#northern soul dancer

[princess-of-the-glitter-realm]

[dancewhathouwilt]

I love her moves ❤

[dwarfhorse]

p 1/??

Rune factory Guardians of Azuma

alrighty so this is gonna be a little lengthy because a lot was shown recently! however I'm typing on my tablet which is dying as I type and the sites won't load, forgive me for image sizes as I can't make them smaller.

first off, here's the new rune factory guardians of azuma trailer. accompanied with a release date of May 30, 2025. the game alone is 60$ USD while the limited edition is 100$ USD.

I'll get into characters in a minute, but we are seeing town building as well as being allowed to pick NPCs jobs (im assuming they're just store running NPCs with no storyline). and the trailer kind of gives pokemon graphics with genshin inspired mechanics. some mechanics also remind me of Pokemon legends Arceus. Keep in mind this is a sideline game, if I remember correctly they are working on 6, a mainline game. They are trying a totally new formula with this game and farming will still be included but not a main focus.

It seems there will be 2 romance routes locked behind dlc, and for the first time in a long time, the mcs will have their own distinctive personalities and the opposite of you pick will be romanceable.

Story: The Celestial Collapse — a calamity caused by a colossal object crashing into the eastern lands known as Azuma. The devastating impact sent fragments of terrain to the skies above and the seas below. With the earth shattered, the power provided by the runes ceased to flow. The gods of nature vanished soon after. Mountains crumbled and fields withered, leaving the people with nothing…not even hope. You awaken, startled by a dream of dueling dragons. You don’t remember how or why, but a voice resonates within you. "Accept the power of an Earth Dancer. Use this power to save the land.” Thus begins your lengthy journey to restore the gods…

now for characters:

Subaru (male mc) and Kaguya (fem mc)

Left his cold village in the northern part of Azuma on a mission to save the land. Childhood friends with Kaguya, who hails from the same hometown. Usually relaxed and easy-going. Enjoys gazing at the sky. While generally not a fan of battle, he has a strong sense of justice, and will fight fiercely to protect his friends and loved ones.

Left her cold village in the northern part of Azuma on a mission to save the land. Childhood friends with Subaru, who hails from the same hometown. Loves being in nature, especially interacting with animals and observing flowers. Although usually calm, she despises evil and resents any acts of injustice.

Woolby (mascot /sidekick)

The protagonist's loyal partner and guide. A bit of a braggart and a klutz. His gluttonous nature makes him susceptible to sweet bribes, especially dango.

Romance options, there are 16!

Iroha

The owner of Iroha's Teahouse in Spring Village. A friendly, caring young woman who dreams of revitalizing Spring Village and returning it to its former glory.

Murasame (they beefed him down in game sadly)

A samurai who wanders Azuma with the goal of becoming the world's greatest swordsman. Master of the Munen Muso sword style, which means "free from empty thoughts." Spends his days training and keeping his sword in good condition.

Hina

A half-human, half-fox were-animal who arrives in Azuma on an airship with Mauro. Claims to be an archaeologist. Childhood events instilled her with a strong desire to help others.

Mauro

A self-proclaimed treasure hunter from a foreign land who came to Azuma by airship in search of a legendary treasure. This sentimental soul is easily moved to tears.

Ulalaka

Azuma's kind, gentle god of spring and merriment. Her benevolence knows no bounds, and she simply wants everyone to live happy, peaceful lives.

Matsuri

Azuma's carefree god of summer and swords. Enjoys physical activities of all kinds. Despite being a master of the blade, she tends to solve problems with brute force instead.

Unfortunately I've hit the picture limit, so I'll have to make a part 2.

[ladnkilt]

SALTATOR (Latin: Dancer) ATHLETIC BEAUTY, STRENGTH, AND POWER OF THE MASCULINE SOUL!

The Male Form...  In Photography, Art, Architecture, Decor, Style, And Culture Which Moves Beyond Mere Appearance To Reveal The... SOUL.

By LadNKilt: Earl Of Darlow, Ben Official Residence: County Antrim Northern Ireland; Main Residence: London U.K.; Second Residence: Kansas City Missouri U.S.A. LadNKilt Archive | Message Me | Submit | LadNKiltLife (Biography)

[beyralxoxo]

{Crimson War: Valhalla-Ivar The Boneless}

{Chapter 1}

SUMMARY: Yggdrasil finds out about the proposal and begins sulking over her fate knowing that she will have to accept it, while our dear Ivar threatens to kill anyone who wants to bring the topic again, he hates her...or does he?

WORD COUNT: 4,7 K

WARNINGS: swearing-Ivar threatens to kill his brothers (he's joking obv)-arranged marriage proposal

The Geiranger Kingdom, cradled by the fjords and kissed by the icy breath of the northern winds, was a land steeped in legend. Known far and wide as the domain of Freya’s daughters, it was a place of unparalleled beauty and danger. The nymphs, said to be born of the goddess herself, walked among mortals like living myths. They were luminous beings, their power as undeniable as the roar of the sea.

No mortal could dare meet a nymph’s gaze for too long, lest they offend the gods and invite their wrath. Stories told of men who had been struck blind or cursed to wander in madness for their insolence. Yet it was not their eyes alone that drew reverence and fear—it was their hair, flowing and unending, cascading like rivers of moonlight or the black depths of night. Their strength, their very essence, was said to reside within those strands. To touch it was unthinkable, to cut it was sacrilege. They could not be slain, save by a weapon of their own making, a secret they guarded as fiercely as their hearts.

But it was not their invincibility that made them truly dangerous. It was their power to grant immortality to mortals—a gift whispered of in longing by kings and warriors, and coveted in silence by the desperate and the dying. Yet this gift came with a price, for to earn it, one must capture not a nymph’s body, but her soul. To make her fall in love was the greatest challenge of all, and many a man had tried only to fail spectacularly, their pride shattered beneath the nymphs’ laughter.

At the pinnacle of this legendary land sat Queen Boryana, her throne hewn from yew wood and carved with the ancient runes of protection. She was a queen of unmatched strength, her rule a harmonious blend of justice and fear. Under her guidance, Geiranger had grown to become a beacon of power, its cliffs and forests brimming with the whisper of gods. But her greatest achievement was not her rule—it was her daughters. By Freya’s blessing, Boryana had given birth to three daughters: Yggdrasil, Andora, and Varun.

Yggdrasil, the eldest, was the crown jewel of Geiranger. From the moment she drew her first breath, it was clear she was destined for greatness. Named after the great World Tree, her spirit was as unyielding as the roots that bound the nine realms together. Stories of her beauty spread like wildfire across the lands, igniting tales in every hall and hearth. Yet it was not merely her beauty that captivated the hearts of men—it was her presence.

She was striking, her mismatched eyes a gift from the gods themselves. One was the icy blue of a winter sky, sharp and cutting, while the other was a mosaic of dark brown and forest green, as if the earth and woods had found their home within her. Her hair was a raven’s black, thick and unyielding as it spilled in waves to the very ground. She carried it like a crown, a mark of her divinity and power.

From her youngest years, Yggdrasil was trained in the art of war. The clash of steel and the sting of northern winds became her companions. She was taught to wield a sword with the grace of a dancer, to command a shield wall with the authority of a general. Yet she was also schooled in the duties of a woman, though she cared little for embroidery or courtly smiles. She was a force of nature, a storm bound in mortal form.

Suitors came in droves, kings and their sons eager to kneel at her feet. They whispered promises of gold, of kingdoms, of eternal devotion. But Yggdrasil wanted none of it. “I do not need a man to find my joy,” she had declared boldly, her voice ringing out like a war horn. Her words sent ripples of unease through the halls of Geiranger, for such defiance was rare among women, even among nymphs.

Yet, for a time, her defiance was indulged. She walked her path untouched, her days filled with the hum of practice swords and the call of the wild winds. She was content in her solitude, finding solace in the strength of her own hands.

But fate is seldom kind to those who defy it.

Queen’s Boryana’s Palace

The sharp clang of steel against steel echoed across the training grounds, the rhythmic song of blade and shield reverberating through the crisp morning air. It was a sound that brought fear to some, awe to others, and absolute certainty to all—it meant Yggdrasil, the eldest daughter of Geiranger, was training. Gods help anyone foolish enough to disturb her.

The young maid who had drawn the unlucky task of delivering a message stood frozen at the edge of the training field, clutching her apron as if it were a lifeline. She watched as Yggdrasil moved with a precision that was almost otherworldly, her strikes as fluid as the rivers that carved the fjords. Her black braid whipped like a serpent behind her, the thick strands heavy with the weight of their legendary power. The sight of the princess was enough to render the maid’s throat dry, but duty left no room for cowardice.

Summoning her courage, the maid called out, her voice trembling, “M-My Lady? Your mother is asking for you.”

The clash of steel halted mid-strike, the silence that followed heavier than the sound of battle. Yggdrasil held her position for a heartbeat, her blade poised and her breath steady. Slowly, she lowered her sword, turning to face the girl. Her mismatched eyes, fixed upon the maid. It was not a cruel gaze, but it was sharp enough to cut through stone.

“And did she tell you the reason for this summons?” Yggdrasil asked, her tone calm but edged with the faintest trace of irritation.

The maid shook her head quickly, her eyes cast downward. “No, My Lady. She… she did not.”

Yggdrasil let out a soft sigh, the sound carrying both exasperation and resignation. Without another word, she turned away, her hand moving with practiced ease to rest the sword against the rack by the wall. Her movements were deliberate, controlled—every gesture a reminder of the discipline that had been drilled into her from the time she could walk.

She threw her braid over her shoulder with a swift motion, its weight falling heavily against her back, and began the long walk to her mother’s chambers. The corridor stretched ahead of her, lined with tapestries depicting the gods and their triumphs. She knew every thread, every story woven into their fabric.

Her boots echoed against the stone floor, and with each step, she felt the weight of expectation settle more heavily upon her shoulders. Her training was her sanctuary, the only place where she could wield her will unchallenged. Leaving it behind always felt like surrendering a part of herself, even if only for a moment.

As she approached the doors to her mother’s chambers, she paused, her hand resting against the cool iron handle. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. Whatever Boryana wanted, it would not be a simple matter. Her mother’s summons were never without reason, and they rarely boded well for Yggdrasil’s peace.

With a final breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Yggdrasil stepped into her mother’s chambers, her eyes adjusting to the warm glow of the hearth. The room was as it always was—elegant but functional, with shelves lined with old tomes and jars of herbs, their scents mingling in the air. A faint smile flickered across her face as she called out, “Mother? You wanted to see me?”

Her eyes lingered on the table strewn with pages, some bearing her mother’s intricate handwriting. She approached, her fingers brushing over the parchment absentmindedly as she scanned the scattered notes.

“I’m here, sweetling,” Boryana’s voice came from an adjoining room, and moments later, she stepped into view.

Boryana looked as she always did—like a woman untouched by time. Her dark hair fell in soft waves, her skin smooth and radiant as though the years dared not touch her. Yet, there was a weight in her green eyes, the kind that only a life lived in the shadow of both love and loss could bring.

Yggdrasil straightened, the hint of a smile still on her lips as her mother approached and placed a gentle kiss on her head. “You’ve been busy,” Boryana said, her voice light but carrying the warmth of a bond that needed no words.

“I could say the same of you,” Yggdrasil replied with a soft chuckle, gesturing toward the mess of papers. “I take it this summons isn’t for idle talk?”

Boryana smiled, but it was faint, weighed down by something unsaid. “And if it were? Can a mother not ask after her daughter’s well-being without suspicion?”

Yggdrasil tilted her head, her mismatched eyes narrowing playfully. “You’re many things, Mother, but idle is not one of them. Out with it—what’s on your mind?”

Boryana sighed, motioning for Yggdrasil to sit. Her daughter hesitated, curiosity flickering across her face, but she obeyed, lowering herself onto the edge of a sturdy chair. Boryana sat beside her, taking Yggdrasil’s hands in her own.

“A letter has arrived,” she began, her voice steady but softer than usual. “From King Ragnar.”

At the mention of him the girl smiled softly, Ragnar has been like a adoptive brother of her mother, and a father figure to her, Yggdrasil’s expression softened further. “Uncle?” she asked, her tone warming. “What news does he bring? It’s been months since I’ve heard from him.”

Boryana’s grip tightened on her daughter’s hands, her eyes searching Yggdrasil’s face. “It’s not the kind of news you might hope for, sweetling. Ragnar’s letter is… a proposal.”

The warmth in Yggdrasil’s face faded in an instant. Her hands stiffened in her mother’s grasp, and her mismatched eyes sharpened, flickering with disbelief. “A proposal?” she echoed, her voice quiet but strained. “What kind of proposal?”

“It’s for you,” Boryana said, her words gentle but firm. “A marriage proposal. To Ivar.”

Yggdrasil pulled her hands away, leaning back in her chair as if struck. She stared at her mother, her expression caught between disbelief and something far darker. “Ivar?” she said, her voice thick with derision. “Tell me this is a jest, Mother, because I might laugh if it weren’t so damned insulting.”

“Silla,” Boryana said softly, using her daughter’s childhood nickname.

“Don’t,” Yggdrasil snapped, standing abruptly. Her pacing was deliberate, her hands flexing as if itching for the sword she had left behind. “You expect me to take this seriously? Why would I—why should I—marry Ivar?” She scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “He’s Ragnar’s son, yes, but he’s also an arrogant, selfish little pup. The gods know I’ve endured him enough to know that much.”

Boryana rose gracefully, her hands clasped before her. “Yggdrasil, listen to me. This is not a matter of mere whim or convenience. Ragnar is thinking of your safety. Your father’s shadow looms large, even here, and—”

“Safety?” Yggdrasil interrupted, spinning to face her mother. “You think Ivar of all people would keep me safe? Where was his protection when I needed it? Where was he when I had no one but myself to rely on?” Her voice cracked, just barely, but she steadied it quickly. “If you think I’ll trust him now, you’re wrong.”

Boryana stepped closer, her violet eyes glinting with both sorrow and resolve. “Ragnar loves you as his own, Yggdrasil. You know that. He only wants what’s best for you. Ivar has grown—he’s not the boy you once knew.”

Yggdrasil laughed bitterly. “Grown? Into what? A man? A warrior? A shield for his father’s ambitions?” She shook her head, her braid swaying with the motion. “I love Ragnar. You know I do. But if he thinks I’ll play pawn in this game of alliances, he’s mistaken.”

Boryana reached out, her hand resting lightly on Yggdrasil’s arm. “This isn’t about alliances, sweetling. This is about ensuring you have a future—a future where you don’t have to fight every battle alone.”

“I’ve never had anything but battles, Mother,” Yggdrasil said, her voice quieter now, though no less fierce. “And I’d rather die by my own blade than tie my life to someone who wasn’t there when it counted.”

Boryana’s expression softened, but the sadness in her eyes deepened. “I only want you to be safe, my child. That is all I’ve ever wanted.”

“And I want to live my life on my own terms,” Yggdrasil replied, her voice steady but full of quiet defiance. “I owe Ragnar much, but I owe Ivar nothing.”

The silence between them was thick, heavy with the weight of words left unsaid. Yggdrasil inhaled deeply, forcing her emotions back beneath the surface. “If Ragnar wants to speak of this proposal, let him come himself. Until then, Mother, I’ve nothing more to say on the matter.”

With a final glance at Boryana, Yggdrasil turned and strode from the room, her steps firm and resolute. Behind her, Boryana remained still, her hands clasped tightly as she whispered a prayer to the gods.

Yggdrasil stormed through the castle corridors, her braid swinging wildly behind her. The chill in the air couldn’t compete with the fire raging in her chest. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, sharper than any blade she had ever wielded.

Marry Ivar? Of all the gods-damned ideas.

She needed solitude, her chambers, a place to vent her fury. But as she turned a corner, she was met with an obstacle even the fiercest warrior would hesitate to face—her two younger sisters, Andora and Varun.

“Yggdrasil!” Andora called out, her voice light and teasing, as it always was. Her blue eyes sparkled like the morning sea, a stark contrast to her sister’s foul mood. “Where are you storming off to? You look like you’re ready to strangle someone—or did you already, and you’re running to hide the body?”

Varun stood silently beside her, leaning against the stone wall. Her green eyes didn’t sparkle—they pierced. She had the uncanny ability to see straight through Yggdrasil’s bravado, a trait Yggdrasil found both infuriating and comforting.

“Move,” Yggdrasil barked, her tone curt.

Andora gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. “Move? Without so much as a greeting? Sister, you wound me.” She stepped in front of Yggdrasil, blocking her path. “Something’s clearly amiss, and I demand to know what it is. Was it Mother? Did she finally tell you you’re not her favorite?”

“Very funny,” Yggdrasil muttered, though a ghost of a smirk tugged at her lips despite her sour mood. “Now, step aside.”

“Not until you tell us what’s wrong,” Andora said, planting her hands on her hips.

Varun straightened, her quiet presence filling the space like a rising tide. “She won’t say until she’s ready,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “But something’s happened. I can see it in her eyes.”

“Which ones?” Andora quipped. “The dark one, or the icy one?”

Yggdrasil let out a sharp breath, half a laugh and half a growl. “Fine. If you must know, Mother’s gone mad.”

Andora’s brows lifted in mock surprise. “Oh? And here I thought that happened years ago. What did she do this time?”

“She agreed to a marriage proposal,” Yggdrasil snapped.

Both sisters froze.

“A marriage proposal?” Andora echoed, her voice dripping with disbelief. “For you?”

Yggdrasil narrowed her eyes. “Yes. For me. What’s so surprising about that?”

Andora waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, nothing. Except that you’ve sworn off every man who’s dared to ask. I figured Mother had finally accepted your destiny as a lone shieldmaiden with nothing but a sword and a bad temper to keep you company.”

Varun, ever composed, tilted her head. “Who is it?”

Yggdrasil hesitated, her fists clenching at her sides. “It’s from Uncle Ragnar.”

Varun’s green eyes darkened. “And?”

“And it’s for Ivar,” Yggdrasil spat, the name like poison on her tongue.

Andora reeled back as though she’d been struck. “Ivar? As in Ivar the Boneless? As in the same Ivar who used to smear mud in your hair when we were children?”

“The very same,” Yggdrasil said bitterly.

Andora let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, that’s rich. Mother wants you to marry him? She must think the gods have a cruel sense of humor.”

“Apparently, she thinks it’s my only chance at safety,” Yggdrasil muttered, the words tasting bitter in her mouth.

Varun’s gaze sharpened. “Do you believe that?”

“No,” Yggdrasil said, her tone firm. “I don’t need anyone to keep me safe. Least of all Ivar.”

“Good,” Andora said, grinning. “Because the day you let that sniveling snake call you ‘wife’ is the day I grow a beard and take up fishing.”

Yggdrasil snorted, a flicker of amusement breaking through her frustration. “I’d pay to see that.”

Varun stepped closer, her voice low and steady. “Mother may mean well, but you’ve always fought your own battles, Yggdrasil. You don’t need a man to do it for you.”

“Exactly!” Andora chimed in, throwing an arm around Yggdrasil’s shoulders. “You’re the strongest, fiercest, most bull-headed woman in this entire kingdom. And if Ivar so much as looks at you the wrong way, I’ll gut him myself.”

Yggdrasil chuckled dryly, shaking her head. “Get in line, Andora. If Ivar crosses me, he’ll wish the gods had taken him first.”

“That’s the spirit,” Andora said, her grin widening.

Varun gave a small nod, her green eyes steady and reassuring. “Whatever happens, we’re with you.”

Yggdrasil looked at her sisters, their unwavering support softening the edges of her anger. For all her frustration, she knew she could face anything with them by her side. She drew in a deep breath, straightening her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice filled with genuine gratitude.

“Always,” Andora said, giving her a playful nudge. “Now, go find your chambers and brood, or whatever it is you were planning to do before we so kindly intervened.”

Yggdrasil smirked, her fiery spirit rekindled. “Don’t think this means I’ll share the mead later.”

Andora gasped. “After all we’ve done for you?”

“Not a drop,” Yggdrasil said, already walking away.

Her sisters’ laughter followed her down the corridor, a reminder that no matter what battles lay ahead, she would never face them alone.

And while Yggdrasil sulked in her chambers from the news she recieved, a certain young man in Kattegat was not yet aware of the news he will recieve.

Kattegat

Ragnar sat at the long oak table, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his weathered face. He twirled a knife absentmindedly between his fingers, the blade glinting as if it were a toy rather than a weapon. His eyes were distant, lost in thought as his mind played over the proposal. Across from him, Aethelstan sat with his hands folded, his brow furrowed in concern.

"Do you think it’s a good idea? The proposal, I mean," Aethelstan asked, his voice quiet but laced with doubt.

Ragnar shrugged, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "He is a wild one, no doubt. And by the gods, he can act like a spoiled child, throwing tantrums over the smallest things. But I know one thing for certain—those two," he gestured toward the distant lands of Geiranger, "could conquer everything, if they ever decided to work together."

Aethelstan sighed deeply, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He leaned forward, eyes searching Ragnar’s face for some sign of hesitation, something that would ease his own worries. "I understand that. But Ragnar, I know Yggdrasil. She won’t take this proposal lightly, if at all. She has despised Ivar since they were children—ten and twelve years old, for the love of Thor. There’s no chance she’ll agree to this willingly."

Ragnar paused, twirling the knife once more. His grin remained, though it was tinged with something darker, something that hinted at long experience in the ways of both men and women. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, but there was a weight to it. "And that’s exactly why it is his chance, Aethelstan. The gods have a way of making us face the things we least want to confront. Ivar may be many things, but this is his moment. To prove that he has changed, that he can be more than the arrogant child she remembers."

Aethelstan winced slightly, his mouth tightening into a thin line. "Ivar… has never apologized to anyone. Not once in his life. Since the time he was born, the boy has never once said ‘sorry’ to anyone. He doesn’t know how."

Ragnar chuckled darkly, the sound rich with a thousand battles and unspoken truths. He set the knife down on the table, his eyes narrowing as he met Aethelstan’s gaze. "There’s always a time for change, Aethelstan. Even for men like Ivar."

Aethelstan shook his head, as if the thought was too much to bear. "Change? You think a proposal will change him?"

Ragnar leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled together, his expression almost playful now. "I’m not saying it will. But sometimes, it’s the most unexpected things that force a man to grow. You of all people should know that. It’s in the struggles, in the moments of pressure, that we find out what we're truly made of. You think Ivar will just slip into this? No. He'll fight it, just as he’s always fought everything. But he won’t win this time. Not with her."

Aethelstan looked down at his hands, the weight of Ragnar’s words settling over him like a cloak of inevitability. "And Yggdrasil? You’re willing to put her through this... torment? You know she’ll resent it."

Ragnar’s grin deepened, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. "Aye, I know she will. But she’s strong. She’s always been strong. She will come to see that this isn’t just about the past, about what Ivar was. It’s about what he can become. And the gods know, if there’s anyone who can turn that boy into a man, it’s her."

Aethelstan didn’t respond immediately. He only nodded slowly, though his heart felt heavier than when he had first entered the room. The weight of the proposal hung over them both now, a heavy cloud that neither could shake.

"I pray you’re right, Ragnar," Aethelstan said, his voice low. "For all our sakes, I pray you’re right."

Ragnar picked up the knife again, tapping it idly on the table as though the conversation were already over. "The gods have spoken, Aethelstan. Now we just wait and see how they play this hand."

Ivar sat hunched over in his chambers, the repetitive scrape of his knife against the whetstone barely keeping his thoughts at bay. The blade gleamed, sharp enough to split hairs, but the edge wasn’t nearly as sharp as his mood. His brothers had been unusually quiet all day, which only meant trouble. And trouble had a way of finding him, especially when his idiotic siblings were involved.

The door crashed open, slamming against the wall with a resounding thud. Ivar didn’t look up, his lips curling in irritation. He already knew who it was.

"By Thor’s hammer, can’t you two morons knock like civilized people?" he growled.

Ubbe strolled in first, casual as ever, followed by Hvitserk, who looked like he was already suppressing a laugh. "Civilized? From the man who once hurled an axe at a servant for breathing too loud? Spare me," Ubbe said, plopping himself down on Ivar’s bed without a care in the world.

Hvitserk leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms with that infuriating smirk of his. "You look cozy, Ivar. What’s got you sharpening that knife? Thinking of murdering someone, or is this just your version of knitting?"

Ivar’s grip on the knife tightened. "If you two are here to waste my time, you’ll be leaving with fewer fingers than you came in with."

"Relax, little brother," Ubbe said, waving him off. "We’re here to... congratulate you."

That caught Ivar’s attention. He set the knife down carefully, his sharp blue eyes narrowing like a hawk sizing up its prey. "Congratulate me? For what? Outliving the pair of you morons?"

Hvitserk chuckled, pushing off the wall to saunter further into the room. "No, no. We’re here to congratulate you on your... impending marriage."

The air in the room seemed to shift, the tension snapping like a bowstring. Ivar’s face twisted into a mask of confusion and rage. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous.

Ubbe grinned, clearly enjoying the moment. "Father’s arranged it. You and Yggdrasil. A match made by the gods themselves—or by Ragnar’s twisted sense of humor. Either way, it’s happening."

For a moment, Ivar didn’t move. Then, without warning, he slammed his fist into the table, the sound echoing through the room. "That old bastard’s finally lost his mind!" he bellowed. "Marry her? Yggdrasil?! I’d rather stick this knife through my own heart!"

Hvitserk was laughing openly now, leaning against the table for support. "Come on, Ivar. She’s not that bad. A bit sharp-tongued, sure, but at least she’s good-looking. You’ll have beautiful, angry children together."

Ivar turned on him so fast it was a wonder he didn’t sprain something. "I will carve that stupid grin off your face, Hvitserk," he snarled, his voice trembling with fury. "Don’t you dare speak about her like she’s some... gift. She’s a nightmare. A walking, talking curse."

Ubbe raised an eyebrow, his expression somewhere between amused and exasperated. "You’re being dramatic, even for you. She’s strong, smart, and she doesn’t take anyone’s shit. Honestly, she’s the only person in the world who could tolerate you."

"She doesn’t tolerate me," Ivar snapped. "She hates me. And the feeling is mutual."

Hvitserk clapped a hand to his chest, feigning shock. "Oh, the venom in your voice, brother! One might think you’re overcompensating. You don’t... like her, do you?"

The knife was back in Ivar’s hand before anyone could blink, the tip pointed directly at Hvitserk. "Say that again, and I’ll make sure you never like anyone ever again."

Ubbe sighed, standing and placing a hand on Ivar’s shoulder to calm him. "Enough, Ivar. We’re not here to fight. Father made the decision, and whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to deal with it."

Ivar shrugged off Ubbe’s hand, his chest heaving with barely contained rage. "Deal with it? Deal with her? Do you have any idea what you’re asking? She’s insufferable. Always has been. She walks around like she owns the gods-damned world, like she’s better than me. And now Ragnar expects me to... to marry her?"

Hvitserk, still grinning like an idiot, chimed in. "Well, to be fair, she is better than you. In most ways."

Ivar turned on him again, his face a mask of fury. "Do you want to die today, Hvitserk? Because I’m in the mood to make it happen."

"Easy, little brother," Ubbe said, stepping between them. "We get it. You hate her. Fine. But maybe, just maybe, you’re confusing hate with something else."

Ivar barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. "Oh, don’t start with that nonsense. I know exactly what I feel. I hate her. I hate her arrogance, her voice, her face—"

"Her face?" Hvitserk interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "Interesting choice of words. Sounds like you’ve been staring at it a bit too much."

The knife flew, embedding itself in the wooden post next to Hvitserk’s head. He didn’t even flinch, though his grin widened. "Ah, there’s that famous Ivar temper. You know, you’re proving our point, brother. You’ve got it bad."

Ivar threw his hands up, pacing the room like a caged animal. "Get out. Both of you. Before I make good on my threats."

Ubbe clapped him on the shoulder again, this time with more force. "Think about it, Ivar. You might hate her, but you can’t ignore her. That says something, doesn’t it?"

Hvitserk chuckled, pulling the knife from the post and tossing it back to Ivar. "We’ll leave you to your brooding, little brother. Just try not to burn the place down while you’re at it."

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Ivar alone in the suffocating silence. He stared at the knife in his hand, his thoughts a storm he couldn’t control. He hated Yggdrasil. He was sure of it. But in the back of his mind, a small, unwelcome thought whispered: If you hate her so much, why can’t you stop thinking about her?

[youryurigoddess]

A. Z. Fell & Co. bookshop and its statues, part 2

Welcome to the second part of my insane deep dive into Aziraphale’s world of slightly outdated decor, golden-colored trinkets, and their ostentatiously Greek (especially for a representative of an originally Judeo-Christian mythology) symbolism. As a short recap, the last installment covered six pieces in the northern and central sections of the bookshop plus a plot-important medal previously displayed on one of them, but currently left with the other bibelots on the bookseller’s desk. We’ll start right there, where we previously left off.

While a lot of the bookshop action plays out in the circle between the formerly discussed statues, its office part is especially close to Aziraphale himself. As the titular Guardian of the Eastern Gate, the angel consciously spends most of his time in this small space in the Eastern part of the bookshop, confined to his desk or reading stand. This means that the decorations of this area have more personal significance and are most probably used as daily reminders for him to keep his thoughts and priorities on track as much as provide pleasant distraction from the weary eyes.

The two windowsill figures of the Art Deco dancers from S1 were replaced by a somewhat similar set of twin statues by Ernest Rancoulet called Retour des Bois (Return from the Woods). Depicting a young woman accompanied by a putto, Aphrodite and Eros, frolicking in a dance through the woods and meadows. This bucolic fantasy with Aphrodite makes some sense when we consider how Aziraphale���s personal love story started (and will presumably end) in a garden, but let’s deep deeper into its protagonists. Or protagonist, actually, because what else can be told about Love itself?

Eros as the god of Desire is usually presented in art as a handsome young man, though in some appearances he is a boy full of mischief, ever in the company of his mother. It is usually under the guidance of Aphrodite when he employs his signature bow and arrows to make mortals and immortals alike to fall in love. His role in myths is mostly complementary, as a catalyst for other mythological figures and their stories, with the notable exception being the myth of Eros and Psyche, the story of how he met and fell in love with his wife.

In short, they are the original star-crossed lovers from entirely separate worlds who meet and fall in love by divine happenstance, only to be separated by Psyche’s family. Convinced by her sisters that her husband is, in fact, a vile winged serpent, Psyche breaks his one rule and the attempt to kill the monster leads her to falling in passionate love with him. Eros flees and Psyche wanders the Earth searching for him and succumbing to a series of impossible tasks reminding of those from the Scarborough Fair ballad or the more modern fairytale about Cinderella. She ultimately fails, but is saved by the healed Eros, granted immortality and the status of his equal, after which they can properly marry with a huge wedding banquet, a real feast of the gods.

In the Christian Middle Ages, the union of Eros and Psyche started to symbolize the temptation and fall of the human soul, driven by the sexual curiosity and lust from the Love’s domain, mirroring the original sin and the expulsion from Eden.

Oh, and their Latin names? Cupid and Anima. C+A.

We’ll get back to them in a minute.

According to unnecessary but extensive research, the two mid-century table lamps standing over the desk were most probably produced in France after another unspecified 19th century sculptor like the example above, although this particular putti design can be also found in the so called Hollywood regency style of the same time period. The putto is holding onto a cornucopia, a classical antiquity symbol of plenty, which then continues to the bulb section.

The cornucopia is an easily recognizable symbol of abundance, fertility and, to lesser extant, peace and good fortune. Since the horn is phallic-shaped, but hollow at the same time, it combines intimate imagery of both male and female character at the same time, which further ties into notions of fertility. In its role as a fertility symbol, the cornucopia is also usually associated with Demeter, whose small statue is also standing on the bookshop’s counter. Which seems like a recurring theme.

I saw multiple theories about Aziraphale’s centerpiece, but somehow the truth proved to be much less significant than previously thought. This roman soldier, possibly a centurion, driving his two horses in a highly decorated chariot is made from a marble powder resin composite and takes the most visible place in the Eastern part of the bookshop even though it’s seemingly one of the newest additions to Aziraphale’s collection — its author, Lorenzo Toni, was born in 1938 and became a sculpture master by the 1970s. 

At first glance, the parallel to the Marly Horses seems obvious and we could leave it basically at what was written recently on Crowley and Aziraphale’s dynamics. But here is where instead of commenting on the antique sculpture that seems to be the inspiration behind this piece or the many intricacies of Roman chariot racing I’ll do something completely unhinged — i.e., play my Greek philosophy card.

In the dialogue "Phaedrus ”, Plato presents the allegory of the chariot to explain the tripartite nature of the human soul or — you guessed it — psyche. The charioteer is the man’s Reason, the rational part that loves truth and knowledge, which should rule over the other parts of the soul through the use of logic. One of the horses, the white one, is man’s Spirit, a motivated part which seeks glory, honor, recognition and victory. The second horse, the black one, represents man’s Appetite — an ever so hungry part which desires food, drink, material wealth and physical intimacy.

And the fun part? This triad is established to analyze the madness of love. In a classical Greek context, that is not between a man and a woman, but erastes and eromenos:

The charioteer is filled with warmth and desire as he gazes into the eyes of the one he loves. The good horse is controlled by its sense of shame, but the bad horse, overcome with desire, does everything it can to go up to the boy and suggest to it the pleasures of sex. The bad horse eventually wears out its charioteer and partner, and drags them towards the boy; yet when the charioteer looks into the boy's face, his memory is carried back to the sight of the forms of beauty and self-control he had with the gods, and pulls back violently on the reins. As this occurs over and over, the bad horse eventually becomes obedient and finally dies of fright when seeing the boy's face, allowing the lover's soul to follow the boy in reverence and awe. The lover now pursues the boy. As he gets closer to his quarry, and the love is reciprocated, the opportunity for sexual contact again presents itself. If the lover and beloved surpass this desire they have won the "true Olympic Contests"; it is the perfect combination of human self-control and divine madness, and after death, their souls return to heaven.

And such a perfect combination of the motifs already introduced to us by the two Eros statues and the Head of the Victorious Athlete.

Aziraphale might be a titular Companion to Owls (or, to be precise, the companion to one particular Nite Owl), but he had also made sure to have at least one owl keeping him company. And of course, the owl of Athena (who was interestingly both a bird and a snake goddess) is an absolutely conclusion here as the universal symbol of wisdom and knowledge in the Western culture, but it can’t be that easy, right?

In the Bible, you'll find that owls often symbolize something unclean and forbidden, as well as desolation, loneliness, and destruction. This symbolic significance is pointed out in Leviticus 11:16-17 and Deuteronomy 14:11-17 where owls are mentioned among the birds not to be eaten. Owls were considered unclean most likely because they are predatory creatures who eat raw flesh with the blood still in it, and that was an even bigger food safety concern for the biblical nomads than to us today.

Owls are also among the wild predators that have long dwelled in the desert lands and abandoned ruins of Egypt and the Holy Land. Both Isaiah and Zephaniah speak of owls nesting in ruined wastelands to paint symbolic images of barrenness, emptiness, and utter desolation. In Psalm 102:3–6, the owl symbolizes the loneliness of the psalmist’s tortured heart:

For my days vanish like smoke; my bones burn like glowing embers. My heart is blighted and withered like grass; I forget to eat my food. In my distress I groan aloud and am reduced to skin and bones. I am like a desert owl, like an owl among the ruins. I lie awake; I have become like a bird alone on a roof. All day long my enemies taunt me; those who rail against me use my name as a curse. For I eat ashes as my food and mingle my drink with tears because of your great wrath, for you have taken me up and thrown me aside. My days are like the evening shadow; I wither away like grass. But you, Lord, sit enthroned forever; your renown endures through all generations.

It’s a devastating, but still beautiful piece that deals with the feeling of utter rejection, the ultimate bad breakup of the relationship between a human and their God. And this… simply didn’t happen between God and Aziraphale, not even during his Job job. The angel had always considered Her love and ineffability as a given, even when the whole Heavenly Host was against him during the Non-Apocalypse. His allegiance stayed with God, not necessarily Her angels. Which brings us yet again to the motion of Crowley as the owl.

The angel and the demon are the companions to each other's loneliness, but Aziraphale’s needs seem significantly bigger than their Arrangement that he even considered a wooden substitute protectively hovering over him 24/7. He seems to be the one who is the loneliest and most rejected.

Oh, and if you think that putting a small bronze statue of a putto with a bronze putto-shaped candleholder right behind it (visible on the filing cabinet in the bottom right corner) is already a stretch, let me show you what’s on the other side of that wall.

Just like before the bookshop fire, the famous sink in the small backroom is adorned with a perfectly kitschy white plaster sculpture of The Two Cherubs, a small part of a larger painting by Raphael (the painter, not the Archangel) titled Sistine Madonna. In the painting the Madonna, holding Christ Child and flanked by Saint Sixtus and Saint Barbara, stands on clouds before dozens of obscured putti, while two distinctive winged putti rest on their elbows beneath her. with bombastic side eyes and clearly unspoken, but very controversial thoughts about the whole scene and their role in it.

With an attitude like that, there’s no wonder that the putti have inspired some legends. According to one, the original cherubs were children of one of his models they would come in to watch. Struck by their posture, he added them to the painting exactly as he saw them. Another story says that Raphael was inspired by two street urchins looking wistfully into the window of a baker's shop.

The Germans implicitly tied this painting into a legend of their own, "Raphael's Dream." Arising in the last decades of the 18th century, the legend — which made its way into a number of stories and even a play — presents Raphael as receiving a heavenly vision that enabled him to present his divine Madonna. It is claimed the painting has stirred many viewers, and that at the sight of the canvas some were transfixed to a state of religious ecstasy akin to Stendhal Syndrome (including one of Freud's patients).

Their big, seemingly cherubic companion doesn’t seem to have a specific provenance, but what’s left of his limbs might suggest that it could be an infant Jesus as well as another putto. But honestly who knows at this point.

On the other side of the same room, right at the door leading to the big backroom, there are two lamps with Auguste Moreau’s Young Lovers, a bronze sculpture depicting a courting couple on the verge of a physical embrace, holding garlands of roses and hiding under some old vines. Which aligns perfectly with the beloved romcom trope of a rain shelter leading to sudden love realizations, as well as Crowley choosing this part of the bookshop to have a word with his angel in private and then offering his advice on anything related to human love. No wonder that the angel looked at him like that.

This statue carries with it more than one allegorical interpretation, intentional or not. Arguably the most obvious one is the myth of Eros and Psyche, one we already covered in this post. But similarly to his earlier sculpture, Eros also serves here as an allegory for nature and the return to the natural state itself. Like Adam in Eden, he's unclothed and symbolically crowned as a ruler of his domain. Psyche, enamored with his confidence, is about to take her own leap of faith as her fabric restraints fall away. One could say that she's tempted to follow him into nature, deep into the garden of love.

And with that exact thought I will leave you today, dear reader. Through this analysis we learnt many things, among them two significant facts about Aziraphale: firstly, he’s an utter and incorrigible romantic, and secondly, a hoarder. Forget Crowley’s souvenirs — the amount of this angel’s statues is something else. And it isn’t even his hyperfixation!

[slumberingrose-fandom]

More Obey Me! Pixies?!

These OCs are playing the role of important characters to help villagers, especially Pixies of Seven Sins and Talia.

Unlike some pixies, they weren't created with items. They born and raised in the Pixies Village from other realm before move to the Devildom.

They not only befriend the same species, but also demons, angels, and humans.

➽──────────────❥

Demetria

Pixie of Winter.

Hails at the North Mountain where she play the role of the Ice Queen's guardian pixie.

Demetria was beloved by northern people, but always blamed by outsiders for creating cold seasons that led to poor harvests.

Although being hated, she have friends who empathize to her, such as Fortuna.

Loves snow boarding, ice skating and snowman building.

Talented at doing ice sculpture, which's her activity on spare time.

Befriend with Barbatos, since she was idolized him for amazing ice skating at the competition.

➽──────────────❥

Qinglan

Pixie of Immortality.

Aggressive and pride of his aristocratic status, but keep in low-key.

Hate loud noises and bad behaviors.

Prefer to isolated from the outsiders and reading scrolls at the room, though his parents forced him to have socialize for the future.

Has ability to create an illusion to scare the opponent away.

Even so Qinglan has a pair of wings, he rarely use to fly. He is an avid walker.

Solomon is his first human friend, where met at the Royal Library of Devildom. Moreover, Qinglan, who hates bad attitudes, doesn't care Solomon's childish behavior.

➽──────────────❥

Coppelia

Pixie of Dancing.

Passionate about dancing and music, mostly ballroom and ballet.

Likes to choreography with music she take an inspiring.

Work as dance instructor at the School for Pixies. Aphrodite is her disciple.

Sometimes take a position of dancer at the performance.

The colors of her dress code are pink, red and white that she fondly of.

While having the butterflies appear within her range or travel across the surface of an area, she have capability of conjure butterflies either by dancing.

➽──────────────❥

Celestia

Pixie of the Skies.

Owns the status of Heaven General and hails to the Celestial Realm.

Strict on the surface, but actually hiding self-blame and even soft-heartedness.

Knowing many incidents at Celestial Realm, mostly Luke and Simeon. But she seal them in secret for not being fallen from forbid the rules.

Loves things touched like clouds, like cotton candy and pillows

Befriend Simeon and Lucifer, whom she sympathizes with, also the one helped them mend their relationship.

In addition, she also met her disciple Hera. However, she feeling something, either was Hera at first who has a feeling for her.

Has a sword that possesses magic that can be used to expel dark souls to Hellfire, as well as has capability of light magic that can expel dark curses.

➽──────────────❥

Terrestria

Celestia's twin sister, born later than her elder sister.

Quiet and rarely shows any other emotion besides annoyance or boredom, yet cares for family and friends deeply.

Like Celestia, Terrestria being the possessor of the Hell General and hails to the Devildom shortly after she was born.

Owns the powers of earth to manipulate the solid objects like rocks and minerals.

Love sewing and designing, but dislikes to show her works in front of people.

Befriend with Mephistopheles, when Terrestria bumped into at the mansion garden. She respects Mephisto's choices, although she had been bored and annoyed by his ridiculous ideas.

➽──────────────❥

Cornelius

Pixie of Healing.

The one help Talia to search the remedy for cure the sleeping curse.

Like Lyssa, Cornelius has ability to cure the water pollution from his unicorn magic.

He opens his own pharmacy to save more villagers' life.

Prefer to have a peace, even so everyone suggested him to join the army.

Has the power of duplication, that he can perfectly replicate himself. Therefore, other clones have their unique personality.

Aqua, as a clone with blue clothes, showing as emo person with stubborn side. Yet he is compassion, gentle and friendly one. Likes to isolate away from outsiders and reading books.

While, Pinkie, other clone with pink clothes, is different than Aqua. He is a guy with the immature attitude of over-optimistic. Still he is empathize with person he cares, and very generous of them.

He opens himself as bisexual, though mostly people he had date were female.

He was once have crushed on Qinglan. Later he gave up for confession and hatred him, when discovered Qinglan's arrogance.

[tenebrisdivina]

Hello and Welcome. This blog is intended as record and musings of my spiritual path, devotion and practices with the demonic divine and other beings. Alongside a log of witchcraft and occult ritual. I am a priestess of the demonic divine and a certain aspect of the divine masculine energies. My patron is Lord Abaddon. I am also espoused to two Dark Lords (Lord S and Lord O) who I may mention about somewhat on here as well. I am restricted upon what I am able to share however. I am also quite close to Lord Lucifer and I mainly work with Dark Lords and Ladies listed in the Dukante hierarchy, though I do work with some goetic listed and grimoire verum listed Demonic divine as well. I also connect with unknown/recorded demonic divine beings too.

My background is in paganism- I was previously a devotee of Setekh and Kali ma ( this blog was originally heretiquesmusings) for many years before I found my home with the demonic divine, whom I have been connected to and working with for the past 7 years. My practice is demonolatry based, though I am not as restricted. I go where the demonic divine, spirits, gods and my soul guides me. I am female and I identify as non-human (other then human-souled). My past studies and practices included Kemeticism, Kaula Tantra and some Hinduism related to Kali ma, Taoism, Chaos magic, east asian and northern tradition shamanic practices, hedge and traditional witchcraft.

I also work with the qliphoth, eldritch beings, other gods, spirits and journey to the otherworlds regularly.

Other then my spiritual path- I am an artist, dancer, martial artist and have studied traditional Chinese medicine and herbalism among other things.

I am somewhat open to inquiries and questions and I will answer and guide where I can. I am restricted by the demonic divine and my Husbands on what I may share an discuss.

Disclaimer: We each are each individuals, have different energy structures/vibrations and each walk different paths and I don’t expect you to have the same views nor experiences as I do. Nor necessarily agree with my practices. This is my path, workings and gnosis from my personal experiences and what the demonic divine, gods and otherworldy beings I work with- have shared and taught me. It does not automatically apply to others. Though if what I share of the demonic divine helps others, then great.

Courtesy notice: I don't really care to list DNI as I'm not bothered by much, however if you disrespect the demonic divine, practice/advocate/believe in solomonic binding and other such practices- then this is not the blog for you and I suggest you move along.

Anyone who speaks/advocates about it being cultural appropriation to work with any of the demonic divine - including Lilith- or that Qliphotic work is cultural appropriation- will be blocked immediately. I have no tolerance for such nonsense. Also if you attempt to harass or abuse me it should go without saying you will be blocked. and I do use the block button liberally.

If you wish to discuss things in this space, then respecting the demonic divine, My Husbands, and myself( it is my blog after all) is required. This blog is more directed at adults then minors, will discuss dark topics and adult content. This blog is for more advanced/intermediate practices, then beginner work. I also tend to write essays, if that is not to your liking then this may not be the space for you.

Important posts:

I also run an Etsy store:

Other then all of this welcome to my blog!

[eatmangoesnekkid]

Belly Dance Week 24 or so--Shaking in Hot Weather

What I noticed about belly dancing outside of the Western mindset which is rooted in the white male mind is that dance in a northern Europe climate has an element of scarcity to it, similar to how the most nutritious fruits do not grow in cold climates and there is a limit to what can be accessed or plucked off from a tree. Watermelon in Amsterdam vibrates and tastes completely different than watermelon in Mexico, DR, or even the South of Italy in summers. Cold weather has a scarcity consciousness buried inside and the body, especially a Brown or highly melaninated body, has to work very hard to stay healthy. It is not natural for most of us to live with low vitamin D levels. And this is the second time I have lost my residence's permit for Amsterdam. Perhaps that's the ancestors' way of wacking me over the head.

And I've been actually wacked over the head recently in another way. I was laying in bed sleeping deeply then suddenly I woke up out of nowhere and sat straight up in bed. Then "pop!" It felt like someone had hit me with baseball bat on my forehead. My partner was in Germany so there was no hanky-panky happening. I was alone and fell right back to sleep. The next day when I looked into the mirror--I had a bruise and scar the size of a dime and some head pain. I had already signed up for hot yoga so I went to class with all this mystery going on and during class thought I wouldn't be able to finish it. The heat was making the pain feel worse. Every time I leaned forward, I felt this stabbing across my forehead. I started taking it easy and relaxing more in my postures, doing about 80 percent of what I usually do. The teacher encouraged me, like she would any other regular, to go further because she was familiar with my capacity. I whispered to her what was going on. After class, she suggested I go see a doctor. "You could be internally bleeding." Well, I knew I didn't need a doctor. I needed to listen. Ha! The mystery bruise and scar have since cleared up as if they never happened.

Dancing in warm weather brings abundance to the body and to the dance. Don't get me wrong--I love my dance teachers in Europe who were born in Arabic cultures where Egyptian belly dance was taught to them as little girls by their grandmums-so cute. But I think that when you grow up in Europe or the US, you have to be mindful to not develop that western mind that doesn't realize that we are all different, our bodies are different, and therefore all our jiggles and gyrations will also look different. I think that can be tricky because you are learning to fit in with the European mind in order to date, to work, to socialize, etc., but that mind also comes with its own sneaky rigidity.

But I'm so grateful how my teachers in Europe have helped me to access my full hip girdle, and there is just this undertone of perfectionism that lives in the root system of the West and can be difficult to notice how we've all been affected by it. It is through this mindset that we learn how to walk, talk, and be in the world. I feel like some dancers in the West can get stuck in technique instead of the deep soulful feeling of the dance--tuning more into how the dance and music FEEL when they meet-the-moment of the body --than how they look—which should vary.

Dancing in a warm country is familiar to my soul. In heat, I move like the laws of fire and water getting rid of the pollution. There is a lot of diversity in the shapes of women's bodies and there is freedom to sway outside of the edges, because there is no such thing as an "edge." Women dance in huge shapeless mumu dresses, short skirts, bikinis, booty shorts, scarfs, etc. and there is no standard for anything. Everything is just wild and incredibly in harmony. In my first class, there were women in their 60s and young girls around 12. They all felt like family. There was a sincere love of one another that the women had nurtured together over the years. They assumed I was a "negrita" --a cute young dark girl, but I assured them that I was grown and a mama bear. And although I don't speak the Spanish very well, i always freshen up on the different ways to greet: formal, casual, an elderly person, and a child and ask basic things like “how are you” in Spanish. And I felt tiny pieces of home and sweetly connected. But I don’t want to romanticize it either. Because when you are foreigner and don’t speak the language fluently, you will always be a little exotic and an outsider but with the right attitude and courtesies, you can mingle your through and discover preciousness and other local harmonies where ever you land.-India Ame'ye, Author

[backstagecurtain]

northern soul dancer at wigan casino (source)

[auburniivenus]

teeth find themselves to clench into each other , the tug upon clothing nudging him ever a bit forward. even his visage is painted with a worrisome look , the meek appearance he had shifting to gradually appear more. he wasn't one to often play along , as he had duties to attend too. important issues at hand. lips even part as if words were to slip freely from him , yet close just as quietly with a sigh. how very impossible it was for Aphelios to say no when she seemed so very eager.

gloved hand rises and simply swats , softly , at her grasp upon him to release. he would go along , evident in the slightest of nods given. really , what else was he to do? to say no , he felt he would disappoint her or worse , get chastened ; both of which felt like a pain to deal with in this instance. the lunari took his place next to her , a hand gracefully swiping before them as to urge her to lead the way. this time , he would go along with it. next time , he will learn to say no. @empyreous

A stellar body that hield a role of unparalleled importance, a luminary that, despite its modest size, commanded the reverence of all who gazed upon it. MOON, that pearlescent ambassador of the nocturnal firmament, was more than just a mere satellite. It was a beacon of hope in the darkness, a metaphor of constancy in a world of permutation. With its dreamlike glow, was like a lighthouse in the night’s vast ocean, guiding lost souls through the treacherous seas. A taciturn guardian, a watchful protector, its light a comforting presence. This beautiful silver sentinel had its worshipers, and APHELIOS was one of them. THE PHYSICAL MOON.

From her perspective, he was a man entangled in the labyrinth of his obligations, a prisoner to the perpetual ticking of the clock. Moments of leisure, she believed, were the lifeblood of sanity, the golden threads that wove the curtains of a balanced mind. A smile, radiant as the first blush of dawn, bloomed on her countenance, a sunflower turning its face to the warmth of the sun. She headed outdoors. “I’m sure you won’t regret it.” Promised, her words a curative breeze that carried the fragrance of adventure. Above them, the universe unfurled a tableau of divine grandeur. Northern lights, those exquisite dancers of the night sky, swirled in a choreography of light and color. Aquamarine, green, pink, and purple hues wove together in a carpet of luminescence. Such phenomena were usually the exclusive guests of certain locales, their presence a rare gift bestowed upon the fortunate.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Mused, her voice a whisper lost in the planetary tune. “I wonder if everything is all right in the cosmological current.” Her words hung in the air. “Come on, let’s go to the mountain.” Inoue beckoned, her invitation a call to journey into the night’s heart, where stars held court and the luminaries danced their immortal waltz.

[princess-of-the-glitter-realm]

[leicesterlocksmiths23]

The Northern Soul Phenomenon: Wigan Casino and Its Enduring Legacy

Introduction

In the late 1960s and 1970s, amidst the industrial backdrop of Northern England, a musical subculture emerged that would leave an indelible mark on the world of music and dance. Northern Soul, characterized by its high-energy, rare soul and Motown tracks, became a movement of its own, and at its epicenter was the legendary Wigan Casino nightclub. This article explores the roots of Northern Soul and the iconic role played by Wigan Casino in shaping its vibrant culture and enduring legacy.

The Birth of Northern Soul

Northern Soul was more than just a musical genre; it was a cultural phenomenon that offered an escape from the bleak economic and social landscape of Northern England. The movement originated in the mod and mod-revival scenes of the mid-1960s, with DJs and collectors seeking out obscure American soul and R&B records that had been overlooked in their homeland.

Wigan Casino: The Mecca of Northern Soul

Wigan Casino, a former jazz and dancehall venue, became the epicenter of the Northern Soul scene. Located in Wigan, a town in Greater Manchester, the Casino hosted its first Northern Soul all-nighter in 1973, and from that moment on, it became a mecca for soul enthusiasts from all over the UK. Its iconic central dancefloor, illuminated by hundreds of fluorescent lights, created an electric atmosphere where dancers would showcase their acrobatic spins and flips.

The Music: Rare, Uplifting, and Authentic

What set Northern Soul apart was its devotion to rare and obscure records. DJs like Russ Winstanley and Richard Searling tirelessly scoured record shops and import stores to find tracks that hadn't received airplay or chart success in the US. These records often featured passionate, raw vocals, and foot-stomping beats that resonated with the Northern Soul crowd.

The Dancers: Athleticism and Individuality

Northern Soul was not just about the music; it was also about the dancers. The Casino's dancefloor was a spectacle in itself, with dancers performing intricate spins, flips, and acrobatics. Dancers took pride in their individuality and unique styles, which added to the sense of community within the scene.

The Decline and Legacy

Wigan Casino's heyday didn't last forever. As the 1970s gave way to the 1980s, the scene began to lose its momentum. The Casino closed its doors for the last time in 1981, marking the end of an era. However, the spirit of Northern Soul lived on. The music and dance styles continued to influence subsequent generations of musicians and dancers.

Today, Northern Soul remains a cherished subculture with a global following. Wigan Casino's legacy endures through documentaries, books, and reunions that celebrate the music, the dancing, and the community it fostered.

Conclusion

Northern Soul, with its passionate devotion to rare music and its vibrant dance culture, found its ultimate home at Wigan Casino. This unassuming nightclub in a Northern English town became a symbol of the resilience of working-class youth, providing an escape from their daily struggles through music, dance, and camaraderie. The legacy of Wigan Casino and Northern Soul lives on, a testament to the enduring power of music to bring people together and transcend time and place.

Leicester Locksmiths Loughborough Locksmiths

[ladnkilt]

SALTATOR (Latin: Dancer) ATHLETIC BEAUTY, STRENGTH, AND POWER OF THE MASCULINE SOUL!

The Male Form...  In Photography, Art, Architecture, Decor, Style, And Culture Which Moves Beyond Mere Appearance To Reveal The... SOUL.

By LadNKilt: Earl Of Darlow, Ben Official Residence: County Antrim Northern Ireland; Main Residence: London U.K.; Second Residence: Kansas City Missouri U.S.A. LadNKilt Archive | Message Me | Submit | LadNKiltLife (Biography)

[cooltmoney95]

Things Regarding Oswald, The Spy & my other ToM/Callyieverse stories

Hey guys! It's me c-tmoney/T-mack here wanting to talk to y'all about my Callyieverse and ToM Stories. Particularly Oswald The Spy.

For starters, I've been currently working on mainly Future AU stuff. Two new one shots and the first chapter of The Adventures of The Junior Spies

Here's a link to the WIPs.

In addition to that, also plan on getting back to working on Oswald The Spy Chapter 4. But first, I want to do a little something to help ease myself back towards working on the project. Which is why I decided to do something fun for it: Oswald The Spy: Origins. A mini fic series where I dedicate each chapter to one of the core/main characters of Oswald The Spy. Oswald himself will be excluded from this since the main series is basically going to explore his origins. I wanted to do something this would give more focus to the other characters. But to make things a little interesting (And to try out the new poll feature Tumblr added.). I'll admit, I've been curious about which of the OTS cast ya'll are interested in learning about. And thought this would be a fun feature to try out.

Also, for a refresher, here's a link to remind ya'll who is who.

https://at.tumblr.com/cooltmoney95/meet-the-second-diiiiivision-part-1/5vn9m2d2y1vy

So that's all for today. I got plenty of other stuff coming up. But this is mainly what I wanted to share ATM.