#nasrin | conversations.

[rcsesnoir]

" WELL, IN THEIR DEFENSE, i can fend for myself just fine. " nasrin laughs. it's not like she's going to speak openly about what she truly does for a living -- overseeing and making the weapons used by the top hitmen in the world. then there was her military background, amongst being related to miray. " for some reason, it's like there's this unspoken expectation that every time you go out, you have to go home with a guy. i just watched one of my girls walk across the dance floor with a guy who's mustache looks like a chinchilla died on his upper lip. and as much as it irks me... they never listen. we deserve better than medium ugly men who are just about as good in bed as they are taking care of, for example, their facial hair. " perhaps it was because nasrin had a considerably high sense of self -- strong in her beliefs and what she deserved. " the question is... can you keep up with me? " nasrin teases, her smile excited as could be. " tequila, of course. funny, i never introduced myself. considering you just made my night a hell of a lot more interesting.. it's the least i can do. " her graceful hand outstreches, blood red manicure accentuating her slender hands. " i'm nasrin. "

" you tellin' me you friends left you here to fend for yourself? " the brunette questions with a singular raise of an eyebrow — not that she was judging. knowing far too well of how easy it was to get swept up in the nightlife and the people that come along with it. her lips remained pulled into a smile, "sure does. as long as you can keep up," but then she lets out a chuckle because though the other may not know it, savannah is far from being anyone that's hard to keep up with. at least in terms of dancing. "let me guess — tequila? vodka?"

[rcsesnoir]

@jacksonxknight

LOCATION: a dimly-lit bar in brooklyn. FOR: jackson knight.

AH, SEXUAL TENSION. AN age-old story that most know all too well. since birth, nasrin has been blessed with an innate gift for reading people and their body language like an open book. that, coupled with the playful banter makes very clear what has yet to be said -- there's a clear attraction. what jackson should know by now, it is far from easy to not just catch, but keep her attention. thus, she had the tendency to tease. lean into it. in the wise words of olivia pope: if you want me, earn me. she had opted for a simple drink following a successful day of craftsmanship -- but her eyebrows rise as she notices his face sharing a similar idea. great minds think alike. " well, well. " she grins, legs crossing as she adjusts in the sleek barstool. " if i didn't know any better, jackson... i'd think you followed me here. out of all the places in brooklyn. "

[angclwithashctgun]

tag dump . . . . 𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐑𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐍 !

[loneberry]

Images Festival

Tomorrow, at 12pm in Toronto, after a screening of Mohammad Malas's film The Dream, I will be in conversation with Palestinian curator and writer Nasrin Himada.

Buy tickets for the screening here.

The Dream, a film by Mohammad Malas, is filmed in the Palestinian refugee camps of Sabra and Shatila, shortly before the massacre of 1982. Malas’s documentary focuses on dreams and dreaming by documenting Palestinians recounting their dreams. In this way, the film plays on a double register, whereby Palestinians recall the reality of their everyday lives transposed into their dreams, nightmares, and premonitions. Ultimately, these dreams tell the story of longing for our land: the dreams make the light. Malas is a prolific filmmaker, working in art, fiction, and documentary. After teaching philosophy at Damascus University in the 1960s, he turned to film and has since produced numerous award-winning works, notably a series of powerful documentaries on political prisoners in the Arab world. He has also published novels and writes frequently on Arab cinema.

[hornkerling]

Perhaps my first worldstate will be Nasrin's, Vivienne as Divine. I never expected the tie-in cardgame bioware threw together to introduce the Dragon Age Keep would take over my brain the way it did, but taking a bad throw from The Last Court and creating Nasrin was delightful. I love her and Vivienne together. This was one of the last fics I wrote for them. Art my @villnis-archive

The party is delightful. Josephine has not outdone herself–Vivienne expects that none of them have seen the ambassador truly stretch the limits of her capabilities. Some things, even at the end of the world, are too vast. But the pleasantry rolls off her tongue and Josephine accepts it with grace and barely a glance over to the petit-fours that are, if overheard, ragged whispers are to be believed, “Just not quite right, Leliana. Stop laughing.”

“You have more reason to celebrate then the rest of us, madame Vivienne,” Josephine says now, the lights from the chandeliers dripping restored light through her hair and over her skin.

Vivienne smiles. “Perhaps. Things shall be frightfully busy.”

So say I to the one person here who has any right to protest her own workload. The thought is rueful, kept contained. If Josephine suppresses any sardonic looks, the effort does not show on her face.

People surge and swell around them, leaving drifts of conversation behind. Dagna stares at refracted light through a wineglass, leaning back against Sera, who stands with arms looped through the other woman’s and a softer expression on her face than Vivienne has ever seen. Her free hand tugs at a tablecloth, careful mountains of glassware creaking ominously as the fabric shifts. Leliana had ordered clear space along with tonight’s musicians in a fit of whimsy, and Varric and Cassandra are carefully not dancing. They stand close, shoulder pressed to arm, eyes anywhere but each other. Cullen attempts to blend in with one of the old armour sets against a far wall, and Vivienne wonders, for as much time as it takes for her to check his movement and swallow some of her drink, when the Templar stopped being the first person she noticed in any shared space.

The Inqusitor, patches of new-healed skin still showing raw across her cheeks and the backs of her hands under her wealth of light, has a hand resting on the ersatz Blackwall’s shoulder, lips pinched as he offers words Vivienne cannot quite pick out over the crush. They, she thinks, looking at the shape of Narsin's mouth, are speaking Orlesian.

Bull raises a tankard in her direction. Vivienne bites back a sigh.

“Madame?”

“Forgive me, darling. I find myself distracted. It is a lovely party.”

A tucked-up smile from the ambassador. “I should rescue the punch table from Sera. Please excuse me.”

“Good luck,” Vivienne says. “For my part, I—”

—Nasrin is heading toward the door, brushing off curious hands and thanks with increasing fervour the closer she comes to her destination. Her head is up, her colour high, and Vivienne almost laughs. It’s an old walk. The kind the marquise would have had tutors for, that Vivienne had learned from need.

Eyes front. Shoulders back. Move like the world cannot touch you, darling.

“A moment of your time, Inquisitor?”

She is smiling as she steps in front of Nasrin, the corners of her mouth aching from the effort of keeping things seemly. Nasrin startles at her voice, eyes widening.

“I thought—you said there were preparations,” she stammers, back resting against the doorway that leads from the great hall to her chambers.

“Honestly, my dear.” Easy to move a hand, let it brace on the stone just by Nasrin’s face. “These are preparations. And I would never miss your party.”

“I don’t think I could say the same.”

Vivienne laughs, eyes moving as Nasrin swallows. She wants to catch each tiny movement. “I know. Still, I would like a word.”

“I—of course.” Nasrin turns, still within the light cage made by Vivienne’s body, and the door opens under her hands. They both step through.

 “You have been avoiding me, my dear.”

Nasrin does not want to die. The effort of not dying over the past few months shows in every twinge of muscle, each curl of pain that ghosts the bones of her arms, her fingers and the back of her skull, the straight bones each leg. But she thinks she might, with Vivienne in her space, hands wrapped fast about her own as she draws Nasrin out into the balcony.

“I—”

“—I know why, marquise. And it is all right.”

Nasrin swallows. “Do you?” she asks. “Is it?”

“I was not fair to you, over the wyvern. The cure for my Bastien.” Pain flickers across her face, clear even though Nasrin is turned into the glare of the setting sun. “I would do everything again, of course,” she says. “But I am aware of—”

“—he is important to you,” Nasrin says. Not was. Importance does not care about bodies. She tugs at the ring she wears on a chain that hangs to the base of her throat. The thank you gift for dangerous alchemy that did not do its job. “I would always help. I—”

“—you care for me, darling,” Vivienne says. “A great deal.”

The floor is solid. Good stone. Old as gods. It shouldn’t be. “This is what you want to talk about?”

“You have made me Divine,” Vivienne says, head tilted to the side. “Not solely you, of course. But your influence has allowed me to find doors I did not know could be opened. As I’d hoped. And I have helped you a great deal, of course. Your own fear of magic is considerably—”

“—are you babbling, madame?”

“—I care. Very much.”

Nasrin has too much skin. Clothing rasps, and if she looks up, if she sees the small, soft smile that graces Vivienne’s face, she is unsure if she will ever breathe again. A whimper is caught up in her throat along with all her air.

Vivienne’s hands move to her cheeks, fingertips blooming cold as the anchor in Nasrin’s left hand flares in response to the small magic. Nasrin feels it trickling through her skin. Her lips part.

“Breathe, my dear,” Vivienne says, stern. “If you insist I must then you ought return in kind.”

Nasrin turns her face into the other woman’s touch, Her lower lip grazes a fingertip, sticking in a shock of pain as cold flares into heat. She gasps. Vivienne closes her eyes.

With an effort, Nasrin pulls back, unable to stop herself from running her tongue over her lower lip. “Why tell me now?” she asks.

“I have told you before,” says Vivienne. “But sometimes we deserve something explicit, don’t you think?”

Who can think?

Vivienne is not done. She reaches out again, one hand twining with Nasrin’s marked one. “Thanks to our efforts,” she says, “I am going to be exceptionally busy. But I did not want you to ever—I had a concern you might—” she breaks off. “You must never doubt me, Inquisitor.”

“Nasrin,” says Nasrin.

“Your pardon?”

“Please,” she whispers, and the sound is so much smaller than it should be that Nasrin is surprised it isn’t lost under the sound of her own heartbeat. “I am just my name, with you,” she says. She lifts her free hand, palm up. “And perhaps this?”

“Your right hand?”

“Yours,” Nasrin says. “If you are the next Divine.”

Slowly, Vivienne drops Nasrin’s left hand and reaches for the chain around her neck. She tugs. The metal snaps as she does, a small line of pain on Nasrin’s skin, but she does not move. She keeps staring up at the mage as she picks up the gold ring she had crafted with careful fingers.

Nasrin raises her right hand.

They are both silent as Vivienne slides the ring onto the forth finger there. Her eyes are intent as she lowers her head, and Nasrin swallows another gasp as Vivienne lets her lips drag across the knuckles. Acceptance and promise, understood in touch.

“Kiss me,” Vivienne says, voice fainter than Nasrin has ever heard. “Kiss me and seal it, Nasrin.”

For the rest of this ridiculous love story, you can read Marquise on AO3

[dominimoonbeam]

Found Between Stars

I write romantic things and this novella is free! Smashwords. Amazon.

This story contains—sci fi adventure, ride or die romance, violence, explicit sex, profane language, hurt/comfort, references to sketchy and abusive childhoods, conversations about mental health, trauma, and an emphasis on consent.

FOUND BETWEEN STARS

Atlas Savac had been nineteen when the Eaton ships came down to the surface in a last-ditch effort to evacuate as many people as they could. Cycles of negotiations with the lords of Vester, gang rulers and space pirates holding control of the planet under Ludo, had led nowhere. But the Eaton representatives could not easily abandon the captive residents of Vester leftover from the mining towns, unable to escape what had fast become a warzone.

Atlas and Josephine had seen the exodus as the way out they’d dreamed of their whole lives—a way off Vester and a chance to go anywhere else, everywhere else.

But the lords of Vester hadn’t been willing to let the youths flee, many of them their own relations. They wanted to keep the numbers or maybe they just didn’t want to let them have a chance at a different life—a life they hadn’t been given themselves. The options on Vester had been slim. Almost everyone eventually worked for the pirates. At least it came with a chance to leave the planet, to break through the endless cloud cover and glimpse the stars beyond.

But Atlas had only ever followed Josephine Nasrin and she would kneel to no pirate.

The Eatons were going to be their way out—their way to the stars.

The day Eaton troops brought ships and tried to offer passage to everyone that wanted off the planet, ended up being the last day Eaton would ever be allowed near the surface of Vester. War broke out in the streets. People fought their own families for a chance to break free. The Eaton guards did everything they could to hold the docks and give the civilians a chance to reach the ships hovering over the sea, but they hadn’t been prepared for the struggle—they had not expected such bitter fury from the decaying settlements. What started as tension turned into a slaughter. The lords of Vester cut down their own children by the end, determined to keep them from escaping by any means.

Atlas wanted to leave as soon as they reached the dock. The Eaton guards were retreating onto the last ship. Time was running out and there would never be another chance. But Josephine wouldn’t leave the rest of their crew behind. Her resolve was no surprise, and he never questioned that tone of hers. He didn’t mind fighting to hold the line on the dock while the last of them ran for safety. They had been fighting their whole lives, what was one more day?

The black ocean churned. A storm rolled in, and rain spilled out over the dock, the waves sloshing up on either side. They allowed themselves to be slowly backed farther from the shore and closer to the last ship. People clustered at the end of the dock behind them, tossing children into the arms of strangers and leaping off the wet metal to that waiting vessel. Josephine yelled at Atlas and Hugo to keep moving. They were leaving today—they weren’t going to be left behind. This was their only chance to get out, and Atlas believed her when she said they would make it because her word had always been law and because she was the only truth he had ever known—the only family, the only love.

The guards on the ship exchanged gunfire with the pirates on the shore. Everyone in between, the poor of Vester, had only blades, fists, and anger. They held off the pirates as best they could, voices and metal against metal all muffled by the storm spraying them in seawater and pelting them with rain.

Atlas reached the end of the dock where it dropped down into angry waves and giant rocks reaching up from the deep. He used to make up stories about those stone formations being the teeth of a long-dead beast. He almost believed it himself in that moment.

Eaton guards leaned off the ramp of the ship to offer their arms to him, shouting for him to jump. He put away his sword and grabbed Hugo, shoving the taller boy first. They caught him and hauled him up.

“Josephine!” Atlas called over the storm, the voices, and the jets of the ship. He reached for her.

“Come on, kid!” A guard yelled, stretching halfway over the edge of the ship and trying to grab hold of Atlas’s jacket.

Atlas jerked out of reach before the man could get a grip on him. He wouldn’t leave before Josephine.

She kicked one of the pirates off the dock and turned toward him, running those last steps. The dock was packed with faces he knew and so many more he’d never even noticed until they decided to stop their escape.

Josephine flashed Atlas a smile amid all that mayhem. Her black braids swung around her shoulders, flashing glimpses of the little birds tattooed in flight up the side of her neck. The rain rolled over her dark skin and the lights of the ships glowed in the depths of her gaze. She was the closest to a god he had ever seen.

Atlas reached for her, hands on her waist. He was going to turn and lift her to the guard. He could jump after and trust that someone, anyone, would make sure he made it onto the ship. He was going to—

Her body slammed forward until her chest hit his. Pain ripped through him. His arms curled around her, hugging her tight and feeling the wrongness of it. She was heavy, pressed hard against him. And that pain between them was the ripping of skin and muscle. It never occurred to him that she might have stabbed him, not even for a second.

He looked past her, and his arms curled tighter when he saw his brother there on the dock, grinning. Clayton was at least ten cycles their senior and wore the colors of Ludo. He had no plans of escape. He had only come out today to make sure Atlas wouldn’t.

Atlas swallowed hard, the cutting pain in his chest stretching outward through his sternum. He looked down Josephine’s back just as Clayton pulled the slender sword from her—from them both. Blood rushed out of her, made faster by the ceaseless rain and sloshing ocean waves. She spasmed in Atlas’s arms and Clayton laughed. If he couldn’t be free, neither could they.

There was screaming on the ship behind him, but Atlas couldn’t look. They were never going to make it. The dream was going to die right there, in his arms. They would never get off this planet. They would never see the stars.

Josephine pushed at his chest, forcing her legs to hold her so that she could stand on her own and look up at him. Another wave hit the dock hard, splashing up and over. Droplets of that inky water rained over them, sliding down her cheek and off her jaw. He had learned to read her when they were children stealing to survive and hiding from adults like they were the monsters in a never-ending game. He could read Josephine effortlessly and it hurt to know that she was looking at him for the last time. He didn’t dare look away, studying a face he had memorized long ago.

She forced a smile—the saddest smile he had ever seen. And then she shoved him hard. He fell back, shocked. His heart lurched in his chest. He expected to hit the waves and be sucked under, rolled against the jagged rocks and suffocated in the deep, but instead, his back hit the side of the ship and hands grabbed at his jacket and his arms, lifting him. He reached for her, but he was too far away. Her legs gave out and, without him there to hold her up, her knees hit the dock. She was the last one, the only one, left behind. Blood gushed from her chest, blooming into the wet fabric of her shirt.

The ship pulled away, lifting higher and higher.

Atlas couldn’t stop reaching for her. Someone was screaming—screaming like they were being tortured. Distantly, he realized it was him. He was screaming. He was kicking at everyone holding on to him and trying to get back to the dock—back to the water—back to that horrible planet and his death just so long as it would be with her.

He reached for her, but she just watched him. The distance was too far.

She held his gaze until her smile faded and her expression dimmed, her eyes losing focus.

The last face he saw clearly was his brother’s. Clayton stepped up behind Josephine. He cocked his head back to glare up at Atlas and kicked her in the back, sending her body off the dock and into the crashing waves. She didn’t come back up and soon Atlas was being dragged away from the hatch, the big doors sliding shut to close them in and prepare to leave the planet. Atlas screamed until he lost consciousness.

Even cycles later, far from Vester, he never escaped the sound of those waves crashing against the rocky shores. They followed him off the planet, into his every waking moment, echoing in his soul and rattling against his bones.

[beardedmrbean]

The mother of a 16-year-old girl allegedly beaten to death by security forces during protests in Iran has spoken of her continuing heartache.

In an exclusive interview that appears in a BBC documentary, Nasrin Shakarami says she "cannot forget for a second" what happened to her daughter Nika.

Nasrin was speaking to actress Zar Amir Ebrahimi, who fled Iran in 2008.

Nasrin also rejects authorities' claims about the deaths of protestors: "We all know that they are lying."

Nika's was one of the most high-profile deaths during protests in late 2022.

The protests have continued since then, though have become much less intense due to a bloody crackdown by security forces.

The unrest began after the death in custody of Mahsa Amini, a young woman who died after she was detained by morality police in the capital for allegedly violating Iran's strict rules requiring women to cover their hair with a hijab, or headscarf.

Four days after Mahsa died, Nika was filmed at a protest in Tehran setting fire to her headscarf.

Videos posted online show Nika standing on a dumpster as she did so, while others are heard chanting "death to the dictator" - a reference to the Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei.

In her interview with Zar Amir Ebrahimi, Nasrin says: "Nika was concerned about the injustice and discrimination towards Iranians. She used to think about it a lot.

"She was extremely adventurous and fearless. I was always worried about how bold she was. I was always afraid that something would happen to her."

Nasrin says she called Nika that day and could hear protesters around her.

The interview appears in a documentary, Inside the Iranian Uprising, alongside 350 clips from 100 hours of film, shot and uploaded by young Iranians.

Footage shot on 20 September shows Nika throwing rocks in the direction of the police. Another clip recorded that evening shows Nika still at the protest taking cover behind a car.

She disappeared after telling a friend during a phone conversation just before midnight that she was being chased by police.

One eyewitness told CNN last year that she saw Nika being taken into custody at a protest by "several large-bodied plainclothes security officers" who bundled her into a car.

That night Nika's Instagram and Telegram accounts were deleted. Her family began to search for her and asked the authorities to help, but Nasrin says: "No one was giving us any answers."

The family said they eventually located her body at the Kahrizak mortuary on 30 September and that they were only allowed by officials to see her face for a few seconds in order to identify her.

Nika's maternal aunt, Atash, said in early October that officers from Iran's elite Revolutionary Guards told her that Nika was in their custody for five days and then handed over to prison authorities.

A death certificate issued by a cemetery in Tehran, which was obtained by BBC Persian, states that Nika died after suffering "multiple injuries caused by blows with a hard object".

The authorities denied any wrongdoing and made inconsistent statements about her fate.

The Iranian government did not respond to the BBC's request for comment for the documentary.

State TV broadcast a video purporting to show Nika returning home after the protests. Prosecutors went on to say that she had later jumped or been pushed off a building.

Iran's Human Rights Activists News Agency (HRANA) says more than 530 protesters have been killed, including 71 children, and almost 20,000 more have been detained in a violent crackdown by security forces, which have portrayed the protests as foreign-instigated "riots".

Seven protesters have also been executed following what a UN expert has called "arbitrary, summary and sham trials marred by torture allegations". Dozens more have reportedly been sentenced to death or charged with capital offences.

"They are not taking responsibility for killing her nor telling us who did it," Nasrin says. "They are not pursuing the case. To whom should we complain?"

Nasrin has previously said Nika's aunt, who made a video statement while in detention in which she said her niece "was killed falling from a building" had been "forced... to make these confessions".

In the interview with Zar Amir Ebrahimi, Nasrin says: "I am a mother and I loved Nika infinitely. She was the love of my life. Losing a child like Nika is a tragedy.

"I personally have a lot of respect for Nika's bravery and free spirit. I believe that we are living in a specific point in history where such events are needed."

From the moment Nika was born, Nasrin realised that she had an "extraordinary energy", she says.

"I cannot forget for a second what has happened to Nika," Nasrin adds. "Even in my dreams I beg her to come and talk to me.

"I only have one hope… that the blood of our children doesn't get trampled upon."

[noblehcart]

HC Dump: Rookheey.a Kh.an

growing up it was often easy to find her because she was practically glued to her brother, Jahan's hip, because he was always doing something interesting. Since he was a good eight years older she was adored by the entire family, but her brothers spoiled her relentlessly and so Jahan let her tag along till she was too old to do so.

Rook loved when people from the European missions would call on the family or they'd be invited to gatherings because typically someone would play the violin and she was enamored with hearing/watching them play different instruments or tell stories from their countries.

But some of her favorite days were market days when she'd go with Kian, her eldest brother, shopping when she was young. She adored seeing everything and the books and maps. He always indulged her and bought her something.

She'd burn the oil lamps to their last staying up late reading into the night about every story, myth and country that she could get her hands on.

Her chess skills are unparalleled and the only one who can possibly sometimes best her is Kian or Masoud, as he is the one who taught her. Every time she plays chess now she thinks of her late brother and hears his patient instruction.

However, she also loved keeping busy during the day with her sister in regards to housework and traditions. She looked forward to the day she'd find her husband and have a home and family of her own as she saw how happy it made her sister, Laleh. Her oldest sister, Nasrin, however continued to always emphasize that she needed a proper wealthy match and promised she'd find one at court for her after she had married her husband. Her brother Jahan swore to her that he'd fight Kian on making sure she received the love match that she wanted.

It's thanks to Jahan's mischief that Rook first meets Nadir. Jahan sneaks her out of the house to the market place to hear a street performer and its there that the young teenagers get their first glimpse of each other listening to the sound of the Tar. Their eyes meet and the rest is history as the story goes.

Her siblings are all completely at odds about the match; Jahan and Laleh are absolutely for it after seeing the weeks of stolen glances and almost secret conversations between the two. Nasrin believes the match could be beneficial but also thinks her sister could have a better match at court. Kian doesn't like the instability and danger of the role that Nadir will inherit as Daroga of Mazanderan and what that will mean for Rookheeya's future. In the end Kian consents to the match and arranges the marriage.

[seoexpertshahida]

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[bittersweettweet]

11

Today, we celebrated Ari's birthday. Behnaz, Shabnam, Melody, and I gathered in Behnaz's room to prepare decorations. Excitedly, we carried them upstairs to our shared room on the third floor. It's a cozy 15"x15" bedroom, and Shabnam and I took charge of decorating it ourselves. We managed to find some free green paint, which we used to color the walls. To add to the ambiance, our neighbor Afsaneh, from our previous home a few blocks away, gave us a green light she was discarding. Even the carpets matched the color scheme. It all came together mysteriously, considering green is an unusual choice for a room. We love the privacy that this room offered us, especially after years of sharing a room with bunk beds.

Our room even has a small kitchen area, with a tiny sink and a door leading to a compact toilet and shower. The shower isn't ideal, we rarely use it. Additionally, there's a double glass door that opens to the rooftop, a place we occasionally hang out.

During the celebration, we tossed an eggshell filled with confetti up to the ceiling, causing the confetti to scatter joyfully. Colorful lines of crepe paper adorned the room, some twisted and others braided. We had a cake that read "Happy Birthday Ari" and played a cassette tape, enjoying each other's company. Ari received several lovely presents: a dress from Nasrin (Behnaz's mom), a fancy pen with a watch from Dad, a game from Behnaz, a toy from Liz, a doll bed from Behrooz, and a shoot ball from me. I think Ari liked the pen the most, and Mom and Shabnam were also involved in that gift. We had an amazing time celebrating together.

Mr. Goosheh called, inviting us over, but Mom mentioned that we were all feeling unwell and hoped to visit next week. Their family is not Baha'i, so it's rare for us to socialize with non-Baha'is. Trusting others has become challenging in these times.

I'm memorizing a prayer, as a part of my Baha'i class homework. It has been three long years since we were able to attend Baha'i classes freely, without fear. Life has changed significantly since we moved here. After the revolution, talking about being Baha'i or anything related to the Baha'i Faith became forbidden and punishable.

Our Baha'i classes which mainly focused on becoming better human beings, were held on Fridays at different people's houses. The teachers were all volunteers, and both girls and boys attended the classes together. The books were written in proper Farsi, which was quite challenging. We often received homework assignments that involved memorizing prayers or tablets.

Our last teacher, Mr. Zamani, lived on our old street, just a couple of blocks away. He was always kind to us children, keeping candy or gum in his pockets, whether we were at his house or somewhere else. During our final class at his place, he gave each of us a fragrant carnation. I received a beautiful red one, my very first flower.

One night, Mr. Zamani unexpectedly visited our house. He was good friends with Dad. They engaged in a serious conversation, and both seemed somber. After he left, I overheard Dad telling Mom that they were coming for him. Dad had urged Mr. Zamani to flee, but he chose to stay true to his faith. That very night, they came and arrested him. Nobody knew where they were holding him until they called his wife to collect his body. I heard that his body bore signs of torture inflicted by candles and knives. His two daughters are around the same age as us, and while we attempted to reconnect, things have changed irreversibly. Their house feels sorrowful and bleak, reflecting the sadness that has engulfed their lives.

Lots of Baha'is have gone missing, and it's really sad. But I'm so thankful that my dad wasn't one of them, even though he was super active in hosting firesides where lots of people came to learn and even become Baha'is. It's a relief that he's safe.

I'm such a chatterbox today. I need to get back to my homework.

12/31/1982

[bottomvalerius]

On the reverse, after a “conversation” with Nasrin on why he’s in Vesuvia fucking Lucio (ie nearly getting ripped apart by the Queen Mother™️ lmao), Sam is aghast at Nasrin assuming he was fucking Lucio to humiliate her and or Nadia and not just “because that man fucks like a dying rat in a glue trap about to gnaw off his leg for the sake of his last nut every time”

honestly first time Nadia implies Sam is in Vesuvia for ~nefarious~ reasons, he’s completely offended because “why would I try to take over a piece of shit city like this? Your aspirations may be low, but mine are much loftier than yours 🙄”

[rcsesnoir]

@mirayaslan

LOCATION: miray's place, evening. FOR: miray aslan.

THE LAST KIND OF person nasrin aslan is known to be is outwardly happy -- carefree. like the giddy teenage girl she had never realized she could be. even if herself and her cousin hold more power in their hands than most could only dream of, miray is the only person that truly leaves the room for nasrin to feel like she could exist without judgement. while miray did not absolve her cousin of her past mistakes -- she gave her the chance to be something, which nasrin was certainly smart enough to take. now, they were closer than ever, a possibility the young woman had once believed to never truly be possible. they were already attached at the hip. on this particular evening, nasrin has popped a fresh bottle of red, two glasses not far away from her on the countertop. once the are full, she gracefully picks them up before gracefully reentering the living room and handing one off to miray. " now that mina has gone to bed... " nasrin leans back, eyebrows raising with a sly smirk -- her visage glistening in curiosity. " don't think i haven't noticed you attending those parties with a certain dashing hitman. " there comes that girlish giggle before she takes a sip of her wine. " was it... three last time i checked? "

[nimsabeef]

playing the arcana and honestly nadia's mom is a milf

[mxgicthot]

Aditya Ranjit Singh

Name : Aditya आदित्य

Meaning : Lord of the sun

Gender : Male

.

Sexual orientation : Bisexual

Pronouns : He/him

MBTI type : ISTJ

.

Homeland : Paraka / Rajasthan

Ethnical inspiration : South Asian - Rajasthani

Spouse : Samaira Rathod

*In arcanaverse - Adi and Samaira are still technically married and live together but have an open relationship.

*In modern au - they live separately

Sun : Taurus

Birthday : 11 May

Chinese zodiac : metal rooster

Western zodiac

Moon : Leo

Rising : Cancer

Apperance

He has shoulder length dark brown hair which he leaves loose, sharp canines and a deep scar above his right eye. He speaks in an unnaturally deep growly voice.

Eyes : Amber

Hair : Dark straight hair

Facial hair : Beard will vary in length, but he never goes completely clean-shaven

Height : 7ft (213 cm)

Body type : Mesomorph Body Type, very strong and burly. He has a muscular chest, shoulders, and limbs.

Accessories

He wears a lot of gold rings. Has a few ear piercings, usually wears dark metal jewelry to blend in with his hair

.

Favourites

Colour : Red

Food : Laal Maas (mutton curry prepared in a sauce of yoghurt and hot spices)

Drink : Mahua liquor

Flower : Rohida (Tecomella undulata)

Animal : Cats

.

Personality

Aditya is often stoic with his primary conversational skills being grunts, a swear word and throwing shade when pressed. He is highly observant of his surroundings and notices even the smallest of changes.

Adi keeps his feelings close to the chest, but under his stoic demeanor hides a softer interior. He will do nearly anything to protect his loved ones.

.

Likes

Cooking

Triditional art and music

Forging weapons

Reading

Animal's (has a soft spot for cats)

.

Dislikes

Surgery desserts

Time wasting

Loud noises

Crowded spaces

Ignorant / judgemental people

.

Fears

Being unable to protect his loved ones.

.

Minor Arcana - Nine of wands

Major Arcana - the devil

Upright : Resilience, courage, persistence, test of faith, boundaries

Reversed : Inner resources, struggle, overwhelm, defensive, paranoia

.

Trade / Occupation

He currently works as a sword for hire.

Has made deals and worked for Queen Nasrin in the past and occasionally continues to assist the royal family.

.

Random facts

He is practical and has a desire to understand the way certain things work.

He is a surprisingly good artist, and his preferred medium is charcoal, though he never does much with his art.

Doesn't sleep at night, but prefers to take naps during the day - in the sun.

Likes working with his hands, some of his hobbies include, woodwork, pottery and jewelry making.

Is really well read and knowledgeable on political matters.

Makes his own weapons and is a very skilled blacksmith.

.

Rakshasas abilities

Rākṣasa

They are powerful warriors, expert magicians and illusionists. As shapeshifters, they could assume different physical forms. As illusionists, they were capable of creating appearances which were real to those who believed in them or who failed to dispel them. Some of the rakshasas were said to be man-eaters, and made their gleeful appearance when the slaughter on a battlefield was at its worst.

.

Magical abilities

Shape-shifting - he can willing change form whenever he chooses.

Illusionary magic : the ability to psychically distort others' perception of reality and the ability to impart substance and power into illusory sensory phenomena

Superhuman Senses- the ability to perceive sensory stimuli with precision and range beyond human norms.

Life-Force Absorption- the ability to psychically draw life energy into oneself.

[astrangemagic-a]

Stephen brings his hands across his face hoping that the feeling would somehow awaken him and yet it does nothing. Perhaps cold water would do wonders as it has worked in the days previous, but as he glances around there is no bowl or anything that may appease that want in the moment.

Anthony asks about Cassandra, and Stephen sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair. " No worse, but no better..." he says softly as though now he looks to the ceiling for answers only to come to no conclusion. There is no help from the tiles above him anymore than the stars in the sky.

" I am still doing what I can to figure out how to help, but there is a difficulty..." a pause. " Her grandfather is certain that the family physician knows best..." Stephen shakes his head and his tired eyes now look on with a flame of anger. "The man cannot tell the difference between his head and a hole in the ground. She'll certainly die in his care."

A fist comes down hard on his desk and that newfound rage in the moment certainly jolts him awake. "I will not allow that to happen."

At least he has Aislin on his side as well as Lorenzo.

But after a moment he shakes his head. "I'm sorry for my outburst. How are you, Anthony? I have heard of your misfortunes with sabotage and you ending your courtship with the Lady Aislin..I am sorry I haven't been present in those times."

He shifts through some papers again then looks up at him. "Miss Aislin is making excellent progress, with Lady Nasrin's help her arm barely holds a scar, though I think she is appreciative of the reprieve from heeled shoes..." a change in the conversations from his heart to his friend's.

Stephen needs the distraction in the moment even as he reads over the paper.

𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗔 𝗦𝗨𝗕𝗧𝗟𝗘 creaking of the ornate double doors, Anthony Stark makes his entrance into the dimly lit chamber, his polished leather shoes softly echoing on the dark wooden floor. His discerning eyes immediately dance over the chaotic sprawl of papers, open tomes, and upturned inkwells, a landscape of fervent study and distress. The tall, narrow windows, half-obscured by heavy drapery, allow slivers of the waning afternoon sun to cast a hazy glow upon the room. It reveals a melancholic tapestry: the still smouldering embers in the fireplace, the disorderly mound of books on the floor, the dying candles that emit a faint glow. All these details are noted swiftly by Stark's keen observation, betraying not just a room in disarray but a mind, a life, that teeters on the edge of despair. But it is Stephen, at the epicenter of this dishevelment, who captures Anthony's most immediate attention. The visage of his once vibrant friend, now gaunt and marked with the pallor of sleeplessness, speaks volumes to Stark. The sadness in Stephen's tired eyes, the slump of his shoulders tell the tale of a man at the limits of his endurance.

Anthony, himself not without his shadows, feels a deep pang of empathy. For the depths of his own sorrows – chiefly, the gaping wound of separation from Aislin – momentarily recede in the face of Stephen's evident suffering. The tailored fabric of Anthony's coat rustles softly as he steps closer, the clinking of the metal buckles on his waistcoat almost musical in the hush of the room. Drawing in a breath that bears the weight of recent days, he cautiously ventures, ❝ How fares dear Miss Chevalier this eve ? ❞ Each word is chosen with care, a delicate balance of genuine concern.