#or rather was i suppose

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 29: Festival

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022  

previous days: 1, 2, 3,  4, 5, 6,  7,  8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28

now available on ao3 too

Festival NOUN - a day or period of celebration, typically for religious reasons; an organized series of concerts, plays, or films, typically one held annually in the same place.

* * *

My lover's got humour She's the giggle at a funeral Knows everybody's disapproval I should've worshipped her sooner

-- Take me to church by Hozier

There was no surprise, Dismas supposed, that the Glorious And Blessed And Most Certainly Not Corrupt Church Of Holy And Divine Light was an organization fucked up to its very core. And he was saying that not only because a structure so widespread was inevitably corrupt and fucked up. Hell, he’d say for the most part at least they’ve played pretend well enough and used a lot of gilding to hide their real affairs. Most people genuinely saw them as benign – even those who worked there. Church devotees somehow managed to either turn a blind eye or even justify all of the completely messed up atrocities their beloved Church committed.

And commit cruelty the Church did! Like human trafficking disguised as finding gifted kids. Or self-torture which was proclaimed as the true path to righteousness. Or ban on food in those few merry months when getting it wasn’t as infuriatingly hard as it was at other times. Or forcing its most devoted lunatics to wake up in the middle of the night to praise the Light which wasn’t even fucking there for at least five more hours. Or any other things which made even bloodthirsty ex-brigand cock a disbelieving brow because what the actual fuck, how is any of this can be alright, Reynauld.

He was thinking this not only because he had the unfortunate experience of working in big voracious groups, and could tell countless tales of how any group which got any real power became fucked up quickly enough. One could argue that happened because he was only working with scum and mercenaries. Dismas could shrug in turn that it wasn’t rogues who invented indulgence. However, mostly he deduced that by being forced to work together with zealots and seeing how the glitter inevitably fell away each time their resolve was tested and failed, revealing tormented, broken people in places of former living saints.

But if there was one thing where even godless highwayman had to admit that the Church knew how to use to sell itself to the masses, it was the festivals it held for the devotees and “silly lost heavens” alike. No expense was too great, to extravagance too opulent, and if it was created by the free labour of its followers, so be it. Even in the forgotten backwaters of Hamlet, church celebrations were a captivating thing of beauty and carefully planted hope.

All Saints Day was no different.

Maybe it was the candles, white and pristine, and not offending his senses for once. Maybe it was the procession, sweet-smelling with frankincense which Dismas inevitably started associating with safety. Maybe it was the rare glimpse of optimism on people’s faces.

However, most likely it was the fact that Reynauld found his white holiday garments and was proudly wearing the new crest. There was an odd satisfaction in the highwayman’s chest when he had seen it – or the subtle yet obvious change in the other man’s posture, in the way the knight held himself. That made the cut spent on ordering the crest so much worth it and made the holiday actually bearable.

“Ready?” Reynauld turned to him, radiating against the sunset seeping into the room. Dismas just huffed with a half-shrug and scratched his unusually shaved chin which felt unpleasantly naked. On top of that, he had bothered to find a clean shirt – mostly because Rey tricked him beforehand and his favourite one was still wet. Still, that should’ve accounted for something.

Apparently, it was enough, since the crusader grabbed their candles and hurried outside to join his flock, babbling happily about The Forerunners of the Light, but made sure to include some of the spicier tales of the saints to keep Dismas entertained. A most welcome precaution, albeit an unneeded one – the rogue was surprising himself by simply enjoying the time they were spending together. The candles drew intricate glowing patterns on Rey’s chiselled face and hearing his voice being so uncharacteristically happy was a treat on its own. Despite hot droplets of wax falling on his fingers and the overall church nonsense around, the ex-brigand was content to be there.

That was, before they met the Abbot.

Because Reynauld immediately rushed to His Holiness, leaving him behind, and Dismas’ good mood burst like a soap bubble.

Sure, “I’ll be right back,” the other man said.

“Just stay here,” the knight threw over his shoulder as he was sprinting away.

“Don’t let the candlelight die,” he reminded the rogue, already from afar.

It was almost poetic that the next gust of wind left rogue’s candle with but a whiff of smoke coming from the glowing wick – but then again, maybe he was merely self-sabotaging as always, and let his hand fall to his side instead of shielding the gentle light. Despite the laughter and flickering candlelight all around him, he remained in the shadows. As one with his background should be, arguably.

He was oh so tired of chasing glisten.

With an exhausted sigh, the seasoned sinner turned and sulked away from the glimmering procession towards the dingy-lit windows of the Tavern – the only light which remained in his life, apparently. So much for trying--

“Dismas? Dis! Where are you?” a familiar voice called behind him, followed by heavy footsteps and a knight stopped in front of him, barely keeping his candle from going out. “There you are! I asked you to wait for me, why wouldn’t you?”

“You… came back,” Dismas muttered, unable to quench the surprise in his voice.

“Of course I did, I told you I would, didn’t I?” the knight cocked a heavy brow. It looked so odd on his usually vexed face, and so familiar. He must’ve picked some of the highwayman’s mannerisms. “I had to remind His Holiness that I cannot do my duties as Relic Bearer this year.”

“You cannot?”

“It’s the head of the procession and I know you hate the limelight. Besides, you’d have to abstain from booze and hearty foods for a week to be allowed there, and I didn’t want to—Dismas, your candle!”

Too stunned by the new information, the highwayman blinked at the half-melted piece of wax in his hand:

“What ‘bout it?”

“It went out,” Reynauld complained as if it was a tragedy.

“Ah,” Dismas paused and technically didn’t even lie when he said. “Wind.”

“Oh, those are holy flames, Dis, you’re supposed to take care of them,” Rey glanced around like a boy who was about to yank someone’s braid and stood towards the ex-brigand. “It’s frowned upon, but I want you to keep the flame…”

Wicks touched, charred against burning, and in a few moments, there were two tiny flickering lights to chase the darkness away, like two unsteady heartbeats suspended in the night. Dismas supposed it was fitting, that Rey’s broad smile was outlined with a golden glow. He was breaking the rules, maybe, but he was breaking the rules for them… whatever they were.

“Let’s go back to the festival, I haven’t told you the story of Saint Elmo, I think you two would have had a lot to talk about if you ever met…”

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Archery Nemesis.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[courfee]

remus is very unimpressed, sirius is very happy :)

based on this post

[factual-fantasy]

I finally realized what I've been liking so much about pixel art recently. The fact that its mostly lineless! After I realized that I decided to try my hand at making a full sized drawing all in pixel! And who better to be my guineapig then Gummigoo?? I also provided some close ups to better see the pixelated details :))

I haven't posted much about The Amazing Digital Circus, but I really like the show so far! And Gummigoo is amongst my favorite characters... rest in peace you gummy gator you.. 🥺💖😭

[fictionadventurer]

I have to talk about Chester Arthur. His story makes me go crazy. A mediocre president from the 1880s who's completely forgotten today has one of the best redemption stories I've ever heard and I need to make people understand just how cool his story is.

So, like, he starts out as this idealist, okay? He's the son of an abolitionist minister and becomes famous as a New York lawyer who defends the North's version of Rosa Parks whose story desegregates New York City's trolley system.

Then he starts getting pulled into politics and becomes one of the grimiest pieces of the political machine. He wants money, power, prestige, and he gets it. He becomes the right-hand man of Roscoe Conkling, the most feared political boss in the nation, a guy who will throw his weight around and do the most ruthless things imaginable to keep his friends in power and destroy his enemies.

Because Arthur's this guy's top lackey, he gets to be Controller of the Port of New York--the best-paying political appointment in the country, because that port brings in, like, 70% of the federal government's funds in tariffs. He gets a huge salary plus a percentage of all the fines they levy on lawbreakers, and because he's not afraid to make up infractions to fine people over, he is absolutely raking in the dough. Making the rough equivalent of $1.3 million a year--absolutely insane amounts of money for a government position. He's spending ridiculous sums on clothes, buying huge amounts of alcohol and cigars to share with people as part of his job recruiting supporters to the party, going out nearly every night to wine and dine people as part of his work in the political machine. He's living the high life. Even when President Hayes pulls him from his position on suspicions of fraud, he's still living a great life of wealth, power, and prestige.

Then in 1880, his beloved wife dies. While he's out of town working for a political campaign. And he can't get back in time to say goodbye before she dies. Because he's a guy who has big emotions, it absolutely tears him up inside, especially because Nell resented how much his political work kept him away from home. He has huge regrets, but he just moves in with Roscoe Conkling and keeps working for the political machine.

And then he gets a chance to be vice president. The Republican Party has nominated James Garfield, a dark horse candidate who wants to reform the spoils system that has given Conking his power and gave Arthur his position as Port Controller. Conkling is pissed, and he controls New York, and since the party's not going to win the election without New York, they think that appointing Conkling's top lackey as vice-president will pacify him.

They're wrong--Conkling orders Arthur to refuse--but Arthur thinks this sounds like a great opportunity. The only political position he's ever held is Port Controller--a job he wasn't elected to and that he was pulled from in disgrace. Vice President is way more than he could ever have hoped for. It's a position with a lot of political pull and zero actual responsibilities. He'll get to spend four years living in up in Washington high society. It's the perfect job! Of course he accepts, and Conkling comes around when he figures out that he can use this to his advantage.

When Garfield becomes president, Arthur does everything he can to undermine him. He uses every dirty political trick he can think of to block everything that Garfield wants to do. He refuses to let the Senate elect a president pro tempore so he can stay there and influence every bill that comes through. He all but openly boasts of buying votes in the election. He's so much Conkling's lackey that he may as well be the henchman of a cartoon supervillain. On Conkling's orders, he drags one of Garfield's Cabinet members out of bed in the middle of the night--while the guy is ill--to drag him to Conkling's house so he can be forced to resign. He's just absolutely a thorn in the president's side, a henchman doing everything he can to maintain the corrupt spoils system.

Then in July 1881, when Arthur's in New York helping Conkling's campaign, the president gets shot. By a guy who shouts, "Now Arthur will be president!" just after he fires the gun. Arthur has just spent the past four months fighting the president tooth and nail. Everyone thinks he's behind the assassination. There are lynch mobs looking to take out him and Conkling. The papers are tearing him apart.

Arthur is absolutely distraught. He rushes to Washington to speak with the president and assure him of his innocence, but the doctors won't let him in the room. He gets choked up when talking to the First Lady. Reporters find him weeping in his house in Washington. Once again, death has torn his world apart and he's not getting a chance to make amends.

Arthur goes to New York while the president is getting medical treatment, and he refuses to come to Washington and take charge because he doesn't dare to give the impression that he's looking to take over. No one wants Arthur to be president and he doesn't want to be president, and the possibility that this corrupt political lackey is about to ascend to the highest office in the land is absolutely terrifying to everyone.

Then in August, when it's becoming clear that the president is unlikely to recover, he gets a letter. From a 31-year-old invalid from New York named Julia Sand. A woman from a very politically-minded family who has been following Arthur's career for years. And she writes him this astounding letter that takes him to task for his corrupt, conniving ways, and the obsession with worldly power and prestige that has brought him wealth and fame at the cost of his own soul--and she tells him that he can do better. In the midst of a nationwide press that's tearing him apart, this one woman writes to tell him that she believes he has the capacity to be a good president and a good man if he changes his ways.

And then he does. After Garfield dies, people come to Arthur's house and find servants who tell them that Arthur is in his room weeping like a child (I told you he had big emotions), but he takes the oath of office and ascends to the presidency. And he becomes a completely different man. His first speech as president mentions that one of his top priorities is reforming the spoils system so that people will be appointed based on merit rather than getting appointed as political favors with each change in the administration. Even though this system made him president. When Conkling comes to Arthur's office telling him to appoint his people to important government positions, Arthur calls his demands outrageous, throws him out, and keeps Garfield's appointees in the positions. "He's not Chet Arthur anymore," one of his former political friends laments. "He's the president."

He loses all his former political friends. He's never trusted by the other side. Yet he sticks to his guns and continues to support spoils system reform. He prosecutes a postal service corruption case that everyone thought he would drop. He's the one who signs into law the first civil service reform bill, even though presidents have been trying to do this for more than ten years, and he's the person who's gained all his power through the spoils system. He immediately takes action to enforce this bill when he could have just dropped it. He becomes a champion of this issue even though it's the last thing anyone would have expected of him.

He oversees naval reform. He oversees a renovation of the White House. He still prefers the social duties of the presidency, but he's respectable in a way that no one expected. Possibly because Julia Sand keeps sending him letters of encouragement and advice over the next two years. But also because he's dying.

Not long after ascending to the presidency, he learns he's suffering from a terminal kidney disease. And he tells no one. He keeps going about his daily life, fulfilling his duties as president, and keeps his health problems hidden. Once again, death is upending his life, and this time it's his own death. He's lived a life he's ashamed of, and he doesn't have much time left to change. He enters the presidency as an example of the absolute worst of the political system, and leaves it as a respectable man.

He makes a token effort to seek re-election, but because of his health problems, he doesn't mind at all when someone else gets the nomination. He dies a couple of years after leaving office. The day before his death, he orders most of his papers burned, because he's ashamed of his old life--but among the things that are saved are the letters from Julia Sand, the woman who encouraged him to change his ways.

This is an astounding story full of so many twists and turns and dramatic moments. A man who falls from idealism into the worst kind of corruption and then claws his way back up to decency because of a series of devastating personal losses and unexpected opportunities to do more than he could have ever hoped to do. I just go crazy thinking about it and I need you all to understand just how amazing this story is.

[cap10frogguy]

Man, to be King Arthur, just casually unbothered by everything. He gets a round table as a gift, and he's just like "Aw sick, I'm gonna have my knights sit around this!" But then the king who gave him the table is like, "Oh BTW, there's a chair here where, if you sit on it and it judges you unworthy, it'll kill you on the spot." And then Arthur goes, "Whoa, that's cool, I'll just have it out here with the other ones."

[goosesartblog]

post-canon squere failing marriage

[newttxt]

sanji’s big “this might as well happen” moment 😅

from ch 5 of utilities included

masterpost

[tubbytarchia]

gg buddy am I right (ethubs doodle that I don't know what to do with)

[chawliekin]

and if I said that dennis’ insistence on being the breadwinner/provider despite literally being a pampered princess who dgaf about traditional roles of masculinity in every other regard (aside from ego) is because his mom only stayed with/chose frank for his wealth and dennis is highly aware that he’s difficult to love and unable to show his emotions openly so he has to be contributing something to the relationship materially in order to feel like he’s worth staying for… and mac grew up with parents who were extremely ambivalent to him and eachother so he has to overcompensate by proving his worth at every given moment and seeking praise/validation from people (and religious icons) who will never demonstrate the same amount of dedication to him but he has no idea how else to desperately keep himself close to those he loves other than by eroding himself into something they’ll approve of… dear god they’re both exactly what the other needs — someone who can’t and won’t leave them even if they try — and they don’t even see it…

[inkskinned]

you were raised in comparison.

it wasn't always obvious (well. except for the times that it was), but you internalized it young. you had to eat what you didn't like, other people are going hungry, and you should be grateful. you had to suck it up and walk on the twisted ankle, it wasn't broken, you were just being a baby. you were never actually suffering, people obviously had it worse than you did.

you had a roof over your head - imagine! with the way you behaved, with how you talked back to your parents? you're lucky they didn't kick you out on your ass. they had friends who had to deal with that. hell, you have friends who had to deal with that. and how dare you imply your father isn't there for you - just because he doesn't ever actually talk to you and just because he's completely emotionally checked out of your life doesn't mean you're not fucking lucky. think about your cousins, who don't even get to speak to their dad. so what if yours has a mean streak; is aggressive and rude. at least you have a father to be rude to you.

you really think you're hurting? you were raised in a home! you had access to clean water! you never so much as came close to experiencing a real problem. sure, okay. you have this "mental illness" thing, but teenagers are always depressed, right. it's a phase, you'll move on with your life.

what do you mean you feel burnt out at work. what do you mean you mean you never "formed healthy coping mechanisms?" we raised you better than that. you were supposed to just shoulder through things. to hold yourself to high expectations. "burning out" is for people with real jobs and real stress. burnout is for people who have sick kids and people who have high-paying jobs and people who are actually experiencing something difficult. recently you almost cried because you couldn't find your fucking car keys. you just have lost your sense of gratitude, and honestly, we're kind of hurt. we tell you we love you, isn't that enough? if you want us to stick around, you need to be better about proving it. you need to shut up about how your mental health is ruined.

it could be worse! what if you were actually experiencing executive dysfunction. if you were really actually sick, would you even be able to look at things on the internet about it? you just spend too much time on webMD. you just like to freak yourself out and feel like you belong to something. you just like playing the victim. this is always how you have been - you've always been so fucking dramatic. you have no idea how good you have it - you're too fucking sensitive.

you were like, maybe too good of a kid. unwilling to make a real fuss. and the whole time - the little points, the little validations - they went unnoticed. it isn't that you were looking for love, specifically - more like you'd just wanted any one person to actually listen. that was all you'd really need. you just needed to be witnessed. it wasn't that you couldn't withstand the burden, but you did want to know that anyone was watching. these days, you are so accustomed to the idea of comparison - you don't even think you belong in your own communities. someone always fits better than you do. you're always the outlier. they made these places safe, and then you go in, and you are just not... quite the same way that would actually-fit.

you watch the little white ocean of your numbness lap at your ankles. the tide has been coming in for a while, you need to do something about it. what you want to do is take a nap. what you want to do is develop some kind of time machine - it's not like you want your life to stop, not completely, but it would really nice if you could just get everything to freeze, just for a little while, just until you're finished resting. but at least you're not the worst you've been. at least you have anything. you're so fucking lucky. do you have any concept of the amount of global suffering?

a little ant dies at the side of your kitchen sink. you look at its strange chitinous body and think - if you could just somehow convince yourself it is enough, it will finally be enough and you can be happy. no changes will have to be made. you just need to remember what you could lose. what is still precious to you.

you can't stop staring at the ant. you could be an ant instead of a person, that is how lucky you are. it's just - you didn't know the name of the ant, did you. it's just - ants spend their whole life working, and never complain. never pull the car over to weep.

it's just - when it died, it curled up into a tight little ball.

something kind of uncomfortable: you do that when you sleep.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Burning Rotten Bridges

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[signanothername]

Worth it

That’s how Color shows his affection for Killer btw

[canisalbus]

gothic lolita machete came to me in a dream

.

[serpentface]

Faiza performing the Kagnoma Odo (pretty literally 'lion dance'), a weapons dance and one of the more important ritual duties of Odonii priestesses. A relatively new addition to this traditional dance involves the musket as the primary weapon, which is fired mid-twirl into the ground at the climax of the dance. Faiza is experiencing an 'oh fuck' moment because her shot is more than ideally diagonal, but she’s being so cool with it.

This is a wholly ceremonial performance at the onset of the pilgrimage, performed in full regalia and lion skin (of the small, semi-domesticated strain) but no armor. It’s also distinctly a display of political allegiance between the powerful and beloved Odonii priesthood (and its loyal military) with the increasingly reviled and destabilized imperial family, with Faiza prominently wearing a bracelet of the royal serpent, which was gifted (along with the musket) by the usoma Stavis Amanti himself (Usoma is the Wardi word for king, which has been retained in the context of emperors).

The Kagnoma Odo is the ultimate demonstration of the Odonii as an embodiment of the Lion Face of God and living vessel of military might and sovereignty, demonstrating her fitness and proficiency with weapons and as a spiritual unifier for soldiers. It is accompanied by drumming and occurs in stages, running through the three keymost weapons used in war- the spear, the sword, and the musket. The musket is of the most significance, given the weapon has developed a particular esteem as the ultimate embodiment of might and superiority. Assistants (almost always other priestesses, occasionally high ranking soldiers) load and prime the musket to be fired at the climax of the dance, where it is shot into the ground as the priestess leaps out of range of the shot. The firing signals the end of the dance and the rite itself.

While not the utmost exemplar of trigger discipline, only fully inducted and senior (and therefore very thoroughly trained) Odonii are permitted to perform the dance, and injuries during actual performances are quite rare (though are known to occur during training, more than a few Odonii have burns and wounds on their feet).

The most important renditions of this dance are performed upon declarations of war and before battles (in this case, generally done in full armor along with the lion pelt). It is also done during some trainings (while a dance, it is carefully choreographed to include naturalistic maneuvers of the weapons involved and helps soldiers limber up and learn to move their weapons). It is regarded as an impressive and motivating sight and a morale booster, and, seen at a distance, potentially intimidating to enemies.

A special variant of this dance is performed as means of fully incarnating the Odomache, which is done in full nudity with the body covered in the blood of the freshly sacrificed lion and cloaked in its raw pelt (the lion has become the corpse of Odomache in the moment of death, as part of its recreation of God's sacrifice). Her public, full nude appearance once (and only once) in this act is what allows the Lion Face of God to incarnate within her. Those in attendance see the spiritually vulnerable, naked human body obscured with the sanctified and deified blood and cloaked in the sanctified and deified skin. It is a merger of the contradictions of mortality and divinity, the boundaries between the two indistinct in flickering firelight and the flash of musketfire. She is witnessed by her people, dangling in between humanity and divinity and leading them in dance, and and is thus transformed.

[hangryshawn]

charmed + disarmed