. A battered notion, that even after the cacophony of grief that he’d left her to dig herself out from, her throat could still fill with a thickness that begged to push tears to the very back of hollowed out hues. How she could so fruitfully beg for the scintillation of stars above to peak through the lowly beyond of heavy clouds and a destruction not akin to the one Julian had ever plagued her with, all the while finding a barrage of prayers that pleaded with the heavens to grant her this one leniency and strike him down with lightning right there and then. How such wishes to see him unmoving and spilling crimson into the rush of water just beyond the barely existent safety of the hotel shelter could etch themselves so deeply into her bones, left knuckles white and a barrage of marks on the inside of her cheek from her own teeth picking herself apart from the inside out.

“You might want to reassess that decision, love. Anything can happen on a night like this.” He murmured, the Cheshire cat grin stretching across his lips. No one knew Julian better than she did but love must’ve blinded her to the facts of who he was. The man behind the carefully crafted mask was soul full of sin, deluded by a grand vision and a rare brand of insanity that lead him to burn the only person in his life that cared. In every instance before the car crash, he’d done something to hurt her. But they always found their way back, the universe spinning a gravitational pull that neither could ignore. Julian turned his body to face her,  letting out a small laugh. “Does it now? I guess things have changed, I used to be the only one who liked the thought of the macabre…” His fingers took the cigarette out of his mouth, tendrils of smoke blowing out space between. “I have to hand it to you, Isla…” Her full name lingered on his lips before he flicked the butt of his tab towards the ground. “Even tonight, when it’s supposedly the end of the world, you still manage to look good.”

Like a knife, the defining arch of her brow shot up and she bit her tongue for every cut throat comment she could have so easily made of nights filled with the unexpected. Of nights that kept him next to her, always within reach with electricity living white hot in every nerve that might have done little more than felt the lingering touch of his hand at her back, “A night like any other night, then.” The rift of her hues rolling as they so often did wasn’t enough to stop her as she reached out, plucking the packet of cigarettes she knew he kept in his jacket pocket, snagging one between her teeth as she dug her own lighter out — not quite as recreational as something as simple as nicotine. The slow billow of smoke slipped between her lips and she lingered a little longer on searching Julian’s features for something different. “I’m truly worried, can’t you tell?” Torn between uncertainty and the indecisive mind of a woman who’d always thought to reach for the thing most likely to blow up in the palm of her hand and take her as collateral left her peddling back to the idea of simply stepping out from the cover of the hotel and try her luck out there. Not even she knew how well that would play out; the Rutherford’s themselves springing to get her out of prison made it all the more obvious they’d intended to keep her around; she was an asset, afterall. That, and how else would the debt she’d fallen into to keep her father safe be paid?. The smile that crafted itself a masterpiece across features that haunted even the darkest of days for six whole months forced her stomach to lurch, the once hopeful dalliance that served as a reminder of that smile once being entirely for her like a slap to the chilled curve of her cheek as she cast hues across the street. 

Lights flickered, a struggle against the warring weather no doubt, yet all she saw was the blinding light from above, perforated by the screech of her own tyres and then — nothing. The oblivion of her own unconsciousness not entirely unlike the last six months; little more then autopilot had propelled her forward. Her friends gone, what little freedom teetering the precipice of her own grip and yet what left it’s mark on her skin, even now, stood right before him like some cruel, callous joke the universe thought to play on her. “What did you expect?” She pursed her lips tightly and pinned him with a callous glare that might have rivaled even himself as she clung to the effort to carry out the lingering malice in her voice, “That you could leave me for dead, to bury our friends and things would just..— stay the same?” Though he’d certainly sparked a flame beneath the rebellion that lived in the marrow of her bones, it’d been his absence when she’d called out in the dark of that night once she’d come to which had shattered the effervescent light he’d emulated. As if he’d been the sun, orbiting her with every ounce the brutality of the heat and the softest touch of sunlight the break of dawn could bring; only to shut out the glow of something that could turn her touch to ice. 

The furthest corner of her lip twitched into a trademark smirk; one that told of every secret she’d ever pried from the fingers of men determined to keep their extracurricular activities between them as their hands scored marks and tried so viciously to snuff out those already left behind by Julian’s, of everything she’d ever pieced together under the viable orders to do as she was told. It told of the side of him nobody else would ever see. Doe like eyes pressing to hold his gaze as he turned to her, a vying challenge that lingered every sentiment of space he’d ever tried to put between them. She stepped towards him, boldly – her idea of fear didn’t quite stretch the same paths it should, warping her mind and almost entirely obliterating any sense of self preservation as she plucked the smoke from her lips, “It’s a shame, really…—” As under the thumb as she was now, volatile hands tied,, Isla knew there would never come a moment where she would fold so easily; the harmonious and inflated sense of immunity to anything and everything something that had sprouted in the lingering nights of a girl who’d felt little more than out of place, everywhere she went. But this — this she knew and with lithe fingers curling around the lapel of his jacket, she pressed into him a little more, never quite closing any sense of distance that lingered between them, the soft curvature of her voice carrying the remnants of smoke with it, “Because you look shittier than ever.” A false sentiment only served even bolder as she crushed the cherry tip of the cigarette into the space of his collarbone; unwilling to care if it should so happen to burn through the material of his shirt before she let go with a rough shove to his chest.

If it had been anyone else, he would’ve promptly made them question their decisions but Isla? He’d let her have her moment, the resentment that was brewing under her skin was something he could handle. After all, they were tethered to each other. She would be his and he would be hers… at least as much as he would allow. The two-way street wasn’t equivalent at all, something he knew. But it was the best that a man like him could do. He’d become a part of her, he knew that from the first kiss, from the first drag of a cigarette. And like cancer, he let himself spread throughout her entire being. To cut him out entirely seemed like an impossibility, one he didn’t think she would ever be capable of. It was these facts that made him feel comfortable as Isla’s hatred manifested itself in speech. That you could leave me for dead, to bury our friends and things would just..— stay the same? He should’ve felt guilty, a part of him knew that was the expected reaction. Yet nothing hit his conscience. What was there to be done? The dead would never dance again, so the living was what he would choose to deal with. Julian let the moment settle between the two of them, silence growing thick before he spoke. “Don’t.” His eyes fell on her, dark and serious. “You know why I left.”

The distance between grew smaller. He could feel the heat radiating off her body, the smell of that familiar perfume that he’d spent countless nights with mixed with the cigarette smoke. Under the haze of the thunderstorm, lightning illuminating her features, their reunion began. Perfect that the storm of the century was happening around them. Her curves pressed against him, familiar like home. They’d always fit so perfectly together. Like puzzle pieces. But in the bliss there was the sharp pain of a burn that stung against his skin, harsh but welcomed. Julian didn’t flinch. Not when the mark manifested itself, red and angry. Not when she pressed her hands against him, a rough shove sending him into the rain outside of the awning. Pain always made him think clearer. He let the rain wash over him for a few moments, the cold jolting his senses forward. It was time to remedy his disappearance. Julian stepped back under the safety of the hotel, letting out a small breath before he closed the space between them once again. A cold hand found itself against her cheek, gentle. The illusion of softness. “Isla.” He spoke her name, the letters comfortable in his lips as he stared down at her. Some people pictured the devil as an angry red caricature. It wasn’t realistic. No, the devil could be the person you loved the most. “I missed you.”

It’d settled in her spine like a freshly severed break long ago, solidified within every disagreement, every harsh word thrown at the other and the multitude of times they’d pried themselves from each others grip, only to find their way right back here again. Mottled in the hyper-verse where fingertips didn’t leave bruising marks, even with the most gentle of touches. Crippled beyond the belief that they’d ever hold some semblance of permanence in a fractured dalliance that left the only imprint of feeling she had left in her to every rib that protruded heartache. Foolish was never something she’d ever been — Isla had never forgotten the very real notion that nothing would ever work out how she wanted, and Julian would always leave the heart she’d left in his hand to the harsh winds of winter just to taste power on the tip of his tongue. It was little more than the masochistic belief that she’d never find anything else as prevalent as the man before her. The cruel truth that she always knew he was it, but that he’d simply never allow it. As emotionally destructive as it were, they were much too entwined with one another for Isla to ever hold strong to the belief that she never deserved this. The ache and pain that came with loving him so vibrantly it left her knuckles white. Julian Kovali gave new meaning to the notion that something akin to feeling so deeply would be the best and worst thing anyone would ever know. The oleander touch, beautiful and pristine and ultimately a silent death itself.

Harsh, the roll of mottled emerald hues cut sharply through the casting oblivion he glared her down with. Like hell she’d leave it alone.. like hell she could ever really accept that he’d royally screwed her so brutally just to hold onto something that well and truly sat like a carved mantle in his life. She’d remembered it well — the windows of his world that had opened years before hand and given her a sight into how truly fearful he’d once been when the power he found new addiction in sat on the precipice of his very fingertips. “Of course I know why you left, why the hell do you think I’m so pissed about it?” Perhaps it’d been foolish, but in the warmth of his chest, too many nights passed for her to remember, Isla had long since promised to burn a flame as bright as anyone who thought to try and burn her — it didn’t always work out in her favor, but it sure as hell beat bending over backwards for anyone that couldn’t offer her the same. “How long?” No storm beyond could rival the one that’d brewed in the pit of her stomach for months, no glare could cut so sharply as the incredulity that met the darkened gaze of a man she knew was even more dangerous than the look he cast her. “How long were you willing to let me rot?”

Never had she held any doubt in which part of his life burnt brighter, but hope had been a fickle bitch. Entwining herself around the concave organ within her chest before she’d ever really known it. Molded by the whims of a man she’d found herself unable to rip from her very soul. It lingered in the darkest parts of her life, the deepest secrets whispered in the dead of night, curled around her fingers and twisted into the unruly locks of his hair in the break of dawn. His own staining her hips with every ounce of thought or feeling he’d ever offered a single person, monumental in knowing she’d been a safe haven for a man who’d never felt wanted. A brand of mutual destruction that she’d known all too well. Neither having fit somewhere, beyond one another – until he’d found something that left her own edges jagged and no longer the perfect fit. It did little more than sting her own unchecked ego; Isla could so surely swallow back being given up for the gift of power, afterall, all that the Rutherfords had given her was enough to kill for once again. Naivety didn’t become her, and she’d seen enough in this world to know better than that. But this? — Left for dead, and the whims of the law as she was pried from the crushed vehicle and cuffed to her own hospital bed. “Collateral damage, right?” Collateral damage and little more in the eyes of someone who might have claimed home within the warmth of her own touch. “That’s all I was to you.”

She could have spat the ground he walked on, unholy and regrettably damaged by his mere presence. “How long did you wait until you bailed? Did you even know if I was alive? Did you even think to fucking check? Or was that it for you… Our friends dead, me… Someone to take the fall – was that your easy way out?” Like a toxin that seeped the very air around them, Isla could still find herself intoxicated by the idea of Julian alone, even while words carved their way excruciating in a throat constricted by the hybrid of adoration and blistering hatred. How it could taunt her every waking moment and tear her insides with the unfathomable guilt she carried, it was beyond thought or recognition. The pain that blossomed in harrowed hues the only shift in demeanor as the startling cold touch near cauterized the flesh of her cheek, the nostalgic flutter of eyelids as they closed only fleeting. I missed you. The pit of her stomach dropped out beneath her, the sickening feeling of falling that haunted dreams and nightmares turned her stomach even as she stood; very much awake in a hurtling expanse of her deepest fears. A moment passed, this moment passed, and closed lids contorted with the reality that she could bleed blue for him and never stain the pavement well enough for him to flinch. The lingering tremble in her fingertips gone as she curls her fingers into his, hues fixating on the golden speckles that might have once painted illusionary light in his eyes. 

“I missed you too.” She paused — She always missed him, but that wasn’t enough now to ease up on the pressure she applied with her hand,. “I missed you when I woke up and you weren’t there. I missed you when they told me everyone was dead.. When I thought you were dead.” Lips pursed and she fought to keep the broken expanse of her heart from jarring her words. “I missed you when they told me you were alive and you never answered my calls. When they told me I’d go to prison for what I did. When I buried our friends on my own.” His features contored as he continued to twist their fingers together. This was a feeling she could never shake, even now, barely a foot away from him, and she couldn’t swallow back how much she missed him if she tried. “I missed you when I realized, even after knowing for years, that you really, truly, didn’t care whether I missed you or not. You didn’t even care enough that you missed me.” Something she’d so willingly put money onto being little more than another well spoke, well fabricated lie. The sickening snap of his fingers was all she heard before she shoved him back into the cold, wet pavement with a stoic look of indifference - reminiscent of how he’d once left her to suffer a broken heart and the end of life as she knew it.

[hmsharmony]

Tagged by @hondagirll to list my top 9 books. Caveat that many other books could have made it on here, and choosing came down to which books caught my eye while scrolling through my five-star reads. The only ones that are permanent fixtures are probably 1., 2., and 5.

1. Dancing Shoes by Noel Streatfeild. My ultimate comfort book. When I was 10 or 11 my mom gifted me Ballet Shoes, Theater Shoes (aka Curtains Up), and Dancing Shoes (Wintle’s Wonders). I don’t remember when I first read them, but what I do recall is sixth grade outdoor education, when I was desperately homesick (and actually sick with a bad cold) and would curl up at night in my bunk with Dancing Shoes. Maybe it was because that book was a comfort when I was dealing with my separation anxiety, but as much as I loved the other two books, Dancing Shoes is the one that captured my heart. Rachel Lennox is one of my favorite characters of all time. A ten-year-old girl trying to step up after her mother’s untimely death, convinced she must be the responsible one and keep her sister on track. Sacrificing and sacrificing when no one has asked for it, when no one really wants it, all because she’s convinced herself this is how she does right by her mother. I have read or listened to this story at least 100 times, and it never fails to bring me comfort.

2. Emma by Jane Austen. A self-involved but well-intentioned protagonist! Long time friends turned more! “I cannot make speeches, Emma. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” All things I love, but the reason this book has stuck with me is probably because it was the subject of a literary criticism paper I wrote in 11th grade. I lived and breathed Emma (both the book and the contemporary criticism of it) for a good two months, and it left an indelible print on my heart.

3. Saving Francesca by Melina Marchetta. The love and care Marchetta gives to her characters. I was a blubbering mess reading this book. It’s one of my favorite coming of age stories, with a focus on Francesca’s relationship with her mother (the latter of whom is suffering from depression) and the friendships Francesca builds at her new school. This is reminding me I need a reread.

4. Under a Cruel Star: A Life in Prague, 1941-1968 by Heda Margolius Kovaly. I haven’t read this book since my sophomore modern European history class in college, but I remember how much it meant to see a story about antisemitism in Europe that doesn’t end in 1945. So few people talk about it—the DP camps, the pogroms, the Soviet persecution. Around this same time we watched Life is Beautiful for my Holocaust and Post-Holocaust reflections class, and I remember how angry, how frustrated I was that the ending made it seem like liberation was the end of the suffering. This is one of the books I routinely encourage people to read if their Holocaust education only went through 1945.

5. Night by Elie Wiesel. This is a favorite for a slightly odd reason: this is the book that helped me find my “voice” in academic writing. It was one of the last books we read in 11th grade AP Lang, and my teacher had spent the year pushing us to find our voice, and I had struggled to understand because “I wrote the essay how could it not be in my voice!” Looking back, given my personal connection to the Holocaust, it makes sense that Night would be the book that broke through in that particular way (that said, I wouldn’t realize the extent of the effect of my Holocaust trauma until a year and a half later, when my pop pop died, so at the time I WAS surprised this book turned out to be the key). The struggle to hold onto religion, to believe in a higher power, in the face of genocide is one that I have struggled with almost my entire life, albeit often at an unconscious level. Wiesel’s struggle with the same was the subject of my essay, and I put myself into every word of that paper.

6. The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. From my 2015 Goodreads review: “There are those books that, when I reach the end, I smile. Those are the really good ones. And then there are the ones where I'm in tears -- not because of emotional manipulation or because the story was sad, but because the writing is so beautiful, the story so moving, that I'm reduced to tears.“ The deftness with which Morgenstern threaded together the time periods, the second and third person POVs, the seemingly disparate narratives still haunts me.

7. We Were the Lucky Ones by Georgia Hunter. Another personal one for me. So much of studying the Holocaust is, understandably, sadness and horror. And when you’re a survivor descendent? It’s knowing your existence comes at the expense of 6 million Jews. It’s looking at your family tree and seeing every branch but one cut off. So to know that there was one family where the branches survived? Against all the odds, in the face of indescribable evil? Again, from my Goodreads review: “I'm not sure there are words for how much this book means to me. To know that an entire Jewish family made it out alive... it's overwhelming to be honest.”

8. In Other Lands by Sarah Rees Brennan. I don’t know what to say other than this book is a goddamn fucking delight. The trope subversions in this book are perfection, and I grin every time I think of the chaotic, messy trio.

9. Record of a Spaceborn Few by Becky Chambers. God, no one does found family like Chambers. Every single book in this series reduced me to tears, but this one resonated with me in particular, perhaps because this installment is entirely character driven, with a focus on the every day. It’s like a fictional popular history take on the future.

Tagging @reasontoshine, @lissomelle, @malinaa, @jamietaylr, @therabbitcatcher and anyone else who wants to do this because it’s nearly 1 am and my brain is blanking

[duchess-skye]

The Cuman-Kipchak, Tatars and Masked Helmets

In popular perception it is very common to associate masked helmets such as the ones found in Kovali (picture above) or Lipovets with the Cumans. This has been portrayed in media as well, for example in Age of Empires II and later on very notably in Kingdom Come: Deliverance. However this attribution is in reality mostly without basis, but to understand why we first have to look at its origins, and to do that we first need to talk about who the Cuman-Kipchak are and how they relate to the Tatars.

The Cuman-Kipchak are known for having a significantly powerful confederation in Eurasia which was at its height at the start of the 13th century. While sometimes claimed that the Cumans and Kipchaks were two different peoples, it is more likely that the two names are simply synonyms for the same conglomeration of people, whom would have been made up of a lot of various turkic groups living under the confederacy whose land was often called Cumania by christian sources and Desht-i Qipchaq by Islamic ones. Hence from this point on I will refer to them simply as Cumans.

The Cuman confederation was famously broken up due to the Mongol expansions, which caused groups of Cumans to flee westward. Some ended up settling in Hungary, while others ended up in Rus lands and yet others were conquered and assimilated by the Mongols. What is important to note here is that the Cumans cannot be thought of as one unified group of people all with the same customs, because they were not. This is even more emphasised post-Mongol conquest as the Cumans who settled in various different lands would have gradually adopted to the customs and culture of the lands whom they settled, and this will be important to determine where the famous masked helmets fit into all of this. But before that, let's briefly talk about the Tatars. Tatar was simply a catchall term for the Mongols, and is thought to originate from Persian though to my knowledge it is a term mainly used by European sources. As the Mongols continued to conquer people and incorporate them into their empire, the definition of Tatar would also encompass any and all groups which had become part of the Mongols and were serving in their armies. After the breaking up of the empire into the four Khanates, the term Tatar came to mostly be used to refer to the Golden Horde, which at this point incorporated lots of Turkic people into it including Cumans. Hence the term Tatar does include Cumans in it, but it is not a synonym as it would not include Cumans who were not part of the Golden Horde as it's explicitly related to the mongols. The Cumans who were part of the Tatar Horde are at this point already becoming pretty distinct from the Cumans who are not, and as time went on these differences started to grow even more. The Cumans in Hungary for example are noted to gradually adopt to Hungarian customs, and by the 15th century they cease to keep their signature hairstyles and clothes, and grave finds of Cumans from that time period include a lot of materially hungarian items.

So then, masked helmets. The two famous examples mentioned above (Kovali and Lipovets) are both from Golden Horde territories. Some older russian research tends to for some inexplicable reason associate them with Cumans whom they call Polovtsy, sometimes claiming that they potentially predate the Golden Horde. However there is not really any evidence pointing to this and the masks found bear a lot of resemblance to later 15th and 16th century Persian ones, indicating that they date to the days of the Golden Horde (the shape of the skulls are also most akin to post-mongol examples). What is even more important is that masked helmets of this type have not been found in gravesites associated with Cumans or other turkic peoples outside of the Golden Horde which would indicate that these helmets are in fact something that relate to the Mongols rather than the Cumans.

Now obviously as mentioned earlier the Golden Horde did contain Cumans in it, and so a Cuman serving as a cavalryman in a Tatar army could very well have used a helmet like this. However there is nothing pointing towards the claim that the Cumans themselves were who brought these helmets to the Horde, as no archeological finds support this argument. Rather it's that these are armours which would've been used by anyone part of the Horde, including Cumans, however would also not be found outside of direct Mongol influence. For example, a Cuman settled in Hungary would not have used a helmet like this since he wouldn't be living in a culture to adopt it from.

Which reaches the conclusion that these are Tatar helmets and should not be thought of as Cuman helmets.

Funnily enough the portrayal of Cumans in Kingdom Come: Deliverance heavily conflates Tatars and Hungarian Cumans and treats them as interchangeable, which they were not. While they in-game claim that the Cumans roaming bohemia in the game are from Hungary, their portrayal is wholly unfitting for that but would make significantly more sense if they were to be considered Tatars where the presence of the masked helmets would make sense (although most other 'cuman' gear in the game is entirely unfitting for a historical portrayal of either Tatars or Cumans in the early 15th century, but that's a post for another day).

[rokenrol]

Marko Tomaš - Nekada smo bučno sanjali

Nekada smo bučno sanjali,

u pozadini se valjala glazba

koja nadima grudni koš,

studirali smo zaboravljanje krvi.

Nekada smo sanjali

široke avenije svjetskih metropola,

poznavali smo puno ljudi,

žene su bile prelijepe i nedostižne,

znali smo ih nasmijati.

Nekada smo sanjali,

osmijeh nam nije silazio s lica,

zapisivali smo zavjete

i dugo birali odjeću za izlazak.

Nekada smo sanjali,

gubili razum zbog golih ramena,

u džepove trpali kineske kolačiće sreće,

silazili na rijeku u sparnim noćima

i sudbonosnim porukama hranili ribe,

to je bio dovoljan razlog za poeziju.

Nekada smo sanjali,

samovali fajrunt nad prljavim šankovima,

čitali budućnost iz zacakljenih očiju,

dugo šetali sjenovitim alejama,

gajili duboko poštovanje prema dostojanstvu gubitnika.

Nekada smo sanjali,

u knjigama tražili opravdanje za tugu,

ostavljeni stajali na kiši daleko od kuće

na sjeveru Europe,

odnosili svoju ljubav ka kolodvoru

pod otežalim mokrim kaputom,

tako smo švercali hamburšku kišu preko granice,

pakirali je u stihove i bestidno prodavali namjernicima.

Nekada smo sanjali,

kovali planove u hladnim poslijeratnim sobama,

konobari su voljeli našu učtivost,

povlađivali našoj naivnosti,

katkad primali stihove umjesto novčanica.

Nekada smo sanjali,

izgledali kao da nosimo veliku tajnu na duši,

znali napamet adrese na koje smo slali razglednice,

pozdrav iz Pariza, Berlina, Londona, Barcelone,

dobro nam je išlo,

imali smo svoje zaljubljivanje, svoju glazbu, putovanja

imali smo svoje knjige i osvajanje svijeta,

stizali čak do Buenos Airesa,

obećavali svoje živote Davidovoj zvijezdi

nad dvjema malim zadihanim dojkama,

predano učili tango do kraja noći,

voljeli oporo crno vino

i tako do svakog narednog svitanja.

Svi su znali za naše podvige.

Nekada smo bučno sanjali.

[isabelasfriendfiction]

A Case of the Chills

Not me posting writing for the first time in 4 years?! I'd like to introduce you to some of the characters from my primary D&D campaign over the last few years. Finch is my tiefling arcane trickster rogue, Donahue is @brick-brooke's half-elf hexblade warlock, and Opal is another friend's dragonborn twilight cleric. More info on these characters can always be found on my main blog, @alistairweekend. The AO3 version of this includes art by Opal's player!

{ao3 link}

Finch was actually disappointed when her watch ended and she had to leave the soft warmth of the fire. After decades of living in a temperature-controlled palace and then several months in the tropical city of Kovali, adjusting to the temperate forest the Society for the Preservation of Fill found themselves in was proving a far larger problem than anticipated. Frankly, the situation baffled Finch. It wasn’t as if her clothing lacked, or there weren’t enough blankets, and by all accounts she ran warmer than most. Something about this forest just gave her the chills... literally.

As she exited the campfire’s embrace, Cricket landed on Finch’s shoulder and snuggled into the crook of her neck. “You cold too, buddy?” she murmured, reaching up to scratch the little faerie dragon’s head. Maybe she’d ask everyone in the morning how they were feeling.

She ducked into her tent and, taking care to avoid the two lumps that were Donahue and Opal, swiftly burrowed into the blankets of her spot in the middle. Cold. Of course. She gritted her teeth to try and prevent herself from shivering, holding on to the fact that the blankets should trap her body heat soon.

Minutes passed. And passed. Finch shifted, hoping finding a comfortable position would solve the issue, but she remained conscious. It was still just cold enough to be uncomfortable. Frustration bubbled in her chest.

At one point Finch heard rustling blankets as if in response to her movement. She stilled herself. “Donahue?” she whispered. “You up?”

No response. Finch let out an audible exhale through her nose. Then Cricket’s head poked out of the blankets, and he wriggled out to nimbly flit to the person on Finch’s left, an action rewarded with a grunt.

Finch rolled on to her side to face towards Donahue, who was nothing more than a mound of blankets with a faery dragon on top, nipping at the strands of blue hair sticking out. “So you are awake.”

“Maybe so,” he grumbled. “I’d like to not be, though.”

“Did I wake you up?”

He seemed to think about it. “...Yes.”

“Liar!” Finch hissed, propping herself up on an elbow and using her other arm to smack the blanket lump with her pillow. She immediately regretted the frigid air allowed to touch her skin at doing so, however, and gasped. “Gods, it’s fucking freezing. Are you cold?”

It was barely audible, but Finch made out a sigh from Donahue. “Yeah.” A moment passed, then he shifted to finally reveal his head. Cricket quietly trilled in delight and wasted no time in squeezing under the blankets, poking his head out right underneath Donahue’s chin. Donahue paid no mind and raised an eyebrow. “Wait, you’re cold?”

Finch pouted. “I know. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m starting to think it isn’t natural. It’s why I’m still up.”

Donahue’s demeanor seemed to sharpen into something more serious. “When was the last time you actually slept?”

“Technically, I don’t ‘sleep,’” Finch said, gesturing at her long elven ears.

Donahue scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Two can play at that. Neither do I.” He also waved a hand at his own tapered ears. “You know what I mean.”

Finch poked her tongue out at him but relented. “I was able to rest last night.”

“Ah. Lucky.”

“Oh? When did you last sleep?”

“Mind your own business.”

“Really? You’re gonna ask me and then say it’s none of my business to ask you the same thing, bitch?”

Donahue looked like he wanted to retort again, but his body betrayed him by making yawn, which he tried to stifle. “Ugh, fine. Two days ago.” Now that he said it, Finch did notice the dark circles under his eyes, even in the limited lighting. And he had seemed more tired than usual during the day, which was saying something.

“This is bad.” Finch put a hand to her face. “Especially if the others aren’t sleeping either. Though Opal seems fine...” She glanced to the right at their dragonborn companion, much more sprawled out than either of the blanket cocoons Finch and Donahue had made.

“Well, she’s a white dragonborn,” Donahue reasoned, “So she probably has way more resilience to cold than anyone else...”

“Mmmwha?” Opal suddenly mumbled drowsily, causing both Finch and Donahue to go wide-eyed and tense. Just as Finch was ready to believe she’d gone back to sleep, she spoke again, somewhat slurred: “You guys talkin’?”

“Sorry, Opal,” Donahue said, slightly above a whisper this time. “Go back to sleep. We’ll try to be quieter.”

Opal raised her head and rubbed her eyes, blinking a few times at them. The blonde fur tufts along her head and neck stuck out at wild angles. “You both aren’t sleeping?”

“Too cold,” Finch explained.

“That’s no good.” Opal’s brow furrowed as though thinking hard, though she was clearly still three-quarters asleep. “All right, everybody c’mere.”

Opal leaned forward, and suddenly blankets were being shifted and rearranged to the sounds of Finch and Donahue’s confusion and protest. When she was finished, all three of them were under the same pile of bedding. Finch found herself sandwiched between Opal and Donahue, not quite touching but still much closer than before, and she felt her face heat up. “I-Is this really necessary?”

“Warmer now, right?” Opal sounded entirely too pleased with herself. She stretched her neck out, which was just long enough to position her head right above Donahue’s. Cricket seemed thrilled by the new arrangement, settling in between Finch and Donahue’s shoulders.

Donahue had been incredibly tense, but slowly relaxed, if only a little. “Whatever. If it’ll help us sleep...”

“This is so embarrassing,” Finch groaned. “Nobody learns about this, got it?”

Donahue sighed and nodded, but Finch had more been asking Opal. Judging from the lack of response and steady breathing, however, she had already fallen back asleep. How did she do that so quickly?

Now Finch found herself worried about not sleeping for an entirely different reason. She had never shared a bed with anyone before, and was entirely too aware of both of her companions’ presences. She became acutely aware of the fact that any shifting she did could disturb them. But as the minutes ticked by, Opal was, to Finch’s chagrin, proven correct as the remaining chill faded away and her eyes fluttered shut.

[dane-zaboravim]

Maisie je čula mužev korak na stubama; osjećala je kako ide prema njoj, kao iz jezgre nekoga nevidljivog plamena ili iz peći gdje su ga prepravljali za nju, gdje su ga uvijek iznova kovali iz njegovih odsutnosti. Obuzeo ju je gotovo nepodnošljiv osjećaj njegove stvarnosti, njegova života i zadatka, njezina zadatka da na okupu održi sve te njegove izvedenice i da im dade kontinuitet. To je ljubav, taj rad na dešifriranju, na interpoliranju i svjedočenju: ljubav je kad si nečemu svjedok od početka do kraja.

Arlington Park, Rachel Cusk

[archivace]

ze světa PRABALTOSLOVANÚ a vliv jazyků kočovných Iránců

Víme tak, že Prabaltoslované veřili na démony (boiHsós, z čehož vznikl slovenský výraz ‘bes’) a čary (ker), pronášeli modlitby (mold-), uctívaly modly (moldaH) a měli posvátná (*śwentos) místa a háje – kde také ve spárech pohanských Prusů zahynul biskup Vojtěch, jak zmíněno výše.

prabaltoslovansky

*eźeran *golHwáH *wórHnaH *geleź

léiHpaH

litevsky

?žeras galva varna dzelzs li?pa

lotyšsky

ezers galva varna geležis liepa

staroslovenština

Jezero glava vrana želězo

slovensky

Jazero Hlava Vrana Železo lipa

Chovali prinajmenšom dobytok (kórHveH - ‘krava’), ovce (owis) a prasatá (swiHnos). V ich jedálničku nechýbalo maslo (moHźslo), ovos (awiś-), med (medú) a syr (súHrios), no víno im bolo cudzie. Poznali more (morjo) a taktiež mor (moros) či pôst (burdz-). Používali kožené mechy (moisós), plte (plútom) a kovali (kouH-) nástroje, niektoré už zo železa (geleź-). Odovzdávali tribút/daň (doHnis) a žili v osadách (wiś-, z čoho vznikol zastaraný slovenský výraz ‘ves’), bývali v domoch (domus) s dverami (dvir) a sedeli na kreslách (kréHslo); niekedy stavali kúpeľné domy (pirtis) alebo opevnenia (*gordos, z čoho vzniklo slovenské ‘hrad’).

[lila715]

"Fiverr's Top 12 Game Art Services: Elevate Your Gaming Experience in 2023!"

Embarking on a visual journey into the realm of gaming in 2023, we've uncovered a treasure trove of exceptional artists on Fiverr who are reshaping the aesthetics of games. Let's explore the prowess of these artists and the unique offerings they bring to elevate your gaming experience.

1. WEGA Studio - @dustinart

Rating: 5 (48 reviews)

Specialty: 3D game characters and models

Highlights: Exceptional 3D characters, low-poly models, expertise in Maya and Blender.

Transform your game visually with WEGA Studio's expertise!

2. Wandererkitty - @wandererkitty

Rating: Top Rated (5 stars from 51 reviews)

Specialty: Low-poly designs, equipment, icons, NFT collections

Highlights: Diverse creations, captivating low-poly designs.

Bring your ideas to life with Wandererkitty's artistic touch!

3. Remigiusz D. - @revi_3d

Rating: Top Rated (5 stars from 184 reviews)

Specialty: 3D maps and scenes

Highlights: Custom 3D maps, compatibility with various file types.

Envision your game in three dimensions with Remigiusz D.!

4. Widr Designers - @meghavaja

Rating: 5 (89 reviews)

Specialty: Game menu designs, buttons, and more

Highlights: Pro at crafting game menus, quick and high-quality designs.

Elevate your game's aesthetic with Widr Designers' expertise!

5. Katia M - @sungeek76

Rating: Top Rated (5 stars)

Specialty: Animated 2D characters

Highlights: Lively characters with animations, personalized creations.

Bring characters to life in your game with Katia M's artistic touch!

6. Ebra - @ebra_dev

Rating: 5 (115 reviews)

Specialty: 2D game characters, monsters, and more

Highlights: Creative 2D characters, attentive to your ideas.

Make your game stand out with Ebra's unique characters!

7. Rafal - @gorzik

Rating: 5 (108 reviews)

Specialty: 3D models for games

Highlights: Custom 3D models, meticulous attention to detail.

Give your game a cool look with custom 3D models from Rafal!

8. Kovaliou Mikita - @nikitoss220

Rating: Top Rated (5 stars from 266 reviews)

Specialty: Sci-fi designs for weapons

Highlights: Futuristic designs, high-quality 3D models.

Infuse your game with a space-age vibe with Kovaliou Mikita!

9. Alec M - @alecmck

Rating: Top Rated (5 stars from 246 reviews)

Specialty: Maps for games

Highlights: Custom battle maps, exclusive rights to your maps.

Transform your game world with customized maps from Alec M!

10. Sara E - @sa_elarx

Rating: Top Rated (5 stars from 64 reviews)

Specialty: Game background paintings

Highlights: Beautiful background paintings using 2D and 3D techniques.

Make your game world visually stunning with Sara E's artistic backgrounds!

11. Greg - @raxxis

Rating: Top Rated (5 stars from 244 reviews)

Specialty: Designs for spaceships and vehicles

Highlights: Unique sci-fi designs, nearly two decades of experience.

Give your game an otherworldly touch with spaceship designs from Greg!

12. Afnan S. - @allstar2000

Rating: Top Rated (5 stars from 5 reviews)

Specialty: Sci-fi weapon designs

Highlights: Experienced concept artist, detailed 3D models.

Embrace the future with Afnan S.'s futuristic designs for your game!

Conclusion: Elevate your gaming experience in 2023 by enlisting the expertise of these twelve exceptional artists. Impress your players, enhance your visuals, and transform your gaming project into a masterpiece. Message these artists now and embark on a visual journey that brings your gaming ideas to life!

This article contains affiliate links. If you make a purchase, I may earn a commission at no extra cost to you.

[hotelekipmancom]

hotelekipman.com

https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/acik-tuvalet-kagitligi-304-paslanmaz/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/ahsap-kat-servis-arabasi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/ahsap-katlanir-cift-torbali-kat-arabasi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/ahsap-katlanir-tek-torbali-kat-arabasi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/ahsap-uc-katli-buyuk-tekerlekli-dekoratif-servis-arabasi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/ahsap-uc-katli-dekoratif-servis-arabasi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/akilli-kapak-tuvalet-fircasi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/welcome-to-flatsome-an-amazing-responsive-and-retina-ready-theme/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/home/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/ankastre-sivi-sabunluk/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/just-a-cool-blog-post-with-a-gallery-2/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/featured_item/another-print-package/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/featured_item/awesome-pencil-poster/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/ayakli-tuvalet-kagitligi-set-paslanmaz/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/bambu-koku-ozel-karisim-otel-spa-resturant-tipi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/elements/banner-grid/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/banyo-havlusu-90-x-150-800-gr-20-2-rig-iplik/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/beyaz-blok-kapi-minibar/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/beyaz-cam-kapi-minibar/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/beyaz-ucuz-tek-kullanimlik-otel-terligi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/blog/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/elements/blog-posts/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/demos/business-demos/booking/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/bornozluk-ikili-304-paslanmaz/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/brassco-aynali-kartli-kilit-sistemi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/brassco-bilgi-alma-karti/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/brassco-dnd/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/brassco-ecoline-aynali-kartli-kilit-sistemi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/brassco-energy-saver/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/brassco-hotel-rf-id-kart/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/brassco-kart-kodlayici/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/brassco-moderna-tifany-aynali-kartli-kilit-sistemi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/brassco-norma-metro-rozetli-kartli-kilit-sistemi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/brassco-studio-aynali-kartli-kilit-sistemi/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/brassco-yazilim-lisansli/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/buklet-malzemeleri/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/elements/buttons/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/cam-kapili-exclusive-minibar/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/cart/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/checkout/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/cift-kovali-temizlik-arabasi-metal-pres/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/elements/pages/contact/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/elements/countdown/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/duvar-tipi-sivi-sabunluk-1000-ml-paslanmaz/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/duvar-tipi-sivi-sabunluk-500-ml-paslanmaz/ https://www.hotelekipman.com/product/duyar-balans-vanasi-statik-tip-pik-dokum-govdeli-pn16-yivli/

[mentalnahigijena]

Budimo odgovorni, kad već u škole ne uče Ti MORAŠ znati historiju svog Slavnog Naroda! Napoleonova "slavna" vojska ulazi 1806 na dio Jadranske obale što pripadao Veneciji s naše strane, padaju grad za gradom te su u tom valu okupacije zauzeli Herceg Novi. Kotorski dio zaliva zauzeli su Crnogorci i Rusi. Po saznanju da su francuzi osvojili Novi, Crnogorska vojska, Bokelji, Grblani i Rusi kreću na Novi i oslobađaju ga od francuza koji se povlače u Dubrovnik. ( Ođe naci moroni moraju znati 99% Bokelja su katolici !) Iz želje za oslobađanjem Slavenskog naroda njegove teritorije Naša vojska kreće na zapad na Dubrovnik: 1. Zašto nikada niko nije napisao, objavio istorisku važnu činjenicu što je trebala biti dio istorije što se u školama uči? - opsada grada ulazak u njega te francuska odstupanje do zadnjih kula u gradu što sve traje 7 dana. 2. Zašto Naša vojska nije osvojila te zadnje kule grada,već se povukla? Od tog boja pa do ulaska francuza u Boku Kotor je vrijeme koje opet ima Bojeva i istoriskih uspjeha sve ovo do poltičkog dogovora kome će pripast teritorija Venecije. Kako su francuzi bili dobro nagrđeni u Novom, potvrđuje njihovo groblje, što je nekada bilo pod zidine grada, kako su prešli grobovi na drugu bandu u zajedničku grobnicu kod crkve Sv.Ilija to već još jedan roman sekte od Crkve! 3. Kao su se franuzi odužili domicilnom narodu, prije negoli su napustili teritoriju Boke a koja je opet političkim putem pripala monarkiji? Opljačkali "kultulni francuzi kotorsku katedralu sv. Tripuna istopili relikvije od srebra i zlata pa kovali novce da njime isplate vojsku i domaću ulizničku fukaru! Nije ni čudo kako je Napoleon pao a tek kako su kulturni francuzi roknuli kad od Relikvija ukradenih novce kuju, Fuj bagro "kulturna"!

[bloodkingdomrp]

♚THEODORE.DOLION

“ I talk to God but the sky is empty “

✚ AGE & DOB: Thirty-Seven & November 13th, 1981 ✚ OCCUPATION: Partner at Dolion & Associates ✚ AFFILIATION: Kovali & Consigliere

♛THE HISTORY♛

Theodore Dolion, the son of a single Catholic mother, grew up in the slums of Chicago. He only knew his father as that “alcoholic bastard” who left before he was born. He never cared to look for him, as his mother Marisha, was enough. He was never without food or nurture, but what he didn’t see as a child was the sacrifice his mother made to make sure this was the case. He was only a child when he found that he had a gift, a gift to talk his way out of most anything that came down on him. He was not much of a fighter, usually coming off as weak to the neighborhood boys; it was this that caused him to learn that he was a master manipulator. An absolutely phenomenal liar. 

The best lies come from truth, evidence to support the lie and if you say the lie enough with enough conviction it becomes the truth. It wasn’t long before he had people leaving him alone by redirection and changes in opinion. He’d take small aspects of their lives, the secrets they held dear, then he’d use them to control them. He grew up relishing in this power. When he was sixteen, tragedy hit his home. Marisha was killed in a seemingly random act as some poor idiot was robbing a convenience store. Theo wanted revenge, he wanted the man who had taken away the only bit of importance in his life to pay. He used what little money he had to pay off a beat cop to look the other way, but he convinced a few of the local boys to track down and bring him the guy who had killed his mother. The man claimed it was an accident, that he hadn’t meant to harm her, Theo didn’t care for his pleas. It was when he killed that man as a young teen, that he saw something in his lies. God did not exist like his mother always claimed, no one would help Theo except for himself.

Theo ended up spending the next two years in a group home, until he got a full ride scholarship to the University of Chicago. It was here he truly blossomed. He wasn’t just the poor kid from the slums or the bastard of a dead woman, he was just Theodore Dolion and he could decide his own fate. He met someone when he started school, the man who began as just the person sharing his dorm but ended up being the first person Theo felt that he could call a friend (The Messiah), though the man that he represented himself as was always guarded and never would Theo let someone fully in to who he actually was. Truthfully; he was not a happy person, he was angry. He was angry at the world and never wanted to be taken advantage of again. If that meant manipulating those around him to like him, then so be it. He quickly became well liked and popular among his classmates. After all, the best liars make you feel special to your face, but are quick to stab you in the back.

Theo presented himself as a people pleaser, he made people feel good and made sure they either wanted him, loved him or he had something to use against them. His battles weren’t fought with fists, they were fought with words. He took on male and female lovers, though he never truly returned affections, he left a trail of broken hearts. If he’d ever stopped to be honest with himself he may have found that he’d actually fallen in love with (The Messiah) though he never admitted that even to himself. Love wasn’t an emotion he could afford if he was going to keep others exactly where he needed them to be at all times. His gift for manipulation and control lead him to be very studious when it came to his studies.

He was smart and it showed. He quickly rose to the top members of his class, ending up on the Dean’s list and gaining notoriety around campus. It was this academic prowess that lead to him gaining the grants he needed to make his way into what would become his lifelong career. He reached a crossroads, where he could follow his friend into one path or continue on into his own forged path with law school. He chose the University of Chicago Law School. He excelled at it, more then he ever believed he might, becoming a master at winning his cases. He could talk his own opponents into admitting they were wrong, he had a silver tongue and a winning smile that got him most anything in and out of class. 

When he graduated, he started off at the bottom of a local law firm, trying his best to work his way up the ranks. While he found some success, he for the first time in a long time found that he had some people possibly able to read him. He used his time to forge his edges and cut himself into a keen lawyer. The older he got, the better he got at working those around him. Within a few years, he had even senior partners eating out of his hand. That was when he found that he liked the finer things in life. He wanted the power, the money and the things that came along with it. He liked the feel of imported sheets and the taste of the finest alcohols, he didn’t want to give them up and that meant becoming more wealthy. 

He had an image to keep up now. One of power and he had to appear pious. He decided that his current firm was holding him back, he had to remove them from his own path. He spent a couple of years building up evidence of any wrong doing or shadow deal that the company participated in and he brought them down with an iron fist. He became something of a household name as the “Good Lawyer” who exposed the manipulations and wrong doings of a major law firm. It allowed him to set up his own firm, Dolion and Associates. Followed quickly by his charity in his mother’s name, he didn’t particularly care for the people he didn’t know, but the Marisha Dolion Foundation funded two homes for abused women and victims of violence. His life changed though when his firm, Dolion and Associates took on a case representing a member of the rumored Kovali crime family. 

He won the case, easily in his opinion, but getting the man off without charges caught the eyes of the Kovali. They approached him, looping him into the organization and using his firm to represent all of their law disputes. He started at what many would call the bottom, but he was never one to rest on his laurels. Within a short amount of time, he had proven his value, rising in the ranks to keep the Kovali safe from the law and win many cases for them. He became something of a broker, the face of the organization when it came to public dealings and moving suspicion away from the Kovali. He became enraptured with the under dealings and had a knack for looking at everything from all angles that made him integral in finding things out for anyone who needed the information. 

He met many people in the Kovali family and outside of it. He grew to become trusted by many, thanks to his way with words and value he proved to those around him. He found himself loyal to the Kovali. They offered him what he’d always desired. Security and power. No one could touch him now. He was for the first time in his life, truly in a place where he felt he could control the world. He was important and he knew it. He worked the world around him and made himself a powerful home along with powerful allies. Some he didn’t trust, some he did, some others he simply used as a means to an end for the Kovali goals. He would make the world bend the knee to his new family if it meant maintaining this level of security in his life. 

♜ THE DETAILS♜

(+): + confident   + motivated   +  charming     

(-): - deceitful  - insecure  - greedy

Face Claim: Tom Ellis

written by CJ | MST

[walkonthewilderside]

"Ask me what was the most beautiful moment of my life and I can tell you exactly: it was when the nurse brought in my baby with his hair brushed into a cowlick, with long eyelashes, and eyebrows that looked painted on his soft little face, and said, "Here you have one handsome little boy!" The whole word lit up and burst into song, the bare hospital room filled with the scents of paradise, and suddenly my father and mother and grandmother appeared beside my bed, smiling. I pressed that little head close to me and said to myself, differently than I had ever said it before, "Life...life..."

[dance-world]

Yury Kovaliou - photo by Pawel S Suschtschönok

[kingkovaly]

<she no angel>•

[aagdolla]

[serakaran-archive]

She cannot recall the exact moment of her disappearance from the Kovali business, cannot pinpoint even the day, but Sera Karan knows that she has been vacant for just over a month. Yet eternally married to the job and unable to sever ties entirely, she has born witness to the calamity over these past few weeks... Albeit at a distance. The hotel’s television trained upon news of Irena’s arrest, the riots, the police raids–– including that of her own establishment. Her phone filled to the brim with unopened messages and unheard voicemails as she attempted to quell the unfathomable betrayal which haunted her behind weighted lids; perhaps even now she had yet to reach a place of forgiveness. 

It had been a singular message on the sixteenth of September, which she managed to glance over as it arrived, that softened an impenetrable shell against the majority. Happy Birthday, Sera. Emilia’s name and the accompanying emojis placed by the younger woman enough to spur the capo into opening it. Seven days later she discovered herself on the compound doorstep, loathing that emotion had torn her away from this world and simultaneously dragged her back in the same manner.

The keys tremble within her palm and Sera cannot bring herself to physically open the door. What would she even say? Had enough anger left her body over these past four weeks to prevent lashing out at the nearest figure? This was a mistake. Shaking dark tresses in the evening light, she pivots on the gilded stoop to head back towards the vehicle parked in the shadows when a familiar face appears and all movement comes to a heavy pause.

"––I was just leaving.”