#like their is so much more rich history there just inching to be uncovered | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

xtruss · 1 year

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Alcatraz Island still draws tourists for its history as a federal penitentiary. But it also has a rich past as little-known military base, erected to guard against foreign invasion. Image Credit: Mbprojekt Maciej Bledowski, iStock

Ground-Penetrating Radar Reveals Military Structures Buried Beneath Alcatraz Penitentiary

Using non-invasive techniques, archaeologists have confirmed the presence of a coastal fortification beneath what was once the prison’s recreation yard.

— By Katherine J. Wu, Published March 4, 2019 | August 02, 2023

Alcatraz might be best known as a popular tourist destination, the site of the former high-security prison that once held Al Capone. But a team of archaeologists has now unveiled new evidence of this San Francisco Bay island’s often overlooked military history.

In the study, published last Thursday in the journal Near Surface Geophysics, researchers used non-invasive technologies to pull back the curtain on a stunningly well-preserved 19th century coastal fortification that lies beneath the ruins of this infamous federal penitentiary. The work confirms that while prison construction in the early 1900s destroyed much of the former military installation, several structures were buried more or less intact, enshrining a critical sliver of Alcatraz’s colorful past.

“This really changes the picture of things,” says study author Timothy de Smet, an archaeologist at Binghamton University. “These remains are so well preserved, and so close to the surface. They weren’t erased from the island—they’re right beneath your feet.”

Study author Timothy de Smet used non-invasive techniques to create a subsurface map of remains of Alcatraz Island's former military fortification. Image Credit: Timothy de Smet, Binghampton University

Prior to the mid-1800s, Alcatraz Island was a barren strip of land capable of supporting little more than a raucous population of seabirds. But in the wake of the California Gold Rush, the United States government looked to the rocky outcrop as a potential military base to protect the newly bustling city from foreign invasion. Over the next several decades, a stone- and brick-based fortification was erected, then rebuilt as earthen structures better equipped to handle erosion. But Alcatraz struggled to keep pace with the rapid changes in artillery during and after the Civil War era, and by the late 1800s, the island’s defenses were essentially obsolete. Military pursuits on Alcatraz were abandoned shortly thereafter.

When the island’s prison was erected around the turn of the 20th century, little physical evidence of its former architecture remained—or so many thought. The new study, led by de Smet, says otherwise. To look beneath the surface, the researchers deployed ground-penetrating radar, which pulses electromagnetic waves into the earth, returning signals that can visualize remains without excavation. The strategy uncovered a labyrinth of subterranean structures, including an earthwork traverse, a kind of defensive trench, running beneath the penitentiary’s former recreation yard.

“Below the Surface, Alcatraz is Still Full of Mysteries”

“This really reinforces what several historians and archaeologists had long suspected,” says study author and Alcatraz historian John Martini. “Up until this point, we had nothing to go on except for a few visible trace remains and maps—and a lot of suspicion.”

In a way, Martini says, the findings reflect just how limited real estate was on Alcatraz, which clocks in at less than 50 acres. “On a small island, there’s only so many places you can build,” he says. “And it’s unlikely they went to the trouble of demolishing all this stuff.”

A 15-inch Rodman cannon and its gun crew, 1869. These were the largest guns mounted on Alcatraz. Image Credit: National Park Service, Golden Gate National Recreation Area

Because they’re both sensitive and non-destructive, techniques like ground-penetrating radar are crucial for these kinds of investigations, and can complement historical records that survived the era, says Jolene Babyak, an Alcatraz historian who was not involved in the study.

With these results in hand, de Smet and his colleagues plan to continue archaeological investigations under Alcatraz. Going forward, only time will tell what this rock will reveal, Martini says. “Below the surface, Alcatraz is still full of mysteries,” he says. “There’s still a whole lot to be learned.”

Soldiers posing in the island’s ordnance yard. A brick Citadel capped the summit of Alcatraz. 1869. Image Credit: National Park Service, Golden Gate National Recreation Area

#NOVA | PBS #Ground-Penetrating Radar #Military Structures #Alcatraz Penitentiary #Non-invasive Techniques #Archaeologists #Coastal Fortification #Tourist Destination #High-Security Prison #Al Capone #San Francisco Bay #Military History #Near Surface Geophysics #Timothy de Smet #Binghamton University #California Gold Rush #Civil War Era

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blueiscoool · 3 years

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460-Year-Old Hunting Bow Discovered in Alaska

Archaeologists and other experts are still working to uncover more details about the bow’s origin and history

National Park Service employees made an unlikely discovery in the backcountry of Lake Clark National Park and Preserve in Alaska this past September: a 54-inch wooden hunting bow that was found under 2 feet of water, but still intact.

Scientists and archeologists are analyzing the hunting bow in an attempt to learn more about its origin and history. According to radiocarbon dating conducted by the NPS, the bow is estimated to be 460 years old, ranging in origin between 1506 and 1660. The real mystery lies not in how old the bow is, but where it came from.

Park officials found the antique weapon on Dena’ina lands, an Athabascan indigenous people whose ancestral lands cover much of South-Central Alaska, including a large portion of Lake Clark National Park and Preserve. However, preliminary research suggests that the handcrafted bow might not be of Dena’ina origin. After consulting with Elders and comparing the bow with similar artifacts from that time period, experts believe the artifact has more in common with a Yup’ik or Alutiq style bow.

The homeland of the Dena’ina, which comprises roughly 41,000 square miles along the coast of the Cook Inlet, is called the Denaʼina Ełnena, and it includes lands where present-day Anchorage is located. Dena’ina lands also cover much of Lake Clark National Park and Preserve, including the lake itself, which is traditionally known as “Qizhjeh Vena”.

The Dena’ina culture, which prioritizes a connection to nature and respect for the wilderness, has a rich history in the Athabascan region. “We call this ‘K’etniyi’ meaning ‘it’s saying something,” writes Karen Evanhoff, cultural anthropologist for Lake Clark National Park and Preserve.

Anthropologists have also learned that the Dena’ina regularly interacted with indigenous peoples from neighboring regions, including the Yup’ik who live in the coastal region of southwestern Alaska, from Bristol Bay along the Bering coast and up to Norton Sound. This intercultural history would help explain how a Yup’ik bow might end up on Dena’ina homelands in the first place.

“For the Dena’ina people, trading and sharing knowledge with their Yup’ik neighbors as well as other groups such as the Tanana, Tlingit, Ahtna, Deg Hit’an and coastal residents of Prince William Sound and Kodiak was common,” the NPS explains.

Experts are still working to piece together the clues, however, and the cultural history of the bow is just one part of the puzzle.

Soon after it was discovered, the bow was transported to the Park Service’s Regional Curatorial Center in Anchorage, where experts have inspected the artifact and analyzed its natural origins. As part of this analysis, the NPS brought in Dr. Priscilla Morris, a wood identification consultant with the U.S. Forest Service.

“After inspecting the artifact, I am leaning towards spruce,” Morris told the NPS after taking a closer look at the bow. “Birch is also a suspected species, but I did not see any anatomical characteristics that lead me to believe birch over spruce.”

Morris explained that her hypothesis was based solely on what she could see underneath a hand lens, and that a concrete identification would require looking at a cut-up sample underneath a microscope. This is unlikely to happen anytime soon, however, as the NPS wants to preserve the bow and keep it intact for the time being. As NPS archaeologist Jason Rogers explained, these discoveries are rare in Alaska, especially when compared to Europe and other more developed parts of the world.

“In Alaska, we just don’t have that kind of development so it’s very rare,” Rogers told the local news earlier this week. “It’s very rare for us to come across material like this.”

By Keegan Sentner.

#460-Year-Old Hunting Bow Discovered in Alaska #Lake Clark National Park #ancient artifacts #ancient weapons #archeology #archeolgst

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rufousnmacska · 5 years

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Hi can I request for another modern manorian fic?

This is unforgivably late so I apologize anon! There is more to come, hopefully in the next week.

Museum Day

Part 1

Dorian cringed and covered his ears as shrieking kids ran up the steps to the museum. They moved by him like water flowing around a rock and he wondered again why he’d agreed to be a field trip chaperone.

When he caught sight of his little brother laughing with his friends, his doubts vanished.

Hollin was still struggling with their father’s death. And with their newly arrived uncle who’d stepped in to take over as CEO. Having grown the family business to a sprawling, multi-national company, their father had become a greedy bastard. Dorian supposed it was necessary to reach that level of success. Still, the man had treated his sons relatively well. If withholding affection and attention was treating your children well.

Uncle Perrington made Dorian Sr. look like father of the year material. Hollin was certainly no angel, but no kid deserved the verbal lashings Perrington dealt out.

Dorian had one more semester of school and then he’d take Hollin and leave. In the meantime, chaperoning his brother’s class trip to the museum was the least he could do.

A teacher started to form the kids into groups and Dorian peered through the revolving door to the main entrance. The building housed both a natural history museum and an art museum. As a fifth-year architecture student, he’d spent some time in the art wings, but had never ventured into the other side. All those bones and stuffed animals never appealed to him. The kids’ excitement was infectious though, and he found himself eager to get started.

Once within the towering entry hall, Dorian took his group aside to wait for a tour guide and then buried his head in a map of the building. When Hollin and his friends became suddenly and uncharacteristically quiet, he looked up to see what had caused it.

His eyes met those of the guide, and as one, their jaws dropped in awkward recognition.

*****

“Why can’t I buy you a beer?”

The dark-haired princeling seemed to have a problem with her getting her own drink. Even if Manon hadn’t known he was a Havilliard – probably a lesser known cousin or something – his clothes pegged him for a rich boy. Gray pants and a blazer - who the hell wore a blazer to go out on a Saturday night? - and short curls that looked too messy to be anything but carefully arranged. Some spoiled brat out with his friend, looking for cheap booze and easy hook-ups in the bad part of town.

She glanced over to where Asterin was holding his friend against the wall, kissing him while his hands groped her ass. With an annoyed sigh, she had to admit their plan seemed to be going well for one of them. Turning back, she found he’d moved his bar stool an inch or two closer to her.

People hitting on her was common, and something she usually dismissed with a look that was scary enough to send them running. Being hit on here though… It didn’t happen. Ever. Most of the bar’s customers were family or people she’d known half of her life, making them family all the same. That was probably why Asterin had practically launched herself at that guy. He was fresh blood.

Just like the princeling, Manon caught herself thinking.

The moment the two had walked in, his blue eyes were locked on her. Manon had turned away, not interested. But a little later she’d turned to see him smiling at some joke his friend had made. Which lead to her getting caught staring. Which lead to Asterin abandoning her for the tall blonde and opening the door for this discussion over who was buying the drinks.

“Because I said so.” His grin widened at the growl in her voice and Manon had to look away before she got thoroughly trapped in it. “Besides,” she returned the grin, adding a knife sharp edge all her own. “I’m not drinking tonight.” She surprised herself by almost telling him she had to work early the next day. But he didn’t need to know that.

“As it happens”, he said, reaching back to get his glass of soda, “neither am I. So let me amend my offer.” He made a show of looking her up and down. But not in a creepy way. It was thoughtful and a little exaggerated and she had to bite back a smile. “You look like a Shirley Temple kind of girl…”

“Oh my god,” Manon groaned, unable to keep from laughing. And before she could stop him, he was ordering one for her.

*****

It was her. The white-haired witch from that bar he’d never been able to find again.

Chaol had called her a witch after hearing about that night. How else to explain Dorian’s obsession to find her. Or Gavriel never shutting up about the blonde he’d hooked up with.

“You’re both idiots,” Chaol had said. Only to be smacked on the arm by his girlfriend.

“They’re bewitched,” Yrene said. “Not idiots. I think it’s romantic!”

Chaol just shook his head. “So those women were witches. That doesn’t mean these two,” he pointed at his roommates, “aren’t idiots.”

Dorian had tried to retrace their steps. He remembered the parking garage they’d parked in, but from there, he’d had no luck. Gavriel, too drunk that night to recall getting there, was useless in the search. But he helped, being just as eager as Dorian to find it and the blonde again.

And now, here she was. About to lead him and a bunch of kids on a tour of the museum.

“Manon.” When he looked up from her name tag and found her still staring at him, eyes blazing gold, he allowed himself one self-satisfied smirk. She’d insisted on no names that night. “I’m Dorian,” he said, enjoying the sight of her reddening cheeks. But then her eyes flashed wide for a second in understanding and he wished no one had ever heard of his family.

“Can we see the T-Rex or are we just gonna stare at each other all day?” one of the students yelled, causing the group to break out into laughs and a cheer of agreement.

Smoothing out her oversized museum shirt, Manon cleared her throat and began calling out rules for the tour. Dorian listened dutifully, trying to ignore the memories of that night playing through his mind.

*****

Alcohol would be the perfect excuse. But unfortunately, there was no excuse for the dancing. Manon was not someone who danced. Especially here, in her father’s bar.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. When they were teenagers, she and her gang of cousins and friends would sing and dance to whatever cheesy 80’s songs were still working on the old jukebox in the corner. But that wasn’t really dancing.

She’d never slow danced with someone before.

After an hour or two of flirting and laughing, and another god awful Shirley Temple, the princeling had convinced her to dance with him. What was she supposed to do when Asterin changed the song midway through? She couldn’t just walk away when the music slowed. That would be rude.

So here she was, dancing in the arms of a Havilliard while another slow song began, trying not to think about how good he smelled. Or felt. Or might taste.

Asterin and her blonde were dancing too, but not seriously. They were swirling each other around, paying no attention to the music. She always admired that ability of Asterin’s to just not give a fuck and have fun.

They’d both had a similarly shitty upbringing, so Manon often wondered why she was incapable of letting go like that. Then she’d remember how much more Asterin had suffered, remembered that it was as much a defense mechanism as anything. She of course had her own defenses as a result of growing up with their grandmother. Once they’d escaped, and she’d found her father, Manon had thought she’d let those walls down a bit.

Having her first slow dance at the age of 26 might be a sign that she hadn’t.

When the song ended, she looked up into gemstone eyes and decided she wanted to have some fun of her own.

“You want to get out of here?”

*****

This was a nightmare. Truly awful. She didn’t know how her day could get any worse. This was why she never did anything fun. This was how her luck worked. Of course the one guy she has anonymous sex with would show up at work for a goddamn tour with a bunch of kids.

And, I’m wearing the ugliest damn clothes I own, she thought miserably, leading the group up to the second floor.

The kids seemed to be enjoying themselves at least.

Manon was not overly fond of children. Usually they were fine. But more often than not, they had a way of seeing right through you and blurting out whatever secret they’d uncovered. Leading school groups was a price she was willing to pay for the experience and connections she was gaining at the museum. And she’d learned that if she kept talking, kept asking questions, kept them entertained… The next thing she knew, it was over.

This group was doing well, answering her questions, asking a lot of their own. It would have been perfect. If not for the princeling - basically a true prince she knew now - whose eyes followed her everywhere and saw every blush that crossed her cheeks and every glance she stole in his direction.

Directing them all into a room, she ignored Dorian as he passed her. After everyone was inside she began to talk about the displays of rocks and minerals lining the dark walls. This exhibit was one of her favorites because of the reactions it got. With the T-rex and triceratops skeletons just downstairs, people gasping at a bunch of rocks was always a highlight of giving a tour. The second she flipped off the main lights and hit a switch to activate the UV lights, the kids oohed and aahed at the brilliant reds and greens and blues of the fluorescent minerals. The UV moved from rock to rock, spotlighting each one in turn. Manon was supposed to name them as they were featured, but she usually didn’t, letting them just enjoy the show.

It was mostly dark, so she risked a glance towards Dorian. He was standing with a boy she assumed was his brother, even though they looked nothing alike. The smile he wore was reminiscent of the one that had ensnared her that night. A smile that seemed to come so easily, so often. A smile she didn’t think herself capable of. When he turned in her direction, she brought the lights back up and lead them to the next exhibit.

*****

Being Gavriel’s designated driver was never fun. It didn’t happen often since he rarely drank. But that was the problem. He was a lightweight when it came to alcohol, and a heavyweight when it came to lugging his ass home. Chaol had once thrown out his back trying to help the guy up the stairs to their apartment.

So when they’d started the night with Chaol bowing out, and Gavriel needing to unwind from exams, Dorian was expecting an evening of babysitting and boredom. Even Gavriel’s insistence that they find bars in sections of the city they’d never been to before wasn’t enough to rouse his interest.

Until they’d found this place. Until he’d seen her. Standing at the bar in jeans and a sweater, her silvery white hair falling down her back in a messy braid. Blood red lips and black nails. The exact opposite of what most women he knew wore on a night out. And she was the most gorgeous woman he’d ever laid eyes on. The thought had made him laugh. It was such a cliche. But even cliches could be true sometimes.

And now she was pulling him out a back door and down an alley.

Dorian was stone cold sober. So why did he feel like he was floating? Why was his brain buzzing and his heart pounding? She glanced back at him and smiled as she led him onto another street.

Oh, he thought, grinning back. That’s why.

There was nothing in his system except her.

They stopped at a door and before he could try to figure out where they were, she had it unlocked and pulled him inside. And before he could say anything, she was kissing him.

It took every ounce of self control he possessed, but he needed to ask. So breaking apart from the softest lips he’d ever kissed, he said, “Wait. What’s your name?“

With a smirk that set him on fire, she said, “No names. Just fun.” Then, more seriously, she asked, “Do you have a condom?”

He pulled a couple out of his pocket to show her and she rolled her eyes, still smiling. But then he hesitated. As much as he wanted to know her name, Dorian realized that if she told him, he’d have to give his. He could lie, but he didn’t want to do that with her. And if this one night was all she was willing to give him, he’d take it. On her terms.

“I’m at your command,” he said, losing his breath at the heat that overtook her at his words.

“I’ll try to be gentle,” she teased as she took his lower lip between her teeth. Dorian groaned and lifted her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist. “Down the hall. First door on the left,” she said, sounding out of breath too.

As he carried her to the bedroom, Dorian uttered a brief, silent thank you to Gavriel for dragging him out tonight.

*****

“Have dinner with me?”

Manon’s eyes slid over to him as the kids ran off into the gift shop, where the tours always ended. They were left alone. No distractions, no excuses.

Dorian knew he was probably crossing a line. He’d done his best to pay attention as she’d led them through the various halls and galleries, but there were a few times when she’d caught him watching her and not the exhibits. She’d been flustered once or twice by him though. Which was why he decided to throw his luck to the wind and just ask.

“What was your favorite exhibit?” she asked, watching the kids as the other groups from their school joined them.

“Excuse me?” That was not the answer he’d been expecting.

“Was there a certain dinosaur you liked? Or one of the dioramas? Maybe something in the Hall of Minerals?” Manon finally turned to look at him, her face expressionless. “What was your favorite part?” She repeated the question a little more slowly, enunciating each word.

He hesitated, sensing a trap. The answer forming on the tip of his tongue - You, of course - would undoubtedly spring it and send him limping home with his pride in ruins.

“Uh…” He fumbled through his brain for something, anything, as he realized he’d been silent for too long. “The dinosaurs. I liked the giant winged ones.” It wasn’t a lie, they were his favorites. And not just because her voice seemed to grow more excited while talking about them. For some reason, they seemed more unbelievable than the other fossil skeletons, more fantastical and amazing. But under the pressure of her piercing stare, there was no way he’d remember any of their names.

Giving nothing away to signify if he’d given a good reply, she simply asked, “The raptors?”

Dorian tried not to sound relieved. “Yeah, the raptors. They were cool. Frightening as hell, but cool.” Manon made a disappointed sigh and he knew instantly that he’d fucked up.

“Raptors are birds of prey. Or small carnivorous dinosaurs. Like Jurassic Park.” She curved a finger that sported an exceptionally sharp nail. “The giant flying ones are pterosaurs. Which are reptiles. If you’d been paying attention, maybe you would have known that.” Stepping closer to him, her voice soft and lethal, she said, “Perhaps if you could answer my question properly, my answer wouldn’t be no.”

Before he could say anything to defend himself, Hollin rushed over and grabbed his hand. As his brother pulled him towards baskets of fake fossils for sale, Dorian glanced back at Manon. She was basking in the satisfaction of tricking him. But there was something else there besides the smooth as cream smile. Her eyes were blazing with a challenge.

He was pulled away again and when he looked back, she was gone. As Hollin picked out his souvenirs, Dorian decided the two of them should start coming to the museum more often. His brother enjoyed it, and there was the extra benefit of getting Hollin out of their toxic home. And he clearly needed to bone upon his dinosaur names.

To be continued…

I don’t think tags are working, but just in case…

@itach-i @nestasbucket @manontrashbeak @bookishwitchling @jimetg98 @mis-lil-red @chloe123love607 @sierrareads @yourfacesickens-me @awesomelena555 @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @blackhavilliard

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#manorian #manon blackbeak #dorian havilliard #throne of glass #manorian au #my writing #anon ask #pterosaurs are not dinosaurs #lol the more you know #they do fascinate and scare the shit out of me tho #i have nothing against shirley temples!

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orchidcous · 5 years

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read the prophet recently ? says a certain ISAÍAS BLACK is in town. word says he’s from ilvermorny, 34 years old, and currently works as a vigilante. asked around, and most folks say he’s even-handed and resourceful, so that’s good stuff. get on his bad side, and he can be abrasive and resentful. apparently, if you need to know anything about defence against the dark arts, he’s the person to go to. — played by jon kortajarena.

— BASICS.

full name: isaías leonel black

name meaning: god is salvation, lion

 date of birth: december 27th

place of birth: new york city, u.s.a.

 age: 34

 star sign:  sagittarius

alma mater: ilvermorny

house: house wampus

profession: vigilante

alignment: true neutral

mbti: istp

patronus: hawk

boggart: dementor

languages spoken: english ( native speaker ), spanish ( native speaker ), french ( fluent ), italian ( fluent ), german ( fluent ),

talents: defense against the dark arts, parseltongue

wand: 14½ inch, brittle, yew wood with phoenix feather core

mother’s name: jimena black née sánchez, deceased

father’s name: cornelius black, deceased

siblings, if any: none

blood status: pure-blood

height: 6′2″

hair colour: dark brown

eye colour: brown

— BACKSTORY.

from the bottom of my heart, yikes.

isaias was born in the upper east side of new york city, to a member of the black family of britain, and jimena sánchez, a spanish witch that immigrated to the united states. estates had to be run in the new country, and cornelius black was more than up for the task: the steadily growing nexus of dark wizards in the united states needed a leader. or at least, one among many.

there was nothing especially off with isaias’ childhood. papa would be away for weeks at a time, his mother would be distant and miserable so often, and he was left to explore around his brick manor home, alone, with a plan at the back of his mind to run away if needed. his mother would sometimes let hooded figures into the house to speak in chambers he wasn’t allowed into.

his relationship with his father was a bit — strange. cornelius was by no means cruel or harsh with his son, but treated him more like a pet than anything, something to be fed, clothed and sometimes kept as company in lonely evenings, but not as a human being, someone to know. on top of this, because he was away from home so often, isaias came to think of him as nearly a stranger, just one that sometimes patted his head and kissed his mother.

jimena did as much as she could to fill the gap that her husband left. tried to be there for isaias as much as she could, but there was only so much time she could make for him in between running the household, dealing with the dark wizards that would often frequent their home, and keeping up with her husband. she had never possessed any special liking to the dark arts — and she had thought cornelius was more prudent than he really was.

a lack of prudence inevitably gets you killed. it did cornelius, at least, when isaias was nearing eleven, just old enough to go to ilvermorny. but the death was no small accident or execution for betrayal. it was the result of a thorough investigation by the united states’ magical congress. a confrontation escalated, during which aurors were forced to kill cornelius. but the investigation didn’t end yet. every last thread had to be followed.

first isaias’ uncles and aunts, then his mother, then his mother’s siblings, and finally him. by the time he was allowed to go to ilvermorny, he was already two years older than the prescribed starting date — though it wasn’t too difficult to buy his way into school.

when you’re a black and your father’s the first wizard to have been killed by aurors in a decade, it does your reputation no favours. when he came to ilvermorny, lanky and gruff, whispers followed him from the moment he ascended mount greylock. his sorting ceremony was unusually long, with no house’s mascot stepping forward to welcome him until he scathingly demanded that one do. naturally, he was sorted into wampus, the house that favours the hot-blooded.

school was ... not fun. apart from being more or less ostracised from any of the people with moral compasses, and frequently got roped into the gang of blood purists at ilvermorny, a small though powerful group. this was where he’d find his so-called friends during his time there.

once out of school, it wasn’t easy to get a steady job. his academic understanding of magic wasn’t good enough for professorship, and it seemed that he’d be doing himself in for a lifetime of pain if he worked for the magical congress. while he certainly had the practical skills to make a good auror, he simply didn’t have the patience for the rules and procedures of it.

then his father’s brother ferdinand made him an offer — join the black clan in the united kingdom. there would always be a place for him there.

call it curiosity, stupidity, boredom. it didn’t matter, because one way or another, he was in london within a few months of graduating, and he was doing minor errands for wizards in no time — plenty of kidnappings, the occasional interrogation. none of it was particularly tasteful to him.

but unlike in ilvermorny, where he was very clearly isaias black in a sea of other students — the recognition he received here was not overfull, not menacing. just what he wanted, just what everyone else got. the feeling of being a part of something.

after a couple of years working in europe, he met serafina lestrange, the young and bored heir of a significant pureblood lineage. both of them were guarded, never given a choice or a plan in the world they were born into, and both tumbled into the same road, the same missions, the same bed. what they felt for each other was never love, because neither bothered to unravel the other, unpack scars. if anything, they applied gauze, patched up sores, made each other harder.

at the age of twenty-five, he requested to travel back to the united states — partially because he wanted to relive what he had left behind, give himself some satisfaction in his choice. and partially because he wanted to see his mother.

she was ill — from more than just polio. ill from loneliness, from regret, from feeling that her entire life could’ve been different, had she not settled for marrying a man involved with the dark arts, just because he had money, and stature.

isaias did get to meet her, but it was just a few months later that she passed away.

there was hardly a mercy period before he was reminded of what he was really there to do, besides reminisce. an auror’s life work was threatening to uncover an entire coven of dark wizards in upper new york — there was no easy way to go about it. he had to be eliminated, and his work destroyed. isaias hadn’t really killed anyone before — and it didn’t make much sense to send him in of all people.

until it did. because that auror — was his uncle. his mother’s brother, to be exact. heaven knows what had possessed him to join the police force, but it was no matter. the plan was for isaias to have a happy nephew-uncle reunion with him in his quiet brick manor upstate, spend a day or so exchanging pleasantries — murder him, burn the papers, leave without a trace. isaias had never met the man personally before.

but ricardo was welcoming, despite the news of his sister’s death affecting him silently. isaias felt a nauseating heaviness from the very beginning, knowing that this man was kin, that they were kept apart by forces that should’ve been overcome. in the manor, he saw a different life, one that could’ve been, of fireplaces and warm hearths and people looking after him. had he not been part of a family that prided itself on its disdain for foreigners.

then there was the matter of his family — wife and toddler son, not at all affiliated with magical defence. but if he killed ricardo, he’d have to take everyone else down too. killing an enemy was one thing. killing an innocent ? quite another. not to mention that they were his uncle, aunt and cousin — but orders were orders. and they’d never been a part of his life, so why should they be today ?

he sucked it up and finished the job. it was the most despicable thing he’d ever done, and it fucked him up. in less than a week, he requested to be kept out of the business altogether. mostly he was laughed at.

but because he was adamant to leave, he offered them a deal. he would go, and in return, he would make an unbreakable vow, or rather, three. never to become an auror, never to aid an auror to find a death eater, and never to kill a person with a dark mark.

this seemed to satisfy the london high command well enough. of course, he knew that he would be tracked from then on or the rest of his life anyway.

a while on the run, and he’d figured out a couple of loopholes to the terms of his vow. couldn’t be an auror. fine, the auror’s were steeped in bureaucracy and corruption anyway, it would only be a hindrance to join them. to assist an auror: he knew none, no problem. and as for killing death eaters — he wasn’t about to take anyone’s life again, but he had to take their freedom.

the torturing curse, crucio and the disarming expelliarmus became his closest allies. after debilitating the death eaters he could find, it was only too easy to leave them in places where they would be found by the authorities, given a trial and all the nice stuff — provided they were in a position to speak. this went on for years.

as of 1963, he’s arrived in paris, to join the largest wizarding convention in modern history, with delegates from more than a hundred countries, and of all professionals, rich, poor, ordinary and remarkable. he knew that death eaters had waited ages for something like this, a gathering of fish in one big barrel. it would be easy to shoot at them, all at once.

knowing that it’d happen is certainly an advantage, but such an operation might just be too much for him alone.

#literally END my life #I DESERVE NO RIGHTS #( * sick of these wounds that won’t heal | isaías black. )#( * intros. )

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sweetpea-cc · 6 years

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Lovers of Mine

Chapter One

Synophosis: Natala Halvorsen was Queen of Sicily and Norway when a group of traveling nobles made their way into her kingdom and into her life. Changed into an immortal being in 1113 A.D, she suddenly awakens another part of her that she believed to be dead. Soon, she becomes a sole interest of wicked games for the Mikaelson family. What happens after Natala resurfaces after being thought dead for over 100 years? 800 years by their side and she abandons the without a second thought.

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Palermo, Sicily ❁1103 A.D.

"Must I, father? I do not even know the boy!" a young woman stood in the common area of her family home. Lavish, marble columns supporting the open ceiling, revealing the bright blue sky. The columns were Roman: the ionic columns were so elegantly carved into perfection: the rippled swirl the top rim spouted on both sides. She was hugging her delicate body tightly, trying to find warmth in the sweet, autumn morning. Her hair was loose and the gentle curls fell graciously to the low of her back.

"Yes, la mia Stella." her father sweetly responded, placing a tender kiss on her forehead. She smiled disconsolately at his nickname for her. 'Star' because he always said that her eyes reminded him of the midnight stars shining in the sky. "The King saw you on one his trips down here, spotting you running along the field of brooms. He believes that you would be more than a perfect match for his eldest son, Petter, heir to the throne." he continued to explain the predicament using a soothing voice but it only worried her more.

"My sweet Natala, this could be good for us. Good for our home, this union shall form an alliance between two strong kingdoms. And it shall be because of you, Cara figlia. It is your responsibility as a princess." Natala's head hung low as she merely nodded, who was she to question what her father said was right for her kingdom? No matter how much she wanted nothing to do with it.

New Orleans ❁2010

Natala Halvorsen was uniquely blessed with startling features, with alice-blue eyes that almost appeared a white heaven hue, reminding many of the Arctic Tundra. Her skin was a mixture of ivory and honey, sprinkled in layers of freckles. Her facial features were prominent, cheekbones high and her plump, pink lips causing both male and female alike to flush with desire. Her eyelashes were long, perfect to peek under when she played coy with her latest victims. Her button nose, and her small little ears giving the impression of innocence though one look into her startling eyes, one knew different. Natala's heart-shaped face boded well with her luscious, raven-black hair that added the deepest contrast to her entire appearance as it fell effortlessly past her elbows. She was slim, sign a medium build and it was safe to say she was beautiful, perfect even.

Much like anyone else in the world, Natala had much history under her belt, perhaps a little too much. No one truly knew who she was because she never allowed anyone in- not her family, not her friends and none of her lovers. So much mystery was hidden in her eyes which was incredible considering the saying that you can tell what someone is truly feeling by looking deeply into them. Natala wondered if such a silly quote had any shred of veracity in it.

She wasn't perfect by any means but of course, some of us have a reputation to hold up. According to the little birds that floated around the supernatural world, Natala was calculating, cold, and charismatic. At first impression, most would become captivated by her beauty then startled by the small malicious smile that always seemed to be on her face, like it was frozen there. However, Natala wasn't always like this, then again she doubts anyone ever was. People go through terrible things that have this immense power to shape how their life turns out. She remembered when her heart was light, when she was the epitome of 'kind' and when things were just... simple.

She often found herself reflecting how her life had changed through the centuries, there were so much tragedy and pain but there was also the good and love. After all, without darkness, there cannot be light. It was sad just how true that saying was, Natala would know seeing as she witnessed both sides of the spectrum.

Currently, Natala found herself sitting at Rousseau's, a place that always seemed to be the entertainment center of the French Quarter. It was no secret that around her, people were buzzing with laughter, while some were whispering to their friends, trying to inconspicuously point Natala out. Oh yes, she stuck out like a sore thumb and she knew it. Not that she minded. However, she wasn't just yet ready to be discovered by whoever the gossiping rats behind her report to. It was as if Natala struck gold because not even a moment later, music from the main stage began playing, distracting whoever was watching her. Natala took this opportunity to hide—in plain sight, of course.

The French rustic aesthetic clashed with the jazz music that coalesced with this picturesque café. However, it was a soft, smooth, sexy jazz. There was a tall black man playing the Tenor Saxophone on the far right of the stage. There he was, dressed so dapper in a black suit and blue tie. The sweat on his head glimmered from the minimal light that was projected onto them. There was also a cello player dressed in a cute, youthful dress. It was all black, but her sleeves end just before her elbow. The dress is figure-hugging until her waist and it flows out—much like a small ballgown. She wore black-translucent nylons and velvet two-inch heels. There was a snare drum player wearing sunglasses—sitting on a doctors stool and wearing a fedora. There was lastly a trumpet player and a clarinet player—both obvious twins. They both shared the same strawberry blonde hair that was so evenly curled in the back. Their Prussian blue eyes and rosy cheeks allowed them to stand out. Natala found it quirky and cute the way they wore the same outfit as well—consisting of a plain white t-shirt dress, a black-denim overall dress, black tights, and black open-toed heels.

The upbeat, jazz tune swirled around the bar, a collection of bodies swooning and swaying with the sound of the music as it vibrated against the building. All eyes were on them, watching as they masterfully ran their fingers over their instruments. Natala moved her body along in sync with everyone else's and it was now nearly impossible to spot her. She loved the way the city had come such a long way since she first set her feet on its grounds in 1755. Natala took noticed of the rustic aesthetic of the powder white lamps that dangled over the hickory brown tables shimmered a calming vibe. These same tables were easily hand-carved and sanded down to its perfection by a person—not a machine. The detail in the tables was incredible—each sliver and ring was glossed over by a translucent, even finish. In the center of these tables were ceramic white vases with slivers and splotches of brown on them—and in these vases were a single bright, golden sunflower.

To Natala's right, she watched as a couple was completely engrossed in each other's presence. She watched as the woman let out a small giggle as her lover left a trail of bittersweet kisses from her forehead down to her chin, then back to her lips. Natala would never admit out loud but she missed the feeling of waking up next to someone, missed the feeling of their body keeping her own warm and safe. She sighed deeply as she pushed the ridiculous thought from her mind, as there was no point in dwelling on things that are dead and gone.

Natala barely noticed the group had stopped playing, most likely to take a break, but nonetheless, the crowd has shifted out the door, leaving her uncovered. Before Natala has a chance to move, two local vampire thugs appeared on either side of her, systematically trapping her in the bar seat. Her face completely void of emotion and her signature, malicious smile forming on her lipstick stained lips, she spun around in the seat, resting her elbows gentle against the bar.

"May I help you, gentlemen?" Natala's voice was icy and full of disastrous intent, she never did take being threatened lightly, at least not anymore. Natala twirled a section of her hair between her fingers, her stiletto length nails poking through. The man on her right was rather handsome with dark hair and blue eyes, similar to herself. The cap on his head seemed to draw his entire appearance together, making him look like a musician of some sort, sporting a rather simplistic choice of clothing. To her left was a man with tawny-brown skin, caramel eyes, and dark brown curly hair which oddly reminded her of the rich soil of her homeland. He appeared to be the complete opposite of the first man, searing as his style was more rocker-ish.

"Never seen you around here before." man number two responded in a hostile tone, causing Natala to arch an eyebrow ever so slightly.

"I do suppose that's what happens when the city you live in is a tourist attraction." Natala quip playfully, grabbing her drink from behind her, she keeps her eyes downward, keeping up the whole 'I have no interest in this' façade for the mere drama of it. Her senses spiking, another man walked into the bar and out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the two men standing beside her go rigid like they were a company and their commander was present.

"Thierry. Diego. What are you two doing bothering this lovely woman?" Natala looked up through her long lashes as her icy blue eyes landed on an extremely attractive man. Natala smiled knowingly, taking in his sense of style which appeared to be form-fitting T-shirts that highlighted his sculpted abs underneath. His skin was dark, similar to rocker man on her left that Natala could now identify as 'Diego', she noticed that his eyes were also just as dark and her lips sported a very mischievous grin.

"Just checking her out, Marcel, making sure she isn't a threat," Diego spoke and Natala could almost hear the respect in his voice. She remembered all too well what that was like, remembered the way her subjects dotted upon her like a fragile ornament that would surely shatter but still respected her to only the highest standards. It's was funny to her how much Marcel reminded her of someone she once knew. For just a few moments, Natala's mind drifted many centuries back to when she was a human and held a high title.

Oslo, Norway ❁1112 A.D.

"I am not a house made out of glass, Lord Jorian! I am more than capable of taking care of myself." Natala, now at the bare age of twenty exasperated to her Hand of the Queen, Jorian Alveright. Natala understood why he was always so protective of her, after all it was his bloody oath.

"I understand that Your Grace and I am not denying it. There is no doubt whatsoever that you can handle yourself as you have proved that more times than I can count in the war room. However, despite that, it is my job to keep you safe, at all costs. You are a true monarch, one of the bravest Norway has seen in a few years, it is no secret that everyone is looking up to you. You deserve more than what you are getting." Jorian stood upright, one hand resting by his side and the other on the hilt of his sword. He was a brave man, terribly scared from years of war but his white hair loosely slicked back showed off his impressive features. Natala could truthfully answer that her favorite thing about him was his eyes. They were a unique shade of green with a violent burst of a low hue yellow in them.

Natala stopped her pacing in her chambers and turned to face him, smiling gingerly; "I know this, my Lord and I thank you so much. I do not know where I would be without a trusty adviser and friend as yourself. As for the people of Norway, they needn't worry, I have no plans of going anywhere soon. Petter is a good King, a good man, but sometimes too much power can eat whatever shred of decency is in man." She places a hand on his shoulder as she walked past him, humming a sweet tune as she walked away- Jorian keeping a fair distance, as always.

Present ❁

Marcel grinned like a Cheshire cat, patting a heavy hand upon his little soldier's shoulders. "I got this, you guys can take off." his voice was rich, making Natala smile and without another word, they abide the request, or rather command. Natala's attention was brought back by the heavy sound of Marcel's hand collided with their shoulders. When they were out of sight, Marcel sat in the stool next to her, keeping that lovely smirk on his face. He held out a hand, offering to shake it, which Natala took gracefully. "Natala Halverson, as I live and breathe. Damn, girl, it's good to see you!" Marcel was oddly cheerful and Natala liked the way dimples formed deeply on his face. He still oh so beautiful in her eyes. Taking another sip of her drink, Natala's eyes twinkled with curiosity and happiness to see this man again.

"Marcellus Gerard. Look at you, King of New Orleans. Tell me, how does it feel?" Natala winked at Marcel knowingly. When he was a boy, Natala told him stories of how she really was once upon a time a Queen of two great kingdoms and how it felt to be a very important person with immense responsibilities. Marcel's face broke into a wide as he raised to the bartender, signaling for a drink which she brought over fairly quickly. Natala managed to capture a better look at the woman, taking in her face which possessed long lashes and a strong jawline. It just seemed that everyone in New Orleans was attractive, not that Natala minded. She liked to appreciate the beauty of others. "It's great, I feel like I'm on top of the world. But some days it kicks my ass." he gushed, taking a sip from his glass. Natala laughed and raised her glass to Marcel, indicating she agreed with his statement.

"You know, last I heard, you were dead." Natala raised her eyebrow and a small smile was fighting its way to the front. Marcel returned the smile and let out a long sigh. "I can say the same thing for you." Natala played with the ends of her hair, twirling the strands through her delicate fingers, the year was 1919 and a new dark witch who went by the name 'Papa Tunde' had waltzed into New Orleans, claiming himself as the new leader of the witches. Natala had crossed paths with him the first time when he had interrupted a meeting between Klaus, Elijah, and the Guerrera family. The second time around, she hadn't been so lucky, as the man had linked their lives together in order to draw out more power and then only a few mere hours after that Klaus had delivered the severed head of his twin sons and gouged out his eyes. Natala's screamed had caused Klaus' triumph to only last a few moments when he turned around and found her on the ground, Elijah holding her limp body.

Unbeknownst to them, Natala was always one for keeping herself protected. After all, it was a given if you were going to run with one of the deadliest family in the supernatural world. In event of any death such as this, she had created a spell that would bring her soul back to her body. Highly similar to the Gilbert rings which protected the wearer against death that she had come across years ago when she was in Mystic Falls, except this spell worked on supernatural beings.

A gentle chime from Natala's phone adverted her attention away from Marcel as she looked at the caller I.D not immediately recognizing the number. "Chi è?" 'Who is this?' She responded in Italian as she always did, loving the way the language just rolled off her tongue. Marcel listened in on Natala's conversation and she took notice of that which prompted her to give him a scowl as she shoved him away like a scolding parent. A sweet laugh fell from his lips that made Natala immediately smile. There were very, very few people who Natala held close to her heart and Marcel was one of them, in a way, he was like a brother that she never had.

After a few minutes of simple, short-end answers, Natala tucked her phone back into her pocket, dragging out a long sigh. "Oh, the things I do for family. Sadly, it seems two particular twits are need of my help so I have to cut our reunion short." Natala got up from her seat and Marcel followed suit, they stood before each other for a few minutes, neither of them saying anything. Marcel then brought Natala into a hug which for the first few seconds, she almost immediately rejected but quickly she relaxed her body and gave in. "I'll see you soon," she said, breaking away from the hug and walking away from him. Who knew how long it would be before she saw him again?

Walking through the French Quarter, Natala breathed in the invigorating scent of the New Orleans culture. She had been to every country, every small town in her many centuries alive, but as long as she lived, this city would forever be one of her ultimate favorites. It didn't take long for Natala to board a plane and fly back to one of the most dreadful towns she had ever stepped a foot in; Mystic Falls, Virginia.

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

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Credit to @fafulous bc co-author and totally nice :((((

#the originals #damon salvatore #marcel gerard #niklaus mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #elijah mikaelson #lovers #the vampire diaries #mystic falls #NOLA #vampires #witch #kol mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #fanfic #imagine #oneshot

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australianopal-us · 3 years

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OPAL’S HISTORY AND HEALING POWER

Many cultures have credited Opal with supernatural sources and powers. Arabic legends say that it was struck by lightning from the sky. The ancient Greeks believed that opals gave prophetic gifts to their owners and protected them from disease. Europeans have long regarded this gem as a symbol of hope, purity, and truth. The modern name for the opal gem is derived from the Latin word "Opalus," meaning: "to see a color change." Scientifically, opal is an amorphous mineraloid composed of water and a rich mix of silica composites. Opal jewelry may range anywhere in color from white, or gray, to black. Black opals are the most valuable and widely known type of opal jewelry, because the rainbow of colors that the opal stone omits appears much more vibrant when standing-out against the backdrop of a darker stone. Black opals are unique and very expensive. This is because they can only be found in one location in all of the world. The place is called Lightning Ridge, and it is in Northern New South Wales. Since the late 19th Century, Australia has been the number one country in opal export and production, contributing more than ninety percent of the global output. Opal of differing qualities occurs in over twenty other countries and is particularly indigenous to Zambia, Ethiopia, Peru, Indonesia, New South Wales, New Zealand, Brazil, and Mexico. The earliest known opal jewelry artifacts uncovered in a cave in Kenya by famous anthropologist Louis Leakey were said to have dated back to about 4000 B.C., and most likely originated from Ethiopia. History shows that the discovery and cultivation of the opal stone were important to the prestige and power of several ancient civilizations. Opal, whose colors changed with every shift of light, was rarer than pearls and diamonds and destined to be the most common gem to be associated with the reflection of one's innermost desires and dreams. Early races believed that the opal stone possessed mystical energies that would enable its wearer to see the future.

To the Romans, opal was considered to be a token of hope and one of purity. In the middle ages, the fire opal ring was known as the "eye stone," because it was believed to have a magical power which would help its wearer have sharper eyesight. Blonde women were known to collect as many pieces of opal jewelry as they could muster, because the opal was believed to contain within it the power to magically keep the blonde hair from losing its luster and bright golden color. It was believed legend has it that one ancient Roman emperor offered to trade an entire third of his vast empire for a single opal. Cleopatra's famous lover Mark Antony loved opal. Legend says that he so deeply coveted an opal owned by Roman Senator Nonius for his beloved Cleopatra, that he had the Senator banished after he refused to sell his precious almond-sized stoat; an opal charm, when used properly, could give its owner mystical disappearing powers. Found in 1938 at Lightning Ridge, the "Aurora Australis'' is the world's most valuable black opal. With its dominant red, green, and deep blue hues, this 3' by 1.8' inch 180-carat stone is more than just a pleasure to look at. Dug out from an old seabed encrusted deep within the ocean core, this rare beauty sports a distinct impression of a starfish fossil on its underside. Just last year, Discovered in 1906 by a man named Charlie Dunstan, the 900 carat "Fire Queen '' is the largest opal to date. As for Charlie Dunstan, rumor has it that right after he sold the "Fire Queen," he got drunk and 'lost' two of its big-sized sister stones. In 1910, shortly after the stones had been lost, Dunstan was found dead. It was said that he committed suicide after the loss of his precious stones.

#fire opal ring

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violetsystems · 6 years

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#personal

I’ve been sleeping a lot since I’ve been back. There is probably a lot to be said with the depression that sets in with jet lag and coming back. For me, I’ve been to Korea about fifteen times now or something ridiculous like that. People online always comment how I always end up there during somewhat historic times. This time was probably the most historic because I got to experience the mood in two different countries. There is a lot going on back home that misses the point of everything I’m doing. I should be used to it by now. But after processing all that has happened since February I feel abnormally low about society at least in America. None of the drama that people have involved me in to varying degrees has benefited me at all. Not like it’s my job to go around and be a superhero. I did watch a lot of Marvel movies on vacation. I ended up buying a new tv Thursday because I had reached a conclusion. I’m not going to find anything out there that’s good for me in this city. If anything it’s going to find me. And most of the time here it’s trouble. And it’s become impossible to tell people who never listen to a word you say how much you have to risk by getting involved with the wrong people. They don’t even understand how or why I fly to Korea all the time. They don’t know how different it is for me in Japan or how people on the street recognize and nod early in the morning in Shibuya. Nobody understands to what depth I live my life freely and openly. Everybody is afraid. Afraid to speak to me. Afraid to trust me. Afraid to admit that I might be right. And when you travel half way across the ocean by yourself with no friends and come back years later with less in the States, it slowly becomes a painful realization. There’s no maps for what I do. There’s no shortage of criticism. People telling me behind my back what I can and can’t do and expecting me to follow secret orders. People far richer than I could ever dream to be manipulating me in their boring drama they created for themselves. People expect me to bow to their every whim and fit into whatever narrative is convenient. For as much as I’ve been an ally for intersectional diversity, I’ve had to face a lot of the backlash head on by myself. And people don’t stop because they’re angry and reactionary. They just lurch in your direction and blame you because you and your perceived privileges still visible. Maybe that’s why I got so good at hiding in plain sight in the first place.

For however much of a nightmare I’ve lived daily dealing with people in America, I have other experiences that give me hope. Those are mostly in Asia. At this point, I’m ready to tell anyone to fuck off in their face if they have an opinion about it. And I don’t think anyone would blame me. I get included in communities that people tend to be segregated from. Footwork embedded me in the Black community, my block embedded me in the Mexican community, and my work, travels and volunteer work makes everyone think I’m weird for knowing so much about Korea. On every single front, some one has a hot take about my colonialist instincts or my cis hetero patriarchal needs. There is no shortage every day of some asshole with an opinion about how I breathe. I’m very careful of being reactionary because this is America. And in America yes it’s true you can say and think whatever you want. But if you cross a line, people start to know. You can’t lie forever. You can’t snort coke in the bathroom with your rich friends and talk about my life forever either. I can sit in my house and watch marvel movies on my 55 inch tv and read comic books for a pretty long time. I can take a flight overseas for two weeks and still get paid vacation. I make sacrifices. I quit drinking and medicating anxiety with alcohol almost two years ago now. It was hard to deal with then. It’s harder to deal with now that everyone wants you to be the villain. After dealing with the crushing realization that people will manipulate you into being the hero just to see the chance for you to fall. That identity is not a reaction. It’s something that evolves over time. And sometimes those identities as free as they are start to clash. I don’t care what anybody identifies as. I accept people as long as they accept there’s a larger struggle out there. A global struggle. From all my travels in South Korea, Japan and even mainland China, I know first hand it is far more conservative than it is back home in Chicago. That people haven’t even begun to gain the mainstream acceptance and support from their governments for being different. I don’t particularly like seeing it reel backwards myself back home. But it is with no help from the people who are the first to point the finger. Those same people who are never around when it comes to the heavy lifting of community building.

People want to return to this sense of tribalism in America. A lawless kind of freedom where everything is possible including the worst kind of shit. A place where you need a gun because you can’t trust anybody. Where you go to sleep afraid of death every night. I don’t roll particularly with anybody here anymore back home. I don’t surround myself with bullshit. I used to feel guilt. Like I needed to do more. And I did more for years. And it was met with the worst kind of reception. What the fuck was it I thought I was doing trying to help? Why hadn’t I proved myself to the important people? Years later these people turn on you in their moments of anarchy. They want somebody to throw under the bus. I rewatched Fury Road on the plane back. I almost couldn’t it was so bleak and familiar. If you have money in America you are fine. I can sit in my apartment and wait it out. I’ve spent years trying to reach a sort of normalcy and legitimacy. One that still back home people talk shit about. To this very fucking day. After all these blog entries and stupid stories to you. People in Chicago have the nerve to treat me the same old way year after year. Like nothing changed. Liked nobody made mistakes with me. Like nobody broke my heart and shredded it to pieces. Like I tried to walk away from it but on my own dollars, dreams, and as if my life depended on it. My freedom to be me doesn’t matter to people here unless they can control it or profit off of it. I think this is a truism for all of us. Why don’t all the good deeds and history matter to anyone out here? It isn’t part of a narrative where they win everything. It isn’t part of an order where they can keep you in check if you uncover something shitty or out of line. I’ve seen more than enough of society these last months. I’ve written more than enough too. I know that everyone just acts like it doesn’t happen. That no justice actually exists in this kind of stupid McDonald’s Anarchy happy meal. That people literally waste their freedom on selfishness. They mock and bury people trying to protect it. And I’ve been that person for so long in this city that that dream has died completely. Just how deeply hurt I am by this realization isn’t something to process on a Friday night. I’d rather just sit in my kitchen and be glad I can afford to shut the door on it once and for all. I don’t know what’s next but it sure isn’t the Road Warrior <3 Tim

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sabraeal · 7 years

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PROMPT: Three accidental kisses... that perhaps weren't so accidental after all.

There are no masquerades in the North. At least, not likethis.

A wave of masks sweeps out of the ballroom, flooding thearcade and lapping at the manicured walkways of the courtyards. Their costumes are three centuries out ofstyle, cut much like court robes, though instead of being constrained to dowdycolors and matte fabrics, the crowd scintillates with satins and silks andvelvets, stitched in gold or silver and embellished with crystal. They are the portrait hall come to life, a congregation of history dressed in theirfinest.

“I thought Wistal was known for its full masks,” Hakiremarks, angling herself so that she may both see the revelry outside and watchher husband-to-be enter the antechamber. “I saw pictures of them once, in the libraries atLyrias. Porcelain embellished with gold.”

“Mm, once,” he agrees, coming to stand beside her. Theguests ebb and flow beneath them, and she cannot help but think they lookdesperate for a dance. That was the always the worst part of a night banquet,waiting for the floor to be opened.

“They’ve fallen out of style?” She runs her fingers alongthe stiff velvet of her own, feeling snowdrops beneath their tips. “A pity. I alwaysloved the look of them.”

“There are a few who are traditional.” His shoulder leansagainst the glass, mouth curving beneath his half mask. “But what is the pointof being anonymous, if your mouth is masked as well?”

Haki hopes the darkness of the room hides her flush. She’sto be married in three days, wooed and wedded and bedded, but she is not usedto such frank talk, not out of a nobleman’s mouth, and certainly not a prince.In the North such things are talked around, carefully couched in euphemism andcoy inquiries into whether one’s bed is large enough to warm two. Not – this.This casual mention of mouths kept uncovered for clandestine kisses.

She presses her cheek against the window, hoping the glasswill cool its burn. “Things are very different here.”

“You have a masquerade in Wilant, don’t you?” His mouth cantsslyly. “My mother brought me one as a boy. I had great fun with it. Zen, not asmuch.”

She clucks her tongue chidingly. “Cruel.”

He shrugs. “Elder brothers have their fun when they can.”

Haki ducks her head, smothering a smile into the puffedshoulder of her gown. She refrains from informing him younger sisters did aswell. Makiri still finds other places to be on Long Night.

“It’s not like this,” she tells him instead, when herexpression can be held placid. “It’s not celebration, but superstition. It’s tochase the spirits back to the mountains, before the winter sets in.”

Her fiancé hums thoughtfully. “Very different.”

She risks a glance up at him. Even with his mask on, she cantell he is serious, contemplative; every inch a king. “It’s all right,” shesays, gaze falling to the crowd below, their faces illuminated by the pale lightof the lanterns. “I think I like this better.”

Her neck aches, and she lowers her head, putting chin to chest. Her headdress is heavy, wrought gold that her hair has been wrapped so tightly around her temples pound. She can’t imagine how women survived this as fashion.

She lets out a soft hiss, fingers probing the back of her neck to relieve the tension there, but – ah, it only makes it worse.

A soft chuckle escapes him. “I am sorry,” her husband-to-be murmurs, stepping closer. “Mother did insist on the worst period for royal headwear.”

These masquerades are tradition, she’s been told a half dozen times. To celebrate the future of a royal marriage, it is considered auspicious to look to the past. A strange custom, to be certain, but there was a poetry to it that appealed to Haki, some romance.

The bride and groom were supposed to be dressed as ancestors that had previously joined their houses together, but – there was no point in history where a prince married a steward’s daughter.

It was an observation that had not gone amiss among thebriars of the court. No one had been cruel in Haki’s hearing, but she had heardthe titters behind hands, seen the speculative looks some of the women had eyedher with. Her own handmaidens brought back talk, had told her of women who hadlaughed behind closed doors and said, whoknows, perhaps she does have some fine blood within her. There’s always achance a lord takes his due.

That is until Haruto arrived, all smiles and sunlight, andtold her she had chosen a time where one of her own ancestors had married intothe Wisteria line – the marriage that brought Wistal and Wilant as one.

Haki’s eyes had burned with gratitude. It was not just anhonor, it was a claim. Whoever tookissue with her bloodline had issue with the Queen Dowager herself.

It is more than she deserves, but Haki knows well enough not to say.

“I see now why you just have the bands.” Her whole head chimes as she tilts to look him in the eye. It feels like her scalp might rip off from the weight.

“I am suddenly very suspicious of why she begged off the evening,” she continues, teasing. It would be just like Haruto to put forth all this effort, only to find herself conveniently allergic to the evening.

“Oh, I’m sure the accessories are part of it.” His lips part beneath his mask, just slightly. “But please do not feel as if it is a slight. I think…”

Something very serious settles over his face; he looks less a young man and more a king in this light, lines furrowing the space between his brow.

“I think she did not think the festivities would affect her so.” His mouth pulls at the corners, grim. “She thought she had put so much of this behind her.”

“Ah, I –” Haki flounders, looking for words that won’t come. “I didn’t think how hard this might be for her.” She wraps a hand around his elbow, gentle. “She must have loved your father very much.”

Muscles tense beneath her hand, and when she looks up, his mouth is a rictus of a grin.

It is gone in a moment. “I only mean,” he drawls, humor rich in his voice, “that it is hard for her, as a widow. She does so love dancing.”

A laugh bursts from her. “You would not dance with your mother? Hm, they say there is much about how a man treats his wife in how he treats his mother. Should I worry –?”

“You will never find fault with me as a husband,” he promises with an amount of vehemence that startles her. “Not in this.”

“I did not mean –”

He holds up a hand, gently quelling. “I know. I only meant – you may be at ease with me. There is no harm I would ever visit upon you.”

Her fingers tangle in her skirt, if only to keep from touching him. “Thank you.”

He turns his head, waiting for their signal. “It is nothing.”

She looks at him, so strikingly handsome even masked and costumed. There is something about the robes of this era that lend him an air of wisdom, though they do not hide the lithe power of his frame either. Makiri often said the king was one of the bests swords in the country, and dressed like this she could believe it.

In the dim light of the corridor, the pale arch of his cheek glows, and she cannot help herself, not when he makes himself so – so within reach.

She leans into him, finger sinking into the soft velvet of his robe as she rises on her toes, lips tingling with the expectation of the sharp curve of his cheekbone –

He turns, so attentive, at the last moment. “Is there some –?”

His breath catches as their lips met, hardly more than a brush of skin and shared breath –

She rocks back onto her heels with an embarrassed chirp. “Your Majesty, I –! I didn’t –”

“Ah, no.” His hand comes to her cheek, pulling her back toward him. “Haki, it is – fine. I don’t –”

Their eyes meet, both so black in the darkness.

“– Mind,” he finishes, strangely breathless. She feels it ghosting over her lips, her toes curling in her slippers. Surely he cannot mean –

“We’re to be married, are we not?” he asks, his voice so low, so enticing. She leans into him, his robes tickling her palms. “We should not be so shy with just a single kiss.”

“Well,” she replies with more confidence than her quivering heart feels. “It is the only one.”

He leans closer. “Thus far.”

Her eyes flutter shut. “Thus far…”

“Your Majesty!”

They spring apart, like a scullion caught in the hay with a stable hand. The steward, eyes rolled aloft, waits just outside the doors. “It is time.”

Izana clears his throat, pink dusting his cheeks. “We can continue this conversation later,” he tells her, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Ah,” she sighs, pressing a hand to her cheek. “Yes. Later.”

Everything about this damned thing itches.

Zen has done his part for the night – his due diligence, as brother had so eloquently put it. He’s stood at Izana’s side and pretended he does not look absolutely ridiculous in – what is this? Some sort of dress? – his hair fighting the fashionable curl of yesteryear with every strand.

He’s made polite conversation with every foreign dignitary, even the Samese ambassador, who wore musty furs and smelled heavily of musk. The old style, you know, Batbayar had said with a laugh, slapping Zen on the back hard enough to make him stumble.

He’s danced with every eligible young woman Haruka deemed it would be an insult to miss, and his costume would be nearly sweat through if it was not so copiously padded in the shoulders and chest. He hopes whatever perverse impulse that made his mother pick the Solomon period has been exorcised from her, for he won’t be having any of this at his marriage masquerade.

With that thought, he smiles. Finally he is done with duty; now he may turn to the more pleasurable part of this night.

He scans the shadows of the ballroom, letting his legs leadhim out the doors, down to the arcade. Here the usual alcoves are curtained –for privacy, his brother had said all-to knowingly – and Zen’s sharp eyes onlyserve to catch couples dallying in their finery.

His nose wrinkles. Weddings are romantic, yes, but even withthe anonymity the masks afford, public displays are unseemly. Using the alcoves to steal a few kisses that could keepto the end of the night was the height of impropriety and –

Zen’s mind grinds to a stop. He sees her.

Her back is to him, but he recognizes the curve of her body,the way she is so small but stands so tall. The court in season is like asummer storm, but Shirayuki has weathered it all, unbowed. She makes it so easyto picture her beside him, to imagine her hand in his and this distance betweenthem erased in a single moment, her at his side as they promise to step forwardtogether.

She’s done well to hide herself in the alcoves; Izana hasn’t forbidden himto see her – and he invited her in the first place – but still he feels hisbrother’s disapproval like a palpable weight. Shirayuki peers out from thecurtain, head swiveling about on her neck, looking for him. Her hair is covered– one of the few fashions of the Solomon period that has any merit, in Zen’sopinion – and her mask covers all but her mouth, but still he knows her. Hewould know her anywhere.

He must traverse half the arcade, but it feels like only three steps, his hand coming to grasp hers and spin her into his arms. “There you are –”

She’s clever; the shadows are thick here, and he has no fear of being spotted when he lowers his mouth to hers.

His name is muffled by his lips when they meet, drawing outa yelp of surprise. For a moment she sits stiff in his arms, one of her hands clutchedin the padded shoulder of his robes, but he keeps the kiss insistent, coaxing.Shirayuki is shy in this, always waiting for him to move first, for him to soothher, and as he expects, she melts against him, opening her mouth under his, and –

She shoves him into the alcove.

His back hits the wall, hard, jolting their lips apart for along second, every noise muted by the curtains save for their heavy breaths. Hebarely has time for another before she is on him again, lips dragging over hiswith a hint of tongue that leaves his knees weak, that leaves him whining,needy, against her mouth.

They’ve never kissed like this – she’s never kissed him like this, never been the one to press formore, always waiting for his lead before her tentative response, but –

Her tongue licks out over the roof of his mouth, draggingalong each ridge behind his teeth and – and he moans, yanking her against him. It’s both too much and not enough;he knows that he shouldn’t, that thishas progressed far beyond their usual kiss, but also – also –

“It’s been so long,” he groans. She hums in agreement, nails dragging along his scalp, and he jerks against her, hips grinding into the flat of her belly.

It’s embarrassing to be so uncontrolled, to be so shameless, but – but she rolls her own in response, whimpering against his mouth, and oh, oh, it is more than fine if she is just as lost as he.

He’s flushed, hot, nudging her mouth aside so he can put his lips to the salt of her skin, sucking at the soft place between her neck and shoulder –

“Zen,” the woman breathes, and – and –

That is not Shirayuki’s voice.

He jolts back, eyes wide. Her mouth is swollen from his kisses, red and still inviting, still tempting, but – but –

He pulls the single ribbon that keeps her mask in place, and blue eyes stare back at him.

He groans.“Kihal.”

No matter how tame he gets, Obi will never enjoy these night banquets.

It’s not the drinking – though as his miss’s guard, he’s not encouraged to imbibe – or the dancing – though it’s not a plus, not in his book. And it’s certainly not the food, but –

The music shifts; the stately strains of the waltz drowned out by the beginning of a playful polka, and there she is, regular as clockwork. He knows her even with the mask, and not just because of the way her hair is burnished in the moonlight, how every fancy whorl catches the light and shines red. It is the way she walks, her feet so firmly planted on the earth even as her chin is tilted towards the heavens; the way she holds herself so tall, cutting through a sea of blue bloods like a skiff does toward shore.

It’s in the way her mouth curves when he drops to the banister in front of her. It how she doesn’t flinch when he wraps a curl around his finger, brushing the pad of his thumb over the silken ribbon of her hair.

“What’s the point of going to a masquerade, if you’re only going to give yourself away?” he asks wryly, smirk hidden behind the porcelain of his mask.

She clucks at him playfully, angling away. “It wasn’t quite my idea,” she admits. “Tanbarun had done away with hair coverings. And it seems my ancestor hadn’t been fond of them even when they hadn’t.”

Obi laughs at that. In the course of her research, his miss had discovered there were a great number of things polite society wore that Lady Theophanu went well enough without. It was the sort of eccentric behavior that might have gone unrecorded, had she not seen fit to inform every person that she happened to come across of the fact. More than once, Obi had caught his miss leaving the library red-faced, only answering his queries about her research with a shrill, It’s going fine!

“What a compliment His Majesty has paid you, suggesting her for tonight…”

Miss’s laughter peals like a bell, and he’s glad his face is behind a mask; he knows how poorly he hides his longing.

“Everyone’s been complimenting me on my wig,” she tells him, leaning close. Her scent winds around him, and he sways, just slightly. “Apparently red wasn’t so rare then. I’ve seen some other women with it tonight.”

“I hope Master isn’t too confused,” Obi teases, letting the curl slip from his finger. “I heard he owed you a dance.”

“Mm,” she hums, distracted. “But what are you supposed to be, Obi? You don’t look so different. I mean,” Her mask hide some of her blush, but the neck of her dress reveals more. “You look very handsome, but I don’t think they dressed like that.”

His breath catches at the compliment,but he shakes it off. His miss is far too kind for his heart. “Can’t you tell, Miss?” He taps on the mask. “I’m the dog!”

Her jaw drops, he thinks in dismay, until a laugh bursts from her. “Obi! Your ancestor wasn’t a dog.”

He lowers his eyes, smile tight behind the mask. “I wonder…”

“Oh well,” she sighs, her shoulders brushing his knees. “I do often prefer dogs to people.”

“I think what you mean,” he laughs, hoping he does not sound so breathless to her ears, “is that you prefer mutts to purebreeds.”

She ducks closer, her mouth struggling against a laugh. “Obi.”

“You’re out here with me, aren’t you?” His voice shouldn’t be this low, shouldn’t show so much, but still, still.

Sharp green watches him from beneath lowered lashes. “I am.”

She’s too close to him; her shoulders are bare, and they rubagainst the knit of his trousers as she stands between his knees. It’s too much;he sways at her proximity, at the temptation of closing that small distancebetween them and –

And he can’t do this. He’s too bold, knowing that he canhide from her.

His fingers slide under his chin, lifting up his mask, and –

Soft lips flutter against his. Air stutters out from hislungs, leaving him gasping.

What is this? What isthis?

His miss jerks back, not enough to leave the cradle of histhighs, but enough so that their eyes meet, so that he may see the shockedquestion in them.

She fell. That’s – that’s the only explanation that makessense. Her slipper caught on her gown, and she just fell onto him.

“Miss –”

“I didn’t –” Her eyes are wide behind her mask. “It was just supposed to be – your mask was still on –”

“Oh,” he breathes, “right. Of course. You meant for the mask…”

His mind grinds to a halt. If she meant for his mask to bethere, would she have meant to –?

“Obi,” she sighs, and there is no reason for him to benddown, no reason for him to assume –

Her hands tangle in the straps of his uniform, pulling himdown as she rises to meet him, and – and there is even less reason for this,for the way she sighs into his mouth, for the way she gasps when his handthreads through the braids and twists at her scalp to draw her closer, to tilther head just so. His miss whineswhen his mouth opens under hers, tongue eagerly slipping past his teeth toslide against his; the friction so delicious that he groans, so softly –

“Oh!” She breaks away, her heavy breath busting over hislips. “I – um…”

“There’s something that bothers me, Miss,” he purrs, slowlyslinking off the banister, unfurling himself so he stands head and shouldersabove her.

“O-oh?” Her skin is flushed a delicious pink, from justabove the top of her mask all the way to her décolletage. It’s…encouraging.

“If my mask was supposed to be on…” His mouth spreads into aslow grin against her lips. “Just what were you planning on doing to it?”

There is only so much she can take.

Haki sweeps into the antechamber, heaving a sigh of reliefwhen she finds it devoid of honored guests. She flicks her train out frombetween the doors and leans back, letting her weight close it the rest of theway. The smooth wood cools her back, and she lingers for a long moment.

Finally, some time to think. Not that she’ll been able to domuch of that tonight, anyway.

She paces away from the door, shaking her head. That kiss haunts her. Or, more accurately, the moment after, when the king royal leaned back in –

Or did he? She must have imagined it; the king is not known for his softness, for having a weakness.

It must be the dream of a hopeless romantic, a fevered wishing by a woman destined to be disappointed by the harsh reality of her marriage –

The door flies open.

Haki is in no mood for pleasant company. “I would prefer to be–” Her eyes fall on the lithe form filling the doorway. “…alone.”

“Good,” His Majesty says, door snicking shut behind him. “I prefer you to be alone as well.”

Her brow furrows. Why could he possibly –?

He descends.

There is no other way to put it. One moment there is an entire room between them, and next there is nothing, his hands dragging her closer still, flattening the ornamentation of her skirt.

“Wait,” she gasps, and he tears himself from her mouth with a wounded noise. “You’ll ruin the flounces.”

The way he looks at her from under his hooded eyes, irises as dark as midnight, makes her want to rip them off herself. “Are you concerned greatly?”

“No,” she breathes, and then pulls him back, fingers threaded tightly against his scalp. He gasps into her mouth, and yes, yes, this is what she wants from him –

“Your Maj – oh, really? At your own party?”

Haki springs away, waking her mouth with the back of her hand. Sir Shidnote stands at the door, torn between amusement and wishing he could be anywhere else.

“Would it really be any better if it was at someone else’s party?” Izana drawls, turning away from her with eyebrows raised.

His knight laughs. “At least no one would be telling me to come fetch you for the dance.”

Her fiancé lifts a single shoulder, as if he couldn’t be bothered by such trivial complaints. Sir Shidnote only laughs harder.

“Just come as quick as you can. I don’t want to be explaining this to Haruka.”

The door remains ajar when he leaves; a reminder. She can hear the din of the party wafting through it, and she is embarrassed to know she almost let herself be accosted mere feet away from the court, in a room without even a lock –

Izana turns to her, gaze heated, and her thoughts evaporate. She wants his hands on her again, wants him to find where the seamstress hid the closures of her gown.

He steps close, bending so that the tip of his nose meets hers. Her eyes must be crossed, but she hardly cares as long as he looks at her like that. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”

“Perhaps after we are married?” she teases, looking up at him from under her eyelashes.

He smirks, one hand spreading over the narrow waist of her gown. “There’s plenty to discuss before then.”

She hums thoughtfully, making to sweep past him, but his hand keeps her close.

His voice drops, so deep, when he says. “I will make you a very happy woman, when we are married.”

Her heart flutters in her chest. “Aah,” she sighs. “I do so hope you live up to your reputation.”

His eyebrows raise.

She smiles. “I’ve heard you are a man who keeps his promises.”

#obiyuki #hakizana #kizen #my fic #ans #onepetal #i got FOUR WHOLE ASKS for accidental kisses #this is the prompt that survived #i debated long and hard over which pairings would get them #CLEARLY I CHOSE ALL OF MY FAVS #including my STEALTH FAV #hello kizen tag #i can't wait to put more content in you #Holiday Promptathon

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jolie-guerrier · 5 years

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Boxing: Knocking Out Racism and Inequality in America

Current boxing is as old as America. They grew up together, and like America herself, boxing is as glorious as it is severe. It's as delightful as it is base. From the wicked and banned "shows" in New Orleans to the "exposed knuckle" fights in the shantytowns out West, boxing grew up with America. It has been known as the "Sweet Science" and "the Manly Art of Self Defense," in any case "boxing is a game of showdown and battle, a weaponless war," setting two warriors in opposition to one another to do fight in the squared circle.

We can follow the historical backdrop of America's poor and disappointed through the curve of boxing's past. Prizefighting is a crystal through which we can see the history and battles of America's generally disappointed. Its saints of legend frequently epitomize the social issues of the day. From multiple points of view, the battle game fills in as a methods for "financial" progression. Creator and boxing antiquarian Jeffrey T. Sammons states in Beyond the Ring: The Role of Boxing in American Society: "The progression [of extraordinary fighters] had gone from Irish to Jewish... to Italians, to [B]lacks, and to Latin[o]s, an example that mirrored the financial stepping stool. As each gathering climbed, it hauled its childhood out of prizefighting and drove them into all the more encouraging... interests."

Image source Two warriors specifically embody the battle of their kin: the reckless Irishman John L. Sullivan, and "The Black Menace" Jack Johnson.

Boxing's Origins

Confining has its causes Ancient Greece, and was a piece of the Olympic Games in around 688 BC. Homer makes reference to enclosing the "Iliad." Boxing history specialist Michael Katz reviews the games crude roots:

Much like the primary American pioneers, prizefighting advanced toward the New World from England. What's more, similar to the pioneers, boxing's initial days were regularly brutish and vicious. Sammons states: "Like such huge numbers of American social, social, political, and scholarly foundations, enclosing began England. In the late 1700s, when the game existed uniquely in its crudest structure, prizefighting in Britain expected a demeanor of modernity and worthiness.

The early Puritans and Republicans regularly connected game playing with the severe governments of Europe, however as American adversaries of relaxation lost ground, the game immediately started to develop. In the 1820's and 1830's boxing, regularly called pugilism, turned into a mainstream sport among the American "workers who were not used to limitations upon beguilements and games."

As the game developed in ubiquity among the outsiders, so too did the legend of the person. For better or for more awful, the United States is a country weaned on the fantasy of the person. This is the American Dream, that central belief that we can all "pull our selves up by the bootstraps" and become fiercely rich, incredibly fruitful, and frantically satisfied. For almost 200 years the "Heavyweight Champion" was the crown gem of the brandishing scene, and the physical encapsulation of the American Dream. He was the hardest, "baddest man" on earth, and told the world's regard.

Sammons states: "[T]he physical man despite everything represents the capability of the individual and natural selection. He is the epitome of the American Dream, where the lowliest of people ascend to the top by their own drive and constancy. The slipperiness of that fantasy is irrelevant; the importance of the fantasy is in its acknowledgment, not its satisfaction." During the 1880's, nobody typified the physical man, or the American Dream, more than boxing's first incredible heavyweight champion, John L. Sullivan.

John L. Sullivan and the Plight of the Irish

Sullivan, otherwise called "The Boston Strongboy," was the remainder of the "uncovered knuckle" champions. The child of poor Irish migrants, he was a reckless and obstinate man who visited the "vaudeville circuit offering fifty dollars to any individual who could last four rounds with him in the ring." Sullivan broadly tested his crowds by guaranteeing, "I can lick any sonofabitch in the house."

"The Boston Strongboy" got one of America's first games legends when he reprimanded mogul Richard Kyle Fox, proprietor and owner of the National Police Gazette and the National Enquierer. Legend has it that one decisive night in the spring of 1881 while at Harry Hill's Dace Hall and Boxing Emporium on New York's East Side, Fox was so intrigued by one of Sullivan's bouts, that the paper magnate "welcomed him to his table for a business talk, which Sullivan inconsiderately declined, picking up Fox's scorn."

Sammons states:

Fox was irate and pledged to break Sullivan just as control the crown. He did neither one of the sullivans; beat any and all individuals, including a couple of Fox hopefuls." Sullivan turned into a global big name and American symbol "who had ascended through the positions without looking down on others. Sullivan accomplished more than manufacture an individual after, be that as it may; he raised the game of boxing. The prize ring presently spread over the bay among lower and high societies."

Sullivan turned into an image of expectation and pride for late Irish workers living in another, threatening area. Almost 2,000,000 Irish outsiders landed in America somewhere in the range of 1820 and 1860. Most landed as contracted hirelings and were viewed as minimal more than slaves in the new nation. Of those 2,000,000 foreigners, about 75 percent landed during "The Potato Famine" of 1845-1852. The Irish fled from destitution, sickness, and English abuse. "The Potato Famine" had killed very nearly a million Irishmen.

Creator Jim Kinsella states:

America turned into their fantasy. Early outsider letters portrayed it as a place that is known for bounty and asked others to finish them the 'Brilliant Door.' These letters were perused at get-togethers urging the youthful to go along with them right now nation. They left in large numbers on ships that were so packed, with conditions so horrendous, that they were alluded to as 'Pine box Ships.' (standard. 1)

The Irish landed in America penniless and frequently undesirable. A familiar adage summarized the frustration felt by American foreigners in the Nineteenth Century: "I came to America since I heard the boulevards were cleared with gold. At the point when I arrived, I discovered three things: First, the roads weren't cleared with gold; second, they weren't cleared in any way: and third, I was relied upon to clear them."

Kinsella says:

Our worker predecessors were not needed in America. Promotions for work were frequently trailed by "no Irish need apply." They had to live in basements and shanties... with [no] plumbing and [no] running water. These living conditions reared infection and early passing. It was evaluated that 80 percent of all babies destined to Irish settlers in New York City kicked the bucket... The Chicago Post stated, "The Irish fill our penitentiaries, our poor houses... scratch a convict or a homeless person and the odds are that [we] stimulate the skin of an Irish Catholic. Putting them on a vessel and sending them home would end wrongdoing right now.

Be that as it may, the Irish landed in America during a period of scarcity. Kinsella proceeds:

The nation was developing and it required men to do the overwhelming work of building extensions, waterways, and railways. It was hard, perilous work. A typical statement heard among the railroad laborers guaranteed "an Irishman was covered under each tie.

John L. Sullivan was the pride of the Irish during his amazing title rule between 1882-1892).

Student of history Benjamin Rader composed:

The competitors as open saints filled in as a compensatory social capacity. They helped the general population in making up for the enthusiasm of the conventional dream of progress... what's more, sentiments of individual frailty. As the general public turned out to be progressively entangled and systematized and as progress must be won progressively in administrations, the requirement for legends who jumped to popularity and fortune outside the standards of the framework appeared to develop.

During his decade long rule as champion; nobody caught the open consideration more than "The Boston Strongboy." He decimated Paddy Ryan in Mississippi City, Mississippi for the "Heavyweight Championship of America" in an illicit "boxing display" on February 7, 1882. The title belt was named "the $10,000 Belt" and was "something fit for a lord." Sammons states: "It had a base of level gold fifty inches in length, and twelve inches wide, with a middle board comprising of Sullivan's name explained in precious stones; eight different edges falcons and Irish harps; an extra 397 jewels studded the emblematic adornment."

In the wake of accepting the "$10,000 Belt," Sullivan pried out the precious stones and sold it for $175. He later proceeded to overcome his most despised adversary Jake Kilrain in the seventy-fifth round, denoting the last "exposed knuckle" title session in boxing history. Sullivan ruled until his knockout misfortune to a more youthful, quicker, increasingly talented contender named "Man of honor" Jim Corbett in the twenty-first round on September 7, 1892 in New Orleans, Louisiana.

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mrmichaelmbarnes · 5 years

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Seeking Chicago

Seeking Chicago: The Stories Behind the Architecture of the Windy City-One Building at a Time Tom Miller Universe, March 2019

Meticulously researched, engagingly presented, and richly detailed, Seeking Chicago is truly a must-read for anyone interested in the story of the Windy City and how it got that way. Unlike other books about local history, here Tom Miller reveals the stories of many smaller, more modest buildings that are off the beaten track - the very structures that most guide books overlook - along with the iconic landmarks. Chicago is possibly the most important American city for experiencing important architectural masterpieces. There are numerous ways to learn about its architectural heritage, from museums to curated walking and driving tours and even a boat tour. While the basic factual histories of Chicago's landmarks are fairly well known, there are additional layers of history - often with dramatic human interest angles - that don't always get included in the "official" tours. Tom Miller tells the story of Chicago's rich architectural and social history building by building. The stories behind the city's buildings is an impressive architectural history reading and a dramatic sampling of American social history--family feuds, scandals, and mob hits. He excels at uncovering the dramas that have unfolded within the architecture and detailing them to tell an engaging and largely unknown side of Chicago's history.

dDAB Commentary:

Since at least college I've been a voracious reader of history; before that, history was just too dry, too full of dates and military conquests. Yet the more I read history books, the more I find myself drawn to certain types — architectural, obviously, yet also urban, geographical, bibliographical, and occasionally science — but turned off by one major strain: social. By "social history," I don't mean the "people's history of X" type books, which give voice to unrepresented people; I'm referring to the histories of people in the upper stratum of society, the rich and powerful that draw people's attention through their displays of wealth and their actions. In architecture this dislike creates a conundrum, since the rich and powerful are the people that tend to commission architects and build the most attention-getting structures — throughout history and today. That is especially pronounced in New York City (another quandary for me), yet also in other big cities, such as Chicago. With histories that bridge the architectural and the social, Tom Miller's Seeking Chicago (previously he wrote Seeking New York and he maintains a blog focused on Manhattan) is for me very much a love-hate kind of book. In Seeking Chicago Miller presents nearly 50 works of architecture: 38 buildings, five monuments, a couple fountains, and a lily pool. Like most guides to the Windy City, the book is heavy in and north of the Loop. Here, in the city's commercial core, is where its iconic buildings — old and new — can be found: the Louis Sullivan's Auditorium Building, SOM's Sears Tower (yes, I know, Willis Tower), and Frank Gehry's Jay Pritzker Pavilion. And just north of the city, in the Gold Coast, is where the rich lived. Miller's essays on famous and not-so-famous buildings in and beyond the Loop trace their histories, but from a perspective that values lesser known anecdotes. Sometimes we learn why a building looks the way it does, be it through its design or its evolution over time, but more often we learn stories about the people behind the designs: sometimes the architect but more often the client. Although I read Seeking Chicago with my dislike for social history unconsciously rattling around in my head, many times in the book I found myself getting pulled along by Miller's prose, digesting all of the various histories. He is very good at gracefully telling decades of architectural/social history on familiar and overlooked gems, each in just a handful of pages.

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Author Bio:

Tom Miller moved to New York City in 1979 from Dayton, Ohio. The transplanted "Buckeye" ... currently holds the rank of Deputy Inspector within the NYPD's Auxiliary Police Force. In 2009 he started his blog, "Daytonian in Manhattan" which has now reviewed over a thousand buildings, statues and other points of interest. He is the author of Seeking New York published by Universe in 2015.

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twentiethcenturyvole · 6 years

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Errata and Marginalia

All my life, I have genuinely and unforcedly enjoyed no writers so much as those who happen to be sarcastic, coldly ironical, bleakly sardonic British people. So much so that I am occasionally seized with panic at the thought that I may one day run out of them. After all, how many can there have been, in recorded history?

I take some comfort in the fact that, despite my stated preference, I have not yet chipped the merest shaving from the mordant iceberg that is Ivy Compton-Burnett. I seem, by a kind of subconscious prompting, to be saving her for later. When I know I will need it. Irony is a dish best served cold.

Oh, right, but I take even more comfort from the fact that, each time I think I may be approaching the bottom of the pile of ironical Britishers, I uncover another. And, strangely, it is lurid biographies of narcissistic male creative types that, in the most recent instances, always seem to yield these discoveries. Perhaps because to tolerate life with men fitting this description, it takes a certain coating of sarcasm.

Anyway, there was the Lucian Freud biography that pointed me toward the acid pen of Caroline Blackwood. And now, the tale of V.S. Naipaul’s (somewhat exaggerated) misdeeds, Patrick French’s The World is What It is, has introduced me to Diana Athill. And I want to read no one else again.

Diana Athill was V.S. Naipaul’s editor. And the editor of a lot of other famous people. And a wonderful and maybe more entertaining author in her own right. And as a result, it appears she knew everybody. Her short book Make Believe: A True Story -- about her friendship with Hakim Jamal, a would-be cultist who believed himself to be God, and whom Naipaul also wrote about -- can without effort be connected to just about any “Radical Chic” wacko of the Nixon era who achieved any degree of notoriety.

Did Hakim Jamal -- like Jim Jones -- try to build a commune in Guyana? Check! Was he eventually involved in sordid murders? Check! Did he have an affair with Jean Seberg? Check! A sort of Sixties degrees of separation.

(Side note: Seberg’s cuckolded French novelist husband, Romain Gary, would write a sensible and humane book, White Dog, about Seberg’s involvement with this cast of characters, which I read and loved in my tormented radical youth. I would recommend it to any young Leftist who is just waking up to the fact that people on their own side can be awful nutters too)

Athill’s book captures certainly the flavor of the age. It was a time when there was somebody so utterly awful in the White House, doing such terrible things to children and innocent people (napalming villages in Southeast Asia, in that case) that many started to falsely assume that the Left must be wholly virtuous and incapable of moral error by comparison.

Could we say that Athill’s memoir may still be a salutary one to read? Not, surely, that I see anything in common with our own time. Perish the thought.

It is slightly ironic, however (speaking of that trait), that the work of this great editor should be marred by typographic errors. What’s more, I hold in my hand a 2012 Granta reprint of the 1993 original, so it’s not like nobody has had a chance to notice and fix these things in the years since.

Thus, once again, I am forced to render my services free of charge. In the interests of literature.

p. 64. Okay, this one’s not an error, just wanted to quote this part: “[Romain] Gary came round to the house on several occasions, only to be confounded by Hakim’s ‘debating’ (a scene I could clearly envisage).” I have a vague memory from Gary’s White Dog of a scene where he crouches behind a door frame listening to some loud-mouth house guest and jotting down his increasingly outlandish utterances. Could it have been Jamal?

p. 95 “I’d seen for myself how calmly she had taking [sic.] his fucking Libbie[.]” A charged sentence, to be sure, but one still needs to proof read

p. 96 “pulled the blanket back and [sic.] inch or two”

p. 118 “Halé and Charlie were staying with Herbert G. Herbert [Patrick French in the introduction describes this aptly as a wonderful “Nabokovian name”] was the drop-out son of a rich German family[.]” Should be a “who” before the “was.”

p. 122 “What I asked, was the latest shape taken by the Guyana project?” Missing comma.

p. 127 “Had he ever shown signs of wanted [sic.] to be rid...”

p. 134. “[N]o one could learn from what Hakim said the truth about...” Missing a “was” or something after the “said”

That is all. Otherwise, I love this book. And, in fact, I loved the errors. They gave me an excuse to write this tribute.

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instagram-money · 6 years

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Why Choose Long Sleeved Dresses?

Until a brief time prior, strapless dresses were the most well known. They are as yet worn generally because of the way that flaunting the shoulders and arms radiates a profoundly female look. Be that as it may, the pattern has now been broken by the entry of long sleeved dresses. While a few people don't support of these, the truth of the matter is that these dresses are promptly getting to be prevalent. From short to long dresses, long sleeves are turning into a prominent style. On the off chance that you are one of the individuals who are not yet persuaded about long sleeved dresses, here are a few reasons you should take a gander at.

Womanliness - Sure, strapless dresses do influence you to look appealing. Full sleeves, nonetheless, can likewise be exceptionally female. Long sleeved dresses are the ideal method to mirror your excellence without uncovering your shoulders. They are ideal for looking ladylike while likewise being very tasteful. You can improve the look of these dresses by ensuring that the sleeves are sewed to fit the state of your arms.

Perfect for specific events - Are you one of the individuals who love wearing dresses to the workplace yet can clearly not wear those strapless ones stacked in your cabinet? This is the place this sort of dresses can go to your guide. Since your shoulders are secured, these dresses look profoundly formal and modern. Wearing these is the ideal method to remain attractive while as yet radiating a formal look. You can likewise wear these at supper parties and other formal occasions.

They are diverse - If you are one of the individuals who need to appear at a gathering wearing something else than what others are wearing, long sleeved dresses are for you. At a gathering where most likely everybody would wear sleeveless or strapless dresses, you can look profoundly exquisite and changed wearing a dress with long sleeves. Such a dress will give you a profoundly tasteful and exceptional look.

All things considered, long sleeved dresses can be ideal for any occasion. In any case, you have to influence them to work so as to look great in them. For one, you have to center around the sewing. On the off chance that the sleeves are free and rusty, you may not get the look you are searching for. You ought to likewise go for shorter dresses rather than longer ones. This is on account of a long dress with full sleeves may cover excessively skin. Keeping your arms secured and your legs uncovered is the thing that works!

Fashion Tips for Wearing Long Sleeve Dress at Work

The long sleeve dress keeps on being an attire of decision for most ladies today. It radiates modernity and class that no other kind of dress can impart. Additionally, it very well may be either preservation or contemporary, contingent upon its outline and the person who wears it. Nonetheless, it likewise has the capability of making an impression of being obsolete and unfashionable when worn pitifully. To stay away from this situation, ladies might need to take after certain design rules in wearing dresses with long sleeves.

Generally, the style of a dress with long sleeves is directed by the subject and custom of an occasion. In the event that a woman is intending to appear in her work put wearing this sort of apparel may choose long-sleeved dress that window hangings down perfectly over the knee. Expansive stripes for configuration are famous nowadays, and furthermore the Bohemian prints for ladies with a similar identity. Neck areas bound with globules are fascinating pieces that can be investigated also.

Shading imparts as much as the dress itself. It has been watched that hues have the ability to impact the state of mind and conduct of individuals around. In this way, ladies who are wearing long-sleeved dresses will do well to focus on their shading decisions. Quieted hues are curbed palettes that can make a loosening up condition. In any case, they are not for ladies who need to be seen every once in a while. For them, the warm, strong, and notwithstanding striking hues will do fine and dandy, as long as they don't go over the edge.

A one-piece dress for work, notwithstanding for any event, will dependably run best with shoes with heels estimating no less than two inches. To convey adjust to the entire outfit, it is prescribed to wear shoes with open toes and foot rear areas. Utilizing the shut shoes may extend an identity that is excessively moderate, except if that is the goal. Open shoes are additionally down to earth, since it keeps bruises and rankles from creating in the toes. Likewise, the feet have the opportunity to fairly inhale while strolling with an open rear areas and toes.

Adorning with a long sleeve dress exhibits a great deal of alternatives. On the off chance that the dress is straightforward and conveys one shading tone, it is a chance to play around with expound pieces of jewelry, studs, and wristbands. Once more, the decision to wear a dress is a decision to be rich, so in picking what accomplices to wear, ladies are encouraged to look after adjust. For instance, if long beaded accessory is utilized, it is smarter to utilize basic studded hoops. Armlets, then again, can be put aside for sacks and belts.

At last, what's the perfect haircut for long-sleeved dresses? The hairdos ought to dependably coordinate the state of mind and aim of the dress. Delicate buns will do simply well, and is pragmatic for ladies who are required to be dexterous and portable in their work places. Letting down a long wavy or straight hair is likewise straightforward and exquisite, as long as they are appropriately hair-blown. The last style is useful for corporate gatherings and occasions.

Long Sleeved Dresses

There's a certain fire course to style when you're searching for a dress, and that is to pick a long-sleeved outline. Strappy little numbers and bustier dresses are most likely more glitz than captivating, and show you're prepared to party, which is for what reason they're Christmas gathering and prom top picks. Be that as it may, the secured bears and concealed elbows of the long-sleeve dress have an out and out more stifled, advanced and conditioned down appearance, ideal for the swanky business do, a loquacious supper party or a nation wedding.

Once you've settled on leaving your shoulders to the creative impulses of the applicable area of humankind, the genuine work begins. Like any great garments customer, you'll take motivation (and perhaps even a dress or two) from mold's rich history; that implies complete a little research in your neighborhood vintage apparel store -and keep in mind that there are some fantastic online ones as well. On finding the long-sleeved dresses you'll understand that it is anything but a look that will definitely succeed. There's a sure chintzy, tacky vibe about a portion of the sleeved dresses, and without giving careful consideration you could well wind up with the Barbara Cartland or Grayson Perry look, or you may appear as though you've quite recently left the area meeting in Midsomer - and that can't end well.

To remain provocative and impeccably ladylike, let the common state of your arms, not the firmness of the material, decide the state of the sleeves. That is the reason dress sleeves are frequently made of a significantly lighter material that the body of the dress, maybe as light as a sheer texture, for example, chiffon or trim. While it is decent to accomplish an impeccable fit, it is hard to accomplish, particularly prêt a watchman, so the delicacy of the texture keeps the forms looking as normal as would be prudent. A wonderful element of even the most fitted sleeve is an unpretentious flaring towards the wrists. It has the most appealing impact of resounding the skirt of the dress and adds sublime adjust and balance to the general shape.

Next we're on to shading and examples. Probably, you'll be searching for somewhat dark dress, and it's seen similar to a closet staple in light of current circumstances. It tends to be embellished to your heart's substance or left dim and easy to attract the eye to your face. In any case, further to this, once an observable example or unmistakable shading has been built up in a dress, it can without much of a stretch turn out to be "excessively" when connected to the sleeves, giving the presence of a flooding vase. Obviously, great outline and fitting will be everywhere on this issue and enable all way of brilliant shades to paint your figure, however recollect that a dress can look a considerable measure sleeker on the holder than when it's well used, and it's anything but difficult to focus excessively on the hips, midriff and bust in the changing room reflect.

Why You Should Have a Long Sleeve Wedding Dress

Wedding dresses with short sleeves, spaghetti lashes or those that are sleeveless are unquestionably getting more prevalent. A considerable measure of ladies presently appear to incline toward exposing their arms. A lady of the hour in any case, ought to always remember that a long sleeve wedding dress is additionally still a decent alternative. For what reason would anybody need to have a long sleeve wedding dress?

Exemplary History

Wedding dresses have been around for whatever length of time that weddings have been. We as a whole know obviously that a lady of long prior just had one dress alternative, a long sleeve wedding dress. It can maybe be securely expected that since the medieval period, the long sleeve wedding dress viably emitted the message of female unobtrusiveness. A customary medieval long sleeve wedding dress would have a completely shut neck area and sleeves that went down to cover the fingers. The old long sleeve wedding dress anyway was likewise an announcement of form. A well off lady of the hour could have a long sleeve wedding dress of velvet and damask with trimmings of glossy silk and silk. As a component of form, sleeve tips could stretch out down to the floor.

Present day Elegance

The cutting edge long sleeve wedding dress need not take after its old look. A present day long sleeve wedding dress does not need to look antiquated or vintage at everything except still pass on female humility. Long sleeves can undoubtedly infer a very polite and unobtrusive look paying little respect to the bodice and neck area cut. It can likewise viably draw out the impression of rich convention.

Essential Purpose

A long sleeve wedding dress has one essential reason which is to attract regard for your upper parts. On the off chance that you have hips that are either too full or too little, you might need to attract eyes to your chest and arms. Having long sleeves is additionally an incredible answer for square shoulders and huge arms.

Present day Modesty

A few ladies may at present favor a long sleeve wedding dress outline basically as a result of unobtrusiveness. You can have full long sleeves of indistinguishable material from your dress and a straightforward round neck area. It is conceivable anyway to at present look unassuming yet additionally daringly current. Have the sleeves made of a lighter work material and afterward pick an off the shoulder neck area. You likewise have the choice of a representation neck area or a low slipover cut.

For All Seasons

A ¾ or full long sleeve made of indistinguishable material from your bodice can help keep you warm and agreeable in a winter wedding. You may in any case anyway have a rich long sleeve wedding dress even in summer. Pick light materials like chiffon and organza in the event that you think the climate will be warm on your big day.

Dodge Only If

Rich long sleeves are tragically not for each lady of the hour. You ought to abstain from having a long sleeve wedding dress on the off chance that you are little in stature. You will watch out of extent with a long sleeve wedding dress. You ought to likewise simply consider having a sleeveless outfit in the event that you have excellent, all around conditioned arms.

Cap Sleeve Dress - Look Trendy and Chic

Mold patterns are changing each day and consistently. Skirts, long dresses and shorts have dependably been in design, will dependably be in form are still in mold then what changes the course of patterns and style are the things, for example, the neck areas and the sleeve styles. Probably the most famous sleeve styles incorporate ringer sleeves, china sleeves and top sleeves. Top sleeve dress is the best decision you can pick for any formal or easygoing event. It is profoundly in pattern and looks chic.

Each dress has its guidelines and details yet this dress has no such limitations and anybody can wear them. In the event that you have thunder arms, the top state of the sleeves will cover your upper arm part though on the off chance that you have hard arms then all things considered the sleeves will give a fantasy of extensive arms so in both the cases it favors you.

These dresses are accessible in various neck areas, for example, square, round, and others. There are distinctive textures that these are accessible in, for example, silk, glossy silk, velvet, georgette and others.

Long Length Dress

These sleeve styles can be found in long length dresses. Long length dresses allude to dresses that touch your lower legs or are no less than at least 2 creeps beneath your knees. They look good and rich and can be in a perfect world worn for formal capacities.

Short Length Dresses

Then again, there are short length dresses which are either as short as one inch over the knees or an inch beneath the knees. Anything shorter than this does not search better than average for formal events. In any case, you can wear them for casual events if your body compose supplements it. Top sleeves look awesome with short length dresses.

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australianopal-us · 3 years

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Opal Jewelry Information

The earliest known opal jewelry artifacts uncovered in a cave in Kenya by famous anthropologist Louis Leakey were said to have dated back to about 4000 B.C., and were most likely originated from Ethiopia. History shows that the discovery and cultivation of the opal stone was important to the prestige and power of several ancient civilizations. As early humans continued to unearth various new and rare gemstones from the caves and crevices in which they were deposited hundreds of years before, they soon learned how to work them into decorative shapes. Once the craft of shaping opal jewelry was mastered, these mysteriously illuminating gems were rendered priceless, and revered for symbolizing great power and wealth.

What is Opal?

The modern name for the opal gem is derived from the Latin word "Opalus," meaning: "to see a color change." Scientifically, opal is an amorphous mineraloid comprised of water and a rich mix of silica composites. Opal jewelry may range anywhere in color from white or grey, to black. Black opals are the most valuable and widely known type of opal, because the rainbow of colors that the opal stone omits appears much more vibrant when standing-out against the backdrop of a darker stone. Black opals are unique and very expensive. This is because they can only be found in one location in all of the world. The place is called Lightning Ridge, and it is in Northern New South Wales. This miners' dream is home to hundreds of millions of dollars worth of precious black opal stones--stone's whose net worth value can be priced at such exponential rates as up to $15,000 per carat.

Where does Opal come from?

Since the late 19th Century, Australia has been the number one country in opal export and production, contributing more than ninety percent of the global output. Opal of differing qualities occurs in over twenty other countries, and is particularly indigenous to Zambia, Ethiopia, Peru, Indonesia, New South Wales, New Zealand, Brazil, and Mexico.

What makes Opal Jewelry so Special?

Opal, whose colors changed with every shift of light, was rarer than pearls and diamonds, and destined to be the most common gem to be associated with the reflection of one's innermost desires and dreams. Early races believed that the opal stone possessed mystical energies that would enable its wearer to see the future. Opal jewelry is said to carry within it an innate sense of magic, and obtain the powers of prophetic insight and understanding for its wearer. Opal's beautifully reflecting and ever-changing spectral hues were believed to be a powerful and potent charm which allowed one to let go of their inhibitions and encouraged spontaneity. Opal jewelry is also rumored to aid in obtaining clarity. The opal, which looks different at every angle from which the stone is viewed, is said to have the power to amplify and mirror internal feelings, buried emotions, and desires. According to ancient Arabian folklore, the opal stone descended from heaven in powerful flashes of lightning. To the Romans, opal was considered to be a token of hope and one of purity.

Colors of Opal Jewelry

The truly unique thing about opal is that it displays all the colors of the color spectrum in a so-called "play of color," that results from the diffraction of light when passing through the tiny silica spheres that exist deep within the infrastructure of the opal. This means that the rainbow colors on the surface of the stone will move and change dramatically when you shift and rotate the stone in the palm of your hand. The value of each individual opal varies greatly in accordance with several different factors which determine its worth: such as body tone (or backdrop color), play of color, colors present, brilliance, pattern, shape, size, and cut of stone. Generally, black opal jewelry is the most highly coveted form of opal. The lighter gray and whiter body tones are more abundant in nature, and slightly less thrilling to the naked eye.

The Opal and Magic

In the middle ages, the opal was known as the "eye stone," because it was believed to have a magical power which would help its wearer have sharper eyesight. Blonde women were known to collect as many pieces of opal jewelry as they could muster, because the opal was believed to contain within it the power to magically keep blonde hair from losing its luster and bright golden color.

Some cultures thought that the elaborate and illuminating colors of the opal, when reflected directly into a persons eyes, would render them invisible to that person. Thus, it was believed that an opal charm, when used properly, could give its owner mystical disappearing powers.

The Opal and Desire

Legend has it that one ancient Roman emperor offered to trade an entire third of his vast empire for a single opal. Cleopatra's famous lover Mark Antony loved opal. Legend says that he so deeply coveted an opal owned by Roman Senator Nonius for his beloved Cleopatra, that he had the Senator banished after he refused to sell his precious almond-sized stone, which was valued at over $80,000.

Some Legendary Opals

The "Aurora Australis"

Found in 1938 at Lightning Ridge, the "Aurora Australis" is the world's most valuable black opal. With its dominant red, green, and deep blue hues, this 3' by 1.8' inch 180 carat stone is more than just a pleasure to look at. Dug out from an old seabed encrusted deep within the ocean core, this rare beauty sports a distinct impression of a starfish fossil on its underside. Just last year, this prize opal gem was valued at $1,000,000. It is named after the northern lights.

The "Fire Queen"

Discovered in 1906 by a man named Chalie Dunstan, the 900 carat "Fire Queen" is the largest opal to date. This fiery red-hued giant opal was given to the Chicago Museum in 1928, and then in the 1940's, was sold to the highly acclaimed heir to an oil fortune, J.D. Rockefeller wished for it to be a part of his prestigious family collection. As for Charlie Dunstan, rumor has it that right after he sold the "Fire Queen," he got drunk and 'lost' two of its big-sized sister stones. In 1910, shortly after the stones had been lost, Dunstan was found dead. It was said that he committed suicide after the loss of his precious stones.

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