#mechanical orrery

[junkseries]

I made yet a ROKR 3D puzzle, this time their Solar System Orrery!

Spent more time than what it said it would take (aprox. 7 hours) as i wanted to have all the pieces properly sanded, waxed, and took my sweet time assembling the pieces so as to not break or mess up a step. Just look at this beauty!

If I knew how I'd love to add a little electrical motor to slowly turn the little handle, would look darling being able to sit back and watch the planets spinning in their orbit around the sun.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 5

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: I’m trying something new here—been reading The Shining by Steven King and I like how the “thoughts” are presented :)

warnings: general angst

word count: 5,414

-Part 4- -Part 6-

Sharp, caramel eyes latch to your own from across the room.

Beneath his fingertips rest the planets of your solar system, whirring softly as they rotate, cogs clicking together. Your orrery.

Shoulders tense—it’s fine machinery, incredibly delicate. You don’t like the idea of him being so close to something so dear to you. He hasn’t proven to be particularly caring, or thoughtful. Anxiety closes around your throat. “Eris,” you greet, moving forward stiffly. “What are you doing here?” Why is he in the House of Wind, in the heart of the Night Court. Why is he in Velaris.

He taps against your world, the mechanical clicking coming to a stop, the system halting to his will. Retracts his hand. “You’re really kept out of the loop, aren’t you?” He asks, eyes gleaming, fingertips grazing the blade at his hip. Your brow narrows, “that’s not an answer.” You eye him warily, how close he is to that precious gift your sister had given you.

Lips lift into that familiar viper’s smile, “I’m here to have a meeting with your High Lord and Lady. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you. Surprised too you’re allowed near me at all after our last encounter—do they not particularly mind your safety?” He inquires, moving around the kitchen table. You shift in response, mirroring his movements, the opening steps to a dance you’re uninterested in.

“I live here,” you counter, “why should I yield my ground to you. It’s my home.” He quirks a neatly groomed brow, taking another step around the table, so you’ve switched positions. “You don’t live with the rest of your lovely family? Your younger sister has a home deeper within this city, but you choose to stay here, in this lonely place?”

“It’s my home,” you repeat, “and I like the quiet. Can you understand that?”

Eris’ brow narrows at the perceived insult, and you move closer to the table, to your orrery. “What sort of nonsense question is that?” He asks sharply.

“You live in a palace, don’t you? Big; spacious? Filled with people and riches?” You ask, narrowing your eyes on the male. His lips quirk, “more riches than you can even comprehend.” Eyes run over you, judgementally, “more beauty, too.”

“Filled with people, I’ll bet,” you say, ignoring the comment with practiced ease. At least Azriel’s helped with desensitising you to such things. “Servants, courtiers, maids. Does your home— Does your father’s palace ever sleep? Do you ever get any peace?”

“If you’re prying to see if there’s a single moment I might be vulnerable to an assassination attempt, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint. There isn’t a single person who steps foot in my palace without authorisation.” He replies smoothly, caramel eyes gleaming.

Your lips tilt quietly, “what a lovely cage you live in, Eris.”

He stiffens, then his mouth twists itself into something resembling a smile—too serpentine. “Is this your preferred battleground? Verbal warfare? You’re quite talented at it.” You don’t mistake it for a compliment. “Tell me: which of them taught you to speak like that?”

Your brow dips in confusion. “It’s not warfare—It’s observation. There’s nothing aggressive about it.”

“No? No animosity in your prying? I could have sworn I detected a bite back by the river. Where have your claws gone? Were they clipped just like the hell-cat’s were?” He smiles—unnerving to be faced with it. “Bring them out. We can have ourselves a sparring match.” A hand raises in mocking challenge, beckoning you forward.

Hairs raise at the back of your neck, skin prickling with that itch that lies just below the scratch of your nails. Burning your fingertips. Dangerous. Manipulative. Manipulative.

“And where did you learn?” You fire back. “Who taught you to be so insidious? Or do you know no different?”

Caramel burns into you, charring your insides. “An answer for an answer.”

He’s got you. Knows you won’t rise to his challenge. So you switch methods.

Eyes flick down to the machinery on the table, “it’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”

If he’s caught off guard, he doesn’t show it. Well-accustomed to being on the constant edge. “A waste of time. The tinkerer has simply welded a few cogs and screws together—basic metal work.”

Your gaze rises to his, a hint of amusement within as you take a seat to better peer at the orrery. “You’re trying so hard to make it seem insignificant, yet you were studying our planet, so you’re clearly familiar with its structure.” Fingertips graze across the gilded metal of the sphere, the only one occupying the habitable zone. “I doubt you’ll answer my question, so I can only presume you’re used to hiding your interests.”

“Presume away,” he drawls, “it’s no bother to me.”

“No bother,” you echo, spinning the orrery, cogs ticking, globes rotating smoothly. “You hide like there’s something to be embarrassed about. What’s wrong with being fascinated by the world?” You play with the system, again falling under its spell, admiring the intricate carvings, how the tinkerer has rendered texture into metal—made it appear soft.

“You speak as if you’re knowledgeable of it. How much can you know having only spent two years in our land, feeding off our history?” He counters, stepping toward the table, eyes flicking carelessly over the mechanism. With forced lightness. Your brow furrows as you peer at him, “what’s the meaning of having endless time to discover if you don’t use it? I know about the world because I’ve read about it, and I’ve read about it because I want to know. Two years isn’t long to study something as vast as this, but unlike you, I have time to myself, to do things for myself that I want. And this—” you gesture to the small solar system, “—is what I’m interested in.”

The corners of Eris’ mouth tilt down, stepping finally closer to the table, as if accepting a conversation is inevitable. “And you think it is wise to invest your time in something as academic as this? You think you’ll be allowed to study it? Pursue your interest in it?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” You counter, absently tracing the rings of one of the planets—how beautiful they are! “I’m immortal now. Why shouldn’t I spend it doing things I like? Not all of us want to be sour and miserable.”

His lips quirk, “you maybe immortal, but you’re also detrimentally female. If you think your sex will not be an obstacle in your study, then you’re much more naive than I thought.”

Your brow dips, “and you’re awfully cynical. The library is filled with books, and is run by females, so no—I don’t think my sex will be an obstacle,” you snap. Take a breath in. He’s good at getting under your skin. You have to remember that’s his game. And you can’t fall for it. Otherwise Azriel will be right.

Eris opens his mouth, and you just know you don’t want to hear whatever rubbish he’s about to spit out. So you divert by returning to your wonderful orrery, “if you had to choose between these two planets to stand on for five minutes—” you point to the globes either side of your own, “—which would you go for? Air shortage aside?”

He rolls his eyes, irritated. “I do not have an interest in your childish device, and I did not come here to be lectured on how great the world is, nor anything beyond it. I have much more pressing things to concern myself with. The fact alone you choose to entertain yourself with knowledge that will never impact anyone is proof of your naiveté.”

You ignore the jab, even if it scratches its nails down your mental walls. “If you set foot on this one—” point to the one further from the centre, “—you would be crushed in seconds. Do you know why?”

The viper’s smile again, “as I have already said, I have no childish infatuation with things beyond my control. You’re wasting your time.”

“This planet,” you carry on, pointedly ignoring him, “spins nearly five times faster than our own, meaning gravity—the stuff that holds us to the—”

“I know what gravity is,” he snaps, fire lighting in his eyes.

You blink, startled by the outburst. He watches you silently. Doesn’t make a move to interrupt you again.

“Meaning the gravity,” you say slowly, waiting for him to jump again. He doesn’t. “…is stronger.” You blink again, but he makes no comment. “As a result, the days there last mere hours. How can that not fascinate you? How many other quirks are out there? Even limiting it to our own planet?”

His caramel eyes narrow. “Careful,” he warns. “People have been put to death for talking as you are.”

You look at him, confused. “People in your court? Why on earth would anyone be killed for this?”

“Regardless of court,” he drawls, as if it’s obvious. “For suggesting something other than the Mother. On grounds of blasphemy. The study of science is inherently rooted against her.”

Eyes widen as you stare at him.

“Is that what’s stopping you?” You ask, incredulously. “You’re a favoured heir to the throne, aren’t you? What good is that title if you’re unable to benefit from it?”

His brow narrows, “there are infinite ways I benefit from it. If you’re too ignorant to figure them out, then it speaks volumes to your wisdom.”

You ignore that, pushing forward. “But Rhys has one in his study—an orrery. It can’t be that serious?” As soon as the words leave your mouth, you’re doubting yourself. “Is it?”

“Hasn’t your sister witnessed first-hand how selective the world can be in who it favours? Did you not listen when I told you your sex would present difficulties?” He says sharply. “If you’re set on remaining ignorant, I see no point in continuing this conversation.”

Spine straightens as you stare at him, surprised.

“If I don’t know something, then explain it to me,” you say quietly. “How can I learn if I don’t know where I’m lacking?”

“It is not my responsibility to educate you,” he snaps. “Neither my responsibility to entertain you with conversation. If you prove to be dull, I have no reason to waste my time on you.”

“I agree it’s not your responsibility to educate me,” you say, frowning, “but if you have knowledge of something I don’t, and refuse to share it, how can you stand there and remain irritated with me? When you have the ability to change that?”

Eris’ lips twist again. “Like I said: it’s a waste of time.”

Your brows curve in frustration and disappointment. “You’d rather allow your irritation to fester than do something to prevent it? If you have a problem, and the means to repair it, but choose not to… Well, it speaks volumes to what sort of High Lord you might be.” As soon as the title leaves your tongue, it smacks back into you, the weight registering in your mind. The male before you really might become High Lord—inherit the power and responsibility that comes with it.

He’ll become responsible for his whole Court—yet prefers inactivity when faced with a problem that does not directly impact him.

“Why spend my energy on something so useless? You are only one person—why should I waste my breath? You clearly have no concept of how important and limited time is to someone in my position, in spite of immortality,” he states coldly, caramel darkening to something icy. “I prioritise matters I deem to be important; you waste your time flicking through old books that would better serve a fire.”

“I’m wasting my time on something I love.” You reply sharply, skin itching again, prickling at your fingertips. Sick of having it looked down on. Of being looked down on.

Lips twist in a faint, serpentine smile, eyes gleaming with predatory focus. He descends into the seat opposite you, moving with the grace of a spider, spiralling down into the centre of his web to meet his prey. Suck it dry; liquidate its insides. “Now that piques my interest.”

You don’t need to look down to know the colour your skin has changed to. You do anyway, eyes widening as you take in the faint, radiant green of your fingertips. You stare silently, noting the iridescence.

“I gather my brother’s mate is a seer, while the hell-cat yielded her power,” his smile is one crafted from centuries of cultivated misery, sharp edges created to keep himself safe. Carving his own bones into weaponry. “Could Rhysand have kept you secret because you have no control over it? Even after all this time?”

You bite down on the fear—it’s the second time it’s sparked up in broad daylight. Out in the open. Where anyone can see. “So persistent with the theory of secrecy,” you manage, voice coming out smooth, for the most part. “Maybe you didn’t know, because my power is nothing. It doesn’t heal, doesn’t hurt—nothing besides a dim light in the dark. It’s utterly useless.”

Eris doesn’t look convinced. “The cauldron wouldn’t give you a meaningless power. You haven’t tried hard enough.”

“Why is it so unbelievable?” You counter, in a hurry to end the conversation so you can return to the cover of your room. “Elain is the only one gifted with a real power. Nesta—” Are you allowed to tell him? He already knows she yielded it, so you see no point in hiding it. “Nesta took something. Ripped it away from the cauldron. Why would I be given anything meaningful?” You ask, and see the interest drain from his eyes. “Out of the four of us, Elain’s the only one with a working power.”

“And that’s why you’ve had so much time to yourself,” he drawls, malice again swimming in his whiskey eyes. “No training to do, nothing useful to preoccupy yourself with. Just steadily draining resources, and researching nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” you fire back weakly. “And it’s not heresy either. —nor blasphemy, or whatever name you want to give it to try and convince me it’s wrong.”

His eyes harden, “it denies the power of the Mother. Everything was made when she tipped out the cauldron. Science seeks to disprove that.”

“It shows the beauty of the world!” You insist, vaguely aware of the colour growing more intense as you press your hands into the surface of the table, rising to your feet. “It shows how intricate, and delicately woven it is! The only thing it does is prove there is something out there. How can you look up into the night sky, or gaze across the world, filled with magic, and life, and think any other way?” You argue, pushing the orrery across the table. “There are patterns in our world. Strange, and wonderful patterns, if you know how to spot them. The perfect rotations of our world around the great star, how everything intertwines with one another, like those cogs and screws you were trying to make light of. How can a world be so intricately faceted by chance? There has to be a designer—a creator. The one who set everything in motion to become as it is now.”

Your heart spikes as you think about it—how great she must be. The vastness of her capabilities.

“Science does not deny the existence of the Mother—it allows us to study the depth of her. Or something close to it.”

Eris’ eyes flick down to the solar system that you’ve pushed between his hands—now studying the details. His attention drags back up to you, noting how your pupils have dilated, heart beating quickly, nails digging into the surface of the table, gleaming with iridescence. A slow smile as he makes the connection between your emotions and the glow.

It would be a shame to tell you.

He’ll watch you figure it out for yourself—even if you have to stumble your way to the end.

“You’re skilled with words,” he says at last. “Has anyone told you that?”

You regard him silently, a little taken aback. Almost exhausted from the output of energy. Who knew it could be so tiring sharing an interest. How draining excitement is. “You’re just saying that,” you murmur quietly, fatigue weighing on your tongue from the outburst. You know he’s manipulative. You won’t fall for it.

His smile grows a little wider, into something vaguely normal. “You might even have avoided execution with a speech like that.”

Strangely, it doesn’t feel like he’s lying. It’s not much to go off, not much to rely on. He’s had centuries to perfect this act, would be flawless at it by now. And yet…

And yet. It’s enough for you to believe him. Trust your gut, and it’s telling you he’s being sincere.

Strange indeed.

————

Mor had interrupted almost immediately after, making you spring back from the table, seeing her blonde head appear in the kitchen, eyes hard when they landed on the Autumn Court male.

She’d promptly whisked him away to whichever room they were having their meeting in, and you’d hastily tucked your hands at your back, concealing glowing fingertips from her sharp gaze. You’d hated yourself a little in that moment, for hiding it from her. For not being brave enough to face them head on.

It was nothing compared to the sharp, stabbing laceration in your gut when Eris noted the movement. Offered you a slow, vulpine smile.

It’s been days since then, and every step seems to echo your doom. Every footfall in the hallway, every chirp of voices—you’re convinced they know. Because how much longer is he going to keep it a secret? How long before he asks something from you? Something you can’t give, because you don’t have access to them. To any of them. Not in the way he would like.

A series of knocks is landed to you door, and the book slides from your hands. Yelp when it nearly hits your foot. Feyre really needs to start walking a little louder so things like that don’t happen. You sigh heavily.

“Come in,” you call, hastily collecting up the book, plonking it down atop the precarious stack at your bedside. A small gust of dust motes shoot out from the pages, and you cough, turning to the window. Opening it to invite in the crisp, midday air. Open the curtains a little wider, too.

You turn to face her, here probably to ask you to another dinner. It’s been nearly a fortnight since the last one, when Elain had invited you to the…mortal lands. You really don’t know what to call that part, now.

Hazel cuts into you, air catches in your lungs—maybe it’s the dust.

You stare. Stare, and stare, but he doesn’t morph, or transfigure into your sister. Shadows crawl at his feet, slink over his wings, kept tight to his body. It’s strange to see him so tense.

“What are you…” you trail off, shaking your head slowly. “No.”

Azriel’s mouth purses. Remains in the doorway, not even one step away from the threshold. “We should— I would like to speak with you.” You stare longer; shake your head again.

(you are a proving to be a burden.)

“I don’t… No. I don’t want to,” you manage. “I’m in the middle of something right now.” His eyes flick about the room, and you shift to conceal the books at your bedside. “You don’t look busy,” he says slowly, aware how quickly things can turn sour. “That’s because I’m talking to you,” you reply, equally carefully.

He pauses, eyes once again scanning your room, then, “may I come in?”

Spine goes rigid; his pupils dilate. “I want to clear the air between us,” he supplies. “It would be better to do so in private.” He has a point. Feyre’s added a sound barrier to your room after the mess of last time, but… It’s midday, no one should be here. The only people who occasionally dip in are Elain and Feyre. Nesta doesn’t really…the two of you aren’t as close. “Okay,” you find yourself saying, dipping your head, “but I need to—” you gesture to the clothes on your floor. The general mess.

He nods, throat bobbing before he steps inside, the door clicking behind him as he keeps to the clear spaces on the floor. Few and far between.

You swallow, prying your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “What did you want to… Where do you want to start?” You ask, returning to the far end of your room to push the windows wider—as far as they can go. The breeze plays with strands of your hair, cleaning out the stuffy room, smelling slightly of mildew and parchment. Mostly dust, though.

“Your feelings for me…” he begins quietly, the words blaring throughout the room. “How long have you—”

“You know. Start somewhere else,” you interrupt, nails digging into the wooden frame, nudging the fabric of the curtains with your foot. He pauses, and you remain turned away from him, heart spiking. But he acquiesces.

“Okay…” he breathes heavily, followed by the faint stretch of leather as he folds his arms. Flexes his fingers before doing so. Still, you don’t look at him. “The talk with Eris.” It’s your turn to sigh, shifting on your feet to face him, wind blowing in gently from behind, soothing the heat between your shoulder blades, wrapping your cardigan a little tighter.

You don’t question how he knows about that short chat. Maybe Mor mentioned it—she’s the only one who saw, anyway. And you can’t imagine Azriel would have allowed it to go on that long if his shadows were aware. There’s a sour taste at the back of your throat.

“He just asked why I lived up here, instead of with the rest of you,” you mumble, scanning hastily for something to do. “I just said I liked the quiet, and that’s it.” Fingers grip the hem of a top, carrying it to your bed to fold away. The first of many.

Silence stretches between you, taut and tenuous. Hairs rise at the back of your neck, skin prickling.

“You didn’t mention that last time,” he says slowly, neutrally. Too controlled to be calm.

Your brows draw together. “I didn’t,” you confirm, picking up another top, folding it. It’s slightly out of place, the seams not lining up, and you redo it. Set it above the other. “Why not?” He asks tentatively. “It helps to know exactly things like that.” You stand straighter, looking at him—he does indeed have his arms crossed. Uncrosses them when you face him. Also straightens.

“We haven’t spoken since then,” you say slowly.

Eyes lock briefly when you both connect the dots.

“You’ve spoken with him since?” It’s phrased as a question, but…

Throat rolls, eyes turn away, body following shortly after, grabbing a pile of three garments. Set them on the bed. Hands moving like clockwork.

Head dips in confirmation.

Silence digs deeper. A shovel in a grave mound.

“When we had a meeting?” He asks, voice again taking on that controlled tone. Body coiled tight. Features neutral. “Yeah,” you murmur, “when you had that meeting.” Set the skirt atop the pile.

“And he asked why you live alone?” There’s an implication there. What is it? So many different angles to study it from—not a pleasing thought. “Not directly,” you mumble, “he said it was interesting I chose to live here when Feyre had a house deeper in the city. I think.”

“What you do you mean, you think?” He asks steadily, remaining statue-like in your peripherals.

“It was a few days ago,” you supply. “It didn’t stick with me.” That part didn’t, at least. He nods, reasoning it out in his head. Understandable.

“Was there anything else?” He asks instead. You know he marks the way your shoulders tense, even if you operate otherwise normally. “No,” you mumble, turning away from him, “nothing important.”

“We’ve been over this,” he reminds. “You don’t—…” Sighs. “Just tell me everything, and I’ll decide what’s important.” Why does this keep happening?

“You can’t trust him,” he adds gently, a touch softer than before.

You nod your head quickly, “I know.” Quiet reigns again, and he’s debating something. “Just say it,” you murmur, straightening the stack of books, skittish fingers fumbling with some of the loose papers. You should probably separate them out into a neater pile—they’ll only get more crinkled otherwise.

“I don’t want you to take it the wrong way,” he supplies carefully.

“Okay.” Nod once. “I won’t.”

Picture the way his throat rolls, fingers flex at his sides. “Do you really understand why you can’t trust him?”

You pick up a few books from the stack, depositing them on your desk, moving to sort through which ones can be returned to the library. Mentally cataloguing their numbers and titles that correlate with set aisles. “I do,” you say, seeing how that would have been misinterpreted. He does you the courtesy of not asking you to explain it. “So you understand why you have to be careful about what you say. What you let him know,” he reasons softly.

Something heavy settles in your gut at the reminder, but you keep your lips shut.

“Eris is a snake,” he continues. “I can’t stress enough how wary you should be around him. And certainly never by yourself.” Eyes briefly meet over that last part, then your own dart away, returning to organising the catastrophe on your desk. Shifting through papers and diagrams. Charts and catalogues. Star formations and little doodles. “If you give him something, he will find a way to use it. It’s imperative you never let him know anything important.” You look at him over your shoulder, temporarily removing your focus from the lovely books, “what counts as important?”

Azriel sighs, leans against the tall frame of your bed, one shoulder propped against it calmly. He looks relaxed—it’s intentional. A distortion to make things seem fine; to keep you calm.

He raises one hand, gestures between you and him. “Us,” he says, reluctantly. “Things like this—they’re private. Emotional problems, and squabbles or…complications,” he expands. “You can’t let him know about anything like that. If he thinks there’s weakness, or a rift he can exploit, he will.”

Breath catches in your chest, and you snap you attention off him, forcefully reattaching it to the books you’ve laid out. Which pile means what?

“I don’t…” you begin. Swallow. Unstick your tongue. “I don’t know about any of your relations. Within…within Rhys’…” You fumble, unsure how to describe them all.

(Us.)

“Family?” He supplies. “Within your family?”

“No,” you sigh. “Beyond my sisters. I don’t—…I mean, I don’t know what’s going on with Cassian, or Mor, or Amren, either. I don’t—… There’s nothing he can get from me.”

Azriel watches you silently, skin prickling beneath the weight of his focus. “They’re your family, too,” he says gently. Almost tenderly. “Not just Rhys’, or Feyre’s. You’re her older sister, so you’re a part of it all, too.”

(A single pair of pearl earrings.)

Hazel locks with your own, and you release a soft laugh, beams of amusements finally lighting your eyes, mirth building on your mouth. How long has it been since you’ve laughed because of him?

Azriel narrows his eyes, and the laughter dies on your tongue. “Oh.” The word whispers out on an exhale, subconsciously taking a step backward. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, “I thought—” You shake your head. “You’re just saying that.” He remains silent, watching you intently.

“They don’t—,” you fumble. Trying to find the words. “I mean, they—… We’re separate. Me, I mean. I’m not—”

“Yes you are.”

You shake your head, not accepting it. “You can’t expect me to believe that,” you mutter. “I’m not that naive.”

Azriel’s brow furrows. “Granted, you don’t make it easy. But you’re still part of it all.”

“So you—” You’re not sure if you can say it. “You don’t… You see me as family?”

It’s his turn to falter, coming up short. You shake your head in disbelief. “Azriel…”

His eyes narrow as he stares at you. Opens his mouth.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Let’s just… Let’s stay on track.” Otherwise it’s going to get ugly.

(you are a proving to be a burden.)

Lower lip trembles; you bite it, turning your attention to your desk. He’s quiet for a few moments, and the energy begins to settle.

“Why does family bother you so much?” He asks, quietly.

Breath whooshes from your lungs, and you place both your palms flat on the desk, so tired. “Because,” you sigh, eyelids weighing heavy. Massage the bridge of your nose with both your middle and forth fingers. “The feelings I have for you…those don’t belong to a family member.” Shame heats your cheeks, fingers covering you eyes. How many times do you have to say it?

“Why do you insist on targeting everything I’m uncomfortable talking about?” You ask, softly, hands remaining over your features, muffling you. Because if you don’t divert, he’ll target that, too. “You did the same in the air,” you whisper, “you get hung up on these tiny points and you can’t let them go and it’s…” You don’t know.

“It’s what?” He asks, coldly. Lip trembles at the tone, pushing away the dampness, lowering your hands. “Why do you do it?”

“It’s my job to get the details right,” he replies.

(Is this your preferred battleground? Verbal warfare?)

“I’m not your job, Azriel.”

“You are when you run off and have unmonitored chats with that male.”

“Eris, or Bas?” You ask quietly.

(You’re quite talented at it.)

He falters, then his jaw ticks, the muscle feathering. “We’ll talk about Bas in a minute,” he says. “For now, we’re talking about how you behave around Eris.” You stare at him. Blink. “I don’t know how to make it clearer,” he continues, watching the ceiling, head tipped upward slightly. Eyes flick down, looking as though you’re below him.

Lowers his head.

“Eris prefers verbal warfare,” he begins, repeating the same old things he’s already told you. Fingertips begin to itch.

Hazel pierces into you, muscle in his jaw tensing. “He’s good at it, too. Good enough to make all of us wary. Doesn’t that show enough?”

(You’re skilled with words, has anyone told you that?)

“I got that impression.”

He nods, no more than a gentle dip of his chin. “That’s good,” he sighs. “It’s a good start.” Something twists in your gut at the words.

“Just don’t go near him,” Azriel continues, unaware of the numbness that’s slowly spreading down your back. “Okay.” Hands move automatically, and you watch distantly as they go.

He sighs, “so tell me what happened most recently. All of it. Then I can tell you what’s good and what’s not.”

“I don’t remember all of it,” you mumble.

Why are you so tired? It’s not the same fatigue as after talking with Eris. That was pleasant. Your mind was tired from working. Now… You’re just tired of resisting.

“You said he asked about you living alone,” he prompts. You want to go to bed. Want to close the curtains and crawl deep under the sheets.

You nod distantly. “And you said you liked the quiet.”

Nod again.

“So what happened after that?” He’s gotten quieter, sensing your disengagement.

You shrug weakly. “We just talked.”

“This is what I mean,” he says gently, attempting to soften the words that need to be said. “Eris doesn’t do idle chatter. You have to start understanding that.”

You shake your head, denying, “he didn’t ask anything else.”

“But you were talking?” He asks pointedly, doubt clear.

You go quiet. Shoulders slope.

Azriel sighs, standing upright. There’s no use talking to you like this.

“Let’s try this another time. When you’re more… When you’re feeling better.” He waits a little for a response. Feel the weight of his gaze on your hands. You don’t respond, and he dips his head in acknowledgement. Allowing your peace.

But still, when he leaves, you’re torn between crying, and wanting to run after him.

Nothing’s gotten better.

You still crave his attention, even though it’s begun to hurt.

General Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb

Az Taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter

CBMTHY Taglist: @impossibelle @naturakaashi @sakurafrost3-blog @ficienjoyedrbspot @azriels-shadowsinger @marina468 @misstea12 @going-through-shit @fussel9913 @minakay @i-am-infinite @wannabewolf @thegirlintheshadows101 @kennedy-brooke @esposadomd @horneybeach1 @jeannineee @harrystylesfan2686 @tothestarsandwhateverend @abysshaven @starlight-hope @stupidwingboy @nastynesta @luvmoo @furiousbooklover @kuraikei

[tylermileslockett]

"Atalanta and the Argonauts" (#5)

When the call went out to Greece’s greatest heroes, for fame and glory, to join Jason and his quest for the Golden fleece, only the bravest answered the call. Heroes like Hercules, Orpheus, Telamon, Peleus, and yes, Atalanta mustered her courage and journeyed to join them.

Appollonius of Rhodes wrote the epic poem “Argonautica” about Jason’s quest for the golden fleece around the 3rd century B.C. based on a much older tale, (referenced in Homer and Pindar). Apparently Appollonius elevated the romantic relationship between Jason and Medea, which in turn inspired latin poetry and Virgil’s Aeneid. In Appollonius tale, Atalanta shows up to join the Argonauts, but Jason turns her away, fearing having such a beautiful woman on board would cause conflict between his men. However, In Appollodorus “Library” (1-2nd century A.D.)  he lists Atalanta as being one of the heroes who accompany Jason for the Golden fleece. Unfortunately, there are no surviving versions where we see the entirety of the journey with Atalanta involved, which begs the question; what would the adventure be like if Atalanta joined?

On the topic of sea quests, lets take a quick look at ancient Greek seafaring. The Argo ship is portrayed as a sort of Trireme (ancient warship with three rows of oars and curved prow). Developments in astronomy helped ancient sea sailors navigate through constellations like Ursa Minor (little dipper) , as well as moon cycles and eclipses. They also used “sounding weights” to measure sea depths, which helped to inform distances to land. There is evidence from around 100 B.C. of an ancient “Orrery” (solar model) tool for celestial navigation called the Antikythera Mechanism. This ingenious, hand-powered device contained gears and could predict and track astronomical positions and eclipses.

Like this art? It will be in my illustrated book with over 130 other full page illustrations coming in Aug/Sept to kickstarter.  to get unseen free hi-hes art subscribe to my email newsletter

Follow my backerkit kickstarter notification page.

Thank you for supporting independent artists! 🤘❤️🏛😁

[delicatuscii-wasbella102]

“An orrery is a mechanical model of the Solar System that shows the relative positions and motions of the planets and moons according to the heliocentric (Sun-centered) model.” Beautiful

[phthalology]

“Will you help me?” The wound is not life-threatening. But sometimes letting someone else care for you isn’t about necessity.

“Lot of fuss about Ghosts lately,” said Drifter, and he sat down bonelessly on the lush grass of the Pale Heart.

Ikora didn’t move. She stared at the pool where the Speaker’s orrery had once spun. “Of course there is. Ghosts were the ones who destroyed the Witness, in the end.” 

It all gave Drifter the creeps. To look at the Pale Heart was to look at a tyrant’s idea of paradise, an endless growth inside a glass-walled prison. Cancer in a greenhouse. Other people found it comforting, for some reason. “And how is that sitting with you, with Ophiuchus as he is?”

Ikora laughed softly. “With me as I am, you mean.”

“It takes two.”

“That’s the point,” Ikora said. “If I had been with the Guardians who dealt the final blow, would Ophiuchus have been there for me? I don’t know. But I won’t give that to new Lights as a lesson. We need confidence now.”

“Ha, I guess there might be new little Lights after this who never even knew the Witness. Weird that the Traveler would keep making ‘em. Talk about a lack of confidence.”

“With that aurora in the sky and who knows what coming next, maybe we’ll need more Guardians after all.” Finally, she looked at him, with a directness that made him wonder what he had come here to say in the first place. 

Ghosts, sure. Even Eris was buddy-buddy with Immaru now. That Micah was a regular home for orphaned Ghosts. Drifter couldn’t shake his initial impression of his own Ghost as a tool, a vindictive resurrection machine that thought of humanity as a gun it could field-strip or fire dirty until a mechanical piece gave out. So, he’d made his Ghost into the same, striking first. Drifter had no doubt his muzzled Ghost would have fired at the Witness, because he’d have ordered it to. 

“I could use the near end of the world as an excuse to reconnect with Ophiuchus,” Ikora said. “But it’s been so long … I don’t know what sign I gave that let us reach this place, he and I. I don’t know what sign could bring us back together.”

“Ask him to help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

“It doesn’t have to be world-saving help.” Drifter gestured up at the vines built of memory, at the place where outside the real Tower, the Traveler had once floated. “Just a little favor.” He sleight-of-handed a coin-sized stone eye, one of the strange pieces of detritus he’d found in the Pale Heart, out of his sleeve and across his knuckles. “A little gift.” 

Fact is, the Drifter had a little bit of that Warlock magic nowadays. He did not care what class any Guardian of this temporary age would call him, but between the Light and the Dark, he knew things even more than usual. Now, he knew Ikora was thinking of giving that heavy, little stone eye to her Ghost, trying to wrest some meaning out of the collision of Drifter’s Dark Age history and the wilderness of Light she walked. 

Her thoughts itched against his like someone stroking a feather along the inside of his skull. 

How do you stand this? He thought. Hearing other people’s brains going?

Peel thoughts apart with careful fingers, said Ikora. 

Her mental voice was somehow the exact opposite of her piercing looks. Eyes like stars, heart like the jet off a black hole. Some strange genius in between. Drifter remembered what he had come here to say. “Look, anyway, I’m setting up a Gambit arena in that little beachy spot underneath the Blooming. Forgiveness, permission, you know. Thank you, good night.” And away he would amble, neat and peachy clean, on the side of the Light and with a neat little side gig too. Only problem in the world was Guardians kept asking him if he could make some sort of tincture or moonshine out of Dread, and he’d have to say again that he didn’t do that stuff for fun, there were plenty of plants and regular supply runs in the Pale Heart now, eat those while you can, you sick freaks. 

Ikora caught his intent to amble before it even started. “So, you’re telling me I need to let Ophiuchus see I care, even after the world didn’t end.”

Drifter looked over her shoulder. “Now, I wouldn’t go that far. World might still end.” 

Ikora tossed the stone eye in the air. It floated above her palm. “I just don’t know how to do it,” she said, shoulders slumped. “How to let him help me. I can’t hug him like I can Cayde or Zavala.” She looked up, and Light her features looked different when she was about to cry, puffy and reddening. “Will you help me?”

He almost sighed with how badly he wanted to make some joke about the great Vanguard asking him for help. But he and the Vanguard hadn’t played those roles in a long time, not really. 

Without touching her, he slid his palm between her hand and the stone. He tried, Light he tried, for the first impression she received not to be of his constant urge to run as he opened his mind to hers. 

Look, he tried, clumsily. Do this. Remember the victory your people just brought you. You’re alive and Zavala is alive, and Ophiuchus and them. Remember they’re — Except he couldn’t hide anything. They’re not gonna stay forever.

Except Ikora wrestled that thought back, thinking of the people who had stayed. When she took a breath, his own lungs expanded, mechanically linked to her body now that their neurons thought they were the same brain. Could you do this to kill somebody? Drifter thought.

Ikora took another breath which had a distinct note of disapproval in it. Or maybe that disapproval came from his breath, his vicious hatred for what the Traveler had made him.  

Then Ikora found a memory of great love, of love like a field of yellow flowers under gentle sun. Gold filigree on his shell. Drifter pulled away, prey-beast startled by the second-hand affection of the Ghost. He had completely ignored his sight during the mind-meld and had to blink against the Pale Heart’s fake day. 

Ikora smiled like she hadn’t in years. “That’s it. That’s exactly what I’ll show him,” she said, looking sidelong at the Drifter. “Thank you.”

“You got us most of the way there,” he muttered. 

Ikora gave another unlikely smile, looking so gentle and comforted it shamed him. He saw in one of their minds’ eyes her hands holding the purple-and-gold shell to her cheek. Then the Light untangled from them, leaving him not sure who had tangled it in the first place — Ikora or himself or the Traveler, giving those orders it called blessings. 

Well, Ophiuchus would maybe be more likely to be around when Ikora needed him now, and she hadn’t said no to the new Gambit arena either. Off he ambled, Ikora behind him happy. 

[atamascolily]

Okay, so after staring at these two images together, I'm more convinced than ever that these are the same place, with one being "real" and the other illusion (inasmuch as such a distinction is possible in Homura's world). The arches on top of the school have the same shape as the arches of the gate (?) surrounding Homura and her orrery; even if they are not the same place, they are certainly meant to parallel and contrast with each other.

The gate (for the lack of a better word) also has shield-shaped pieces, as well as these elongate glass… I'm not sure what the right term for them is, but the long rectangular ones are vials containing spinal columns, and the round glass bulbs with red sand(?) remind me of simple sand timers and/or alchemical equipment. Together, they make up part of the gate, and their overall shape reminds me of knitting needles, which is in keeping with Homura's association with sewing imagery.

Given Homura's whole relationship with time, I think these are sand timers here, but the alchemical vibes are not a coincidence. Combined with the Tarot symbolism and the mechanical orrery (also a timekeeping device) in this shot, it suggests to me that this movie will draw heavily on Western esotericism for aesthetic and themes, which also includes alchemy.

The original Madoka Magica TV series was inspired by Goethe's Faust, with Homura as Faust, Kyubey as Mephistopheles, and Madoka as Gretchen. Now Homura has taken on Kyubey's role as Mephistopheles, but she is also still Faust, and her tinkering appears to be what's keeping the system working (for now, at least). This juxtaposition works in part because the two are not so different after all--one thing that both Faust and the Devil have in common is their hubris, which in turn is what leads directly to their respective tragedies and suffering.

Faust was also an alchemist, and alchemists, were, as a general rule, obsessed with the perfection of the human soul. Their physical experiments to transform lead into gold and the creation of a philosopher's stone were not merely literal, they were also spiritual pursuits. This is why I suspect that the "new girl" in the trailer is a homunculus (pun intended)--an artificial being created by Homura or her double, which would likely tie into the movie's larger themes of creation (i.e., "playing God"), replication, and individual personhood.

This is also why I suspect that Walpurgisnacht will be revealed to be a metaphorical and/or literal alchemical crucible--an attempt to reach the pinnacle of human power and perfection--though how much of this was intentional, and how much of it was the accidental result of Homura's meddling remains to be seen.

[apod]

2023 July 23

The Antikythera Mechanism Image Credit & License: Marsyas, Wikipedia

Explanation: It does what? No one knew that 2,000 years ago, the technology existed to build such a device. The Antikythera mechanism, pictured, is now widely regarded as the first computer. Found at the bottom of the sea aboard a decaying Greek ship, its complexity prompted decades of study, and even today some of its functions likely remain unknown. X-ray images of the device, however, have confirmed that a main function of its numerous clock-like wheels and gears is to create a portable, hand-cranked, Earth-centered, orrery of the sky, predicting future star and planet locations as well as lunar and solar eclipses. The corroded core of the Antikythera mechanism's largest gear is featured, spanning about 13 centimeters, while the entire mechanism was 33 centimeters high, making it similar in size to a large book. Recently, modern computer modeling of missing components is allowing for the creation of a more complete replica of this surprising ancient machine.

∞ Source: apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap230723.html

[yarnlass]

Dekarios clan <- Dauntrael clan?

This Secret of the Magister book has truthfully not much to relate back to Gale aside the obvious wizard lore, but I did find something that immediately linked to him in my mind.

One former Magister named Maxiladanarr Torstren (Magister from 1322 - 1328 DR, so longer than most at a span of 6 years) spent his time in office covertly creating several genetic lines of magic users. He did this by carefully manipulating certain individuals from magically-inclined families, and as of 1370 those families were prospering a great deal from their magical aptitudes. One such clan was the Dauntrael clan, who as of 1370 mostly live in Tethyr and the Moonshae isles, where they have miles of thriving farmland and a publishing house, called The Curious Eye.

This family is so Gale coded. I'm certain that the Dekarians intermarried with the Dauntraels at some point. Taken from Secrets of the Magisters:

Members of the Dauntrael family tend to be tall and slender, with flowing brown hair that under certain lighting conditions seems almost purple or blue. A few Dauntrael ladies in Tethyr use dyes to make their hair a soft blue in the seasons of summer revelry. Dauntrael always have large, liquid brown or blue eyes, tend to be more comely than average, and usually have mellifluous voices, suited for singing or oration. Only a little more than half of all Dauntrael have the ability to wield magic, but those who do have it tend to rise swiftly in power, and they exhibit great creativity and success in crafting or modifying spells. There are today about seventy Dauntrael mages, and over fifty of these are of higher than 10th level.

Gale didn't inherit blue or purple toned hair (oh but can you imagine? Perhaps Morena's hair is darker and purple-hued), but flowing brown hair, large, liquid brown eyes, comely, great voice? The spell crafting creativity and power? This is sounding so so Gale. There's more too -- as of 1370, the patriarch and matriarch of the family display distinctly Galeran tendencies:

Thurlad’s [the patriarch] love is gathering information about Toril. An orrery (mechanically animated model) of Realmspace occupies the domed upper room of his tower, and his head probably contains more lore about where rivers flow and mines can be found than all the tomes of Candlekeep. He cares not at all, however, for names and dates and the deeds of men, save when such strivings pertain directly to the advancement of magic.

His wife Deluma grows fruit in her gardens, helping them along with gentle light- and heat-altering spells, as a hobby (her husband has no hobbies), and devotes her work time to achieving an ever better understanding of the Weave. This has thus far enabled her to see if planned spells will work (and if so, how), and what effects intended modifications will have. She can already tweak her spells to attain the same sort of precise control over them that a Magister can (for example, doing maximum damage or minimal, just as she chooses), and she could probably, given the time and interest in doing so, craft the equivalent of a Cormanthan spell-web (a construct that links many cast but hung spells, to take later effect when certain conditions are fulfilled).

I need to know so much more about Deluma. By 1492 about 120 years later, there would have been a few generations between her and Gale, but I'm certain Gale would have been proudly compared to his great-great aunt Deluma...

The Dauntrael are skilled diplomats, very good at making neighbors and business colleagues like and value them. As a result, they are highly thought of, as good folk to have around who are both generous and capable. They try not to keep too high a profile, and for the most part people take them for granted, part of the rightful and proper furniture of the local landscape.

Members of this clan, however, see themselves as a family specially gifted by Mystra for some as yet unknown purpose, and they regard it as their duty to rise in local influence (while attracting a minimum of fame or attention) and in skill-at-Art, crafting scrolls, potions, and more permanent items whenever they have the time and means to do so. At the same time, they have a strong independent streak. Dauntrael should be free to marry whomever they please, dwell wherever they please, and do whatever they please.

I cannot believe this family is not related to Gale. The affability, the sense of importance and dedication to their skill, and their confidence to pursue the lives they want all while valuing their community and taking pride in what they do -- it's everything I see in Gale.

There's one story in particular that I imagine Gale taking in by the fireside in his childhood:

Most fireside family tales center on clever “save the day” uses of magic by Dauntrael in various crises, but the most important family legend concerns Shalima Dauntrael of Baldur’s Gate, who chose never to marry, but to have a child ere she grew too old to conceive. [Big Morena energy.] The darkly handsome partner she chose deceived her in many ways. “He” was in truth a marilith, and the child Shalima carried was a cambion. Discovering this well before the birth that would have slain her, the Dauntrael sorceress used every spell she had, or could steal, or could beg or bargain out of a dozen mages she confronted, to alter the nature of her child but not slay it. Her efforts resulted in her own survival, and a male human child, Hemtor, who had only a few tanar’ri characteristics. Perhaps luckily for both Faerûn and the Dauntrael, Hemtor (a wild one in temperament, who became a hiresword and died fighting pirates on the Sea of Fallen Stars) proved to be sterile. Shalima’s tale is told to all young Dauntrael when they despair, or rebel, or quail before something, as an example of the true Dauntrael spirit: This is a family that “never surrenders or gives in, but does what it must and can to win the day.”

This story relates for me back to Gale's ever present but still pragmatic optimism, his ability to roll his sleeves up and get on with what it takes to solve his own catastrophic death sentence as best he can, despite the odds and the face of his bleak fate should he fail. (Also, I can see how it might have affected his disinterest in having children.)

In short, expect to see a lot of blueish haired wet-eyed hunks and babes at your Waterdeep wedding.

[chasingbluebirds]

The End of Time

Alternate title: In Circles

Written for this week's @flashfictionfridayofficial theme, "Counting Clocks"!

Word count: 491

--

There are three things Aevum has always known to be true:

Time is infinite.

Time stops for no one.

Time erases everything.

For the first time in his immeasurable existence, the timeless god wonders if these laws of his universe are really true.

He runs his hand over the glass dome at the center of the room, counting clocks on the wheel underneath as they pass beneath his fingertips. Much like the hands on their faces, their twirling is slow but steady, winding eternally along the same path, round and round, galaxies and solar systems and planets inside nestled in loops and hoops and ever more circles, spinning eternally.

Systems inside of systems inside of systems. There is always another layer of another endless cycle, mechanically ignorant to what lies inside, all under this cold glass case over which he presides.

Time, as he has known it, is infinite. It cycles and spins and comes back around again, and it never, ever ends.

But somewhere, deep through those nested circles, a speck on a dot in an orrery curled inside of a tiny little swirl of lights under the sweeping arms of time, he can feel a cycle that has stopped -- a heartbeat. The only one he had left.

Now, as the last worshipper of time finds rest, Aevum can feel the floor stirring unsteadily beneath him and grips the edge of the glass to catch his footing. The wheel hesitates with the imbalance, its churn hiccupping the smooth pace of the clocks within. Errant arrows spin out from their bindings, searching for a number to point at.

One by one, the layers collapse on themselves, and Aevum wonders if this is it - the end of time. His domain, it seems, ironically has only seconds remaining before it crumbles entirely. A chunk of stone from the ceiling smashes the glass, sending shards splintering in every direction.

Then, almost as soon as they hit the walls, they vanish. Little by little, all the debris does, just as quickly as the destruction had started. It begins at the outer edges, vanishing in volatile bursts, but it nevertheless makes its way towards the center.

It is strange; Aevum has never felt urgency like this before. He does not know what to do with it. There has never been such thing as running "out" of time before. It has always been a steady, predictable cycle, no end or beginning, simply everlasting. He wonders if it can be stopped. He wonders if he can stop it.

He doesn't have the time to find out. He can feel himself disappearing too.

That's it, then. Two of the three, false, and all that's left is to await the end. All that's left is for time to erase everything of itself.

Or, he wonders with his last thought, is this, too, just a point in a cycle of a layer that exists above him?

[scotianostra]

April 25th saw the birth in 1710 of James Ferguson in Core Of Mayen Rothiemay Huntly.

Ferguson was a bit of a polymath, basically a bit of an all rounder, he made his name in astronomy but he was also an instrument maker, lecturer, natural and experimental philosopher.

His father was a cottar and too poor to provide him with any formal education but nevertheless his aptitude for learning soon became apparent. At seven, he learned to read by listening to his father teach the catechism to his elder brother. At ten, to earn his keep, he was sent to tend sheep for a neighbouring farmer, and what little spare time he then had was devoted to his developing interest in astronomy, making maps of the stars using beads and thread.

As a young man he first earned a living by cleaning clocks and repairing domestic machinery. In his spare time he constructed a wooden clock and watch with wooden wheels and whalebone springs. This mechanical talent would later assist in his construction of astronomical models. Showing artistic talent too, he made his way as a portrait painter in Edinburgh in 1734 and in Inverness in 1736. While in Inverness, Ferguson had returned to his earlier interest in the stars and prepared an astronomical table which was published in the 1740s, and in 1742 he constructed an orrery which is a clockwork model of the solar system.

In 1743 he was in London, again painting portraits but also continuing his astronomical research. Some papers were written, one of which - On the phenomena of Venus, represented in an orrery - was presented before the Royal Society in March 1746. In 1748, Ferguson began a career as a science teacher and lecturer, delivering courses on astronomy and a wide range of experimental science. In 1752-1753 he was lecturing on the reform of the calendar and the lunar eclipse of 1753. Although he had become very well known through his popularisation of science, he was far from well off, but by 1760 he was able to stop portrait-painting for a living.

In 1763 he presented to the Royal Society a projection of the partial solar eclipse of 1 April 1764 showing its times and phases at Greenwich. In 1767, back in Scotland, Ferguson introduced a lecture on electricity into his courses. His publications include Astronomy explained on Sir Isaac Newton’s principles, Lectures on select subjects in mechanics, hydrostatics, pneumatics, and optics, Introduction to electricity, Select mechanical exercises, and The art of drawing in perspective made easy to those who have no previous knowledge of the mathematics.

James Ferguson died in London on 16 November 1776.

[dailyunsolvedmysteries]

The Antikythera Mechanism

At around 300 BC, this is the oldest known example of an orrery (a mechanical model of the Solar System) making it the world’s oldest known analogue computer.

To put its sophistication into some sort of context, it’d be a further 1,000 years before the earliest medieval clocks were assembled, and until this machine was discovered in a shipwreck near the Mediterranean island of Antikythera in 1901, such devices only existed in Greco-Roman literature. In addition to tracing the moon and the planets, the device also predicted eclipses and the timings of various Panhellenic games, such as the Olympics.

[ultrainfinitepit]

Day 2: Orrery

An orrery is a mechanical model of the Solar System that predicts the position of celestial bodies.

In the world of Puddle, the Orrery is one of the oldest Order strongholds. The name most likely comes from the Orrery's most important resident: the Clock, a living device that predicts the births and deaths of angels. These are the celestial bodies the Order is most interested in tracking.

In addition to the Clock, the Orrery houses the Aviary, where fledgling angels are raised. Given that, it's no surprise the Orrery is heavily guarded.

[ Angeltober 2022 ]

[pwlanier]

RAINGO FRÈRES [PARIS]

Table clock c.1823-4

Amboyna, ormolu

An astronomical gilt bronze and amboyna orrery and clock. Mounted on a circular base surmounted by four pillars with ormolu capitals and bases which support a circular top with the signs of the zodiac and an astronomical orrery. The gilded dial has the 12 hours represented by Roman numerals and the days of the week in an inner circle; blued steel moon hands with a stylised pointer for the days of the week. All mounted on a square plinth with cased circular ormolu feet.

The orrery makes one revolution a year and has a dial mounted over its winding square divided into 48 months and showing leap years and 1st, 2nd & 3rd common years. It revolves round a horizontal date dial with a pointer above the signs of the Zodiac annually; there is no mechanical correction for the leap years. The movement of the orrery moves around the sun and drives the earth and the moon in their correct orbits with a dial showing the age of the moon. The moon is running on its own track and is half silver and half black to represent how it looks in the night sky. The Earth has two curved pointers that denote sun rise and sun set as they occur around the world.

The clock movement is set between two of the four pillars that support the orrery above the clock. The clock movement has locking plate strike and strikes the hours on a single bell. The going train has a dead beat escapement with a grid iron compensated pendulum. In the motion work is the extra gearing to show the day of the week.

The orrery is driven by its own barrel and mainspring and is wound every four years. It is regulated by the clock below by a set of gears running up from the clock to control the orrery. There is a turning handle with gearing on the other end of its arbour that can be used to correct the orrery's position or show its functions.

Royal Collection Trust

[tylermileslockett]

"Atalanta and the Argonauts" (#5)

When the call went out to Greece’s greatest heroes, for fame and glory, to join Jason and his quest for the Golden fleece, only the bravest answered the call. Heroes like Hercules, Orpheus, Telamon, Peleus, and yes, Atalanta mustered her courage and journeyed to join them.

Appollonius of Rhodes wrote the epic poem “Argonautica” about Jason’s quest for the golden fleece around the 3rd century B.C. based on a much older tale, (referenced in Homer and Pindar). Apparently Appollonius elevated the romantic relationship between Jason and Medea, which in turn inspired latin poetry and Virgil’s Aeneid. In Appollonius tale, Atalanta shows up to join the Argonauts, but Jason turns her away, fearing having such a beautiful woman on board would cause conflict between his men. However, In Appollodorus “Library” (1-2nd century A.D.)  he lists Atalanta as being one of the heroes who accompany Jason for the Golden fleece. Unfortunately, there are no surviving versions where we see the entirety of the journey with Atalanta involved, which begs the question; what would the adventure be like if Atalanta joined?

On the topic of sea quests, lets take a quick look at ancient Greek seafaring. The Argo ship is portrayed as a sort of Trireme (ancient warship with three rows of oars and curved prow). Developments in astronomy helped ancient sea sailors navigate through constellations like Ursa Minor (little dipper) , as well as moon cycles and eclipses. They also used “sounding weights” to measure sea depths, which helped to inform distances to land. There is evidence from around 100 B.C. of an ancient “Orrery” (solar model) tool for celestial navigation called the Antikythera Mechanism. This ingenious, hand-powered device contained gears and could predict and track astronomical positions and eclipses.

Like this art? It will be in my illustrated book with over 130 other full page illustrations coming in Aug/Sept to kickstarter.  to get unseen free hi-hes art subscribe to my email newsletter

Follow my backerkit kickstarter notification page.

Thank you for supporting independent artists! 🤘❤️🏛😁

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

Every new thing I hear about Indiana Jones 5 is dumber than the last.

The titular "Dial of Destiny" is the Antikythera Mechanism, an orrery, a proto-clockwork model of the solar system which could be used to predict eclipses. If leaks are to be believed, it is somehow being used as a time machine, and reviewers are already complaining about how the movie relies too much on nostalgia, so I know for a fact that means we're gonna see Old Man Indy go back in time and visit Young Original Triology Indy. They're gonna recreate scenes from Raiders and Last Crusade with Old Indy interacting with his younger self. My guess is it'll be like that scene in Back to the Future 2 where Old Doc accidentally meets Young Doc and avoids eye contact so as not to create a paradox. Old Indy will show up in the background and assist Young Indy without him knowing it, and clickbait youtube fanboys will make videos comparing the shots and insisting that Old Indy was always there, "it was planned from the start, way back in the 80s!"

I'm not going to enjoy this movie. I can feel it. It's going to make a billion dollars, and they're gonna make a streaming prequel set in the 20s, or they'll make an Uncharted-style sequel series set in the modern day about Indiana Jones' great-grandson played by Chris Pratt or some shit.

[crossplanarcleric]

The device is now making a low humming noise…it's kind of soothing, actually. It reminds me somewhat of the orrery in Errk's office, back in Ardmore. It seemed like he was always fussing with the mechanisms, making sure they were all aligned properly. …Well, I guess we will have to wait and see whether this device has any alignment issues I need to take care of. Heh.

The countdown has dropped to 5.