#people's history through paintings

[mrs-bingley]

So, at least two of you all asked for it (thank you @thestateofardadreaming and @wormwoodandhoney for the interest!!) so here is me spreading my research into ye olde people's life and ranting about what I find in old records of English nobility.

Today subject study is this woman that I found intriguing because of the full mourning attire:

Who was she? Who died in her life? I mean, probably a husband but 👀 I'm curious The portrait, which appears to be painted on a sort of medallion/locket miniature, was painted by Richard Gibson and it depicts Elizabeth Morrison, Lady Capell of Hadham. And there's quite a lot of information about her life!

We know she was baptisied on March 23rd 1610. It's safe to assume that she was born either on that day or on the 22nd, since children were, afaik, baptised withing 24h of the birth lest you died in sin and went to purgatory. Her father was Charles Morrison. There's a couple others with this name, but this Barbie Charles Morrison was pronounced 1st Baronet Morrison on June 29th, 1611. First and last of his name, since he died without a male heir (two male children, so Elizabeth's brothers, died before him) and the title went extinct but at least Elizabeth got to keep the family home. Here's a look to the man's face when he was still young-ish:

Unfortunately, I can't seem to find any potrait of her mother and not a lot of information either. She was called Mary Hicks, daugher of a Baptist Hicks (sorry, but this name sounds stupid to my ears lol), and she married three times because she kept surviving her husbands, but apart from the confirmation that she didn't have any more children after Elizabeth, I can't find much.

I could go on raving about Elizabeth's parents and grandparents, but let's not do that. I've found quite a bit about her family home in Watford, Hertfordshire, but I need to read a chapter of a book about it and it's too late for that. Stay tuned for that tomorrow, ha!

[sukibenders]

It's amazing that Bridgerton, the show, and the fandom, want me to believe that Cressida is just this stereotypical mean girl and Penelope is the innocent girl who can do no wrong because, let's be honest, both of them are mean girls. At least Cressida's retorts aren't published in a gossip site for the whole society to read. A lot of people use Penelope's life, with her mother and such, as justification for all the harm that she's done and it's kind of gross because what do you mean her outing a young pregnant black woman is justified? What do you mean being ableist is justified just because others were mean to you? It's not, and I wish people would stop painting it that way (especially as someone who has been bullied while understanding wanting to have a catharsis, it would be primarily directed at those who've harmed me and not other random people!). If you can use Penelope's background as a way to justify her actions, then don't be mad when people do the same for Cressida especially since the show also tells verbatim what she's dealing with. I would be a little snappy (not to her extent though) too if I were in her shoes.

Is Cressida wrong for bullying Penelope? Yes, very wrong. However, if you're going to say that her background doesn't justify her treatment toward Penelope, then keep that same smoke for her [Penelope] as well.

[doodlejoltik]

grass knot

[~4.5k words, read it here or on Ao3. tagged with Volo and Lance since they appear as prominent characters; Rei-centric]

Why is it that even the thought of confiding in Akari, his closest friend, makes something constrict in his chest, choking out the words?

Rei, caught in the stirrings of a new arc, tries to rise to its call, but trips over the past at every turn.

A full rewrite of that Mysterious Stones chapter where Volo first shows up, from Rei’s POV, plus a bit more. Written mostly before the Arceus Arc began.

(Setting expectations: a lot of this fic is just Rei Thinking About Stuff haha. Love getting into his head! His characterisation is a little bit different/more nuanced compared to the other Rei oneshot I wrote; hopefully you'll still be along for the ride if you've read that one!)

-

“Show me thy bond.” It echoes inside Rei’s skull, down to the very bone, the same as in his earliest memories. He nearly buckles under its weight, but it's a welcome feeling.

After so long without direction, this is a relief. Arceus has finally spoken.

The words fit perfectly with the half-remembered fragments Rei had received some weeks ago in the middle of the night. Why hadn't they been intelligible then? What makes now different? The sync stones ultimate are one factor, of course. Maybe Arceus draws power from them, which is strange to say of a deity, but from what he knows of the Plates, it might not be so far-fetched.

Prince Lear disperses the murmuring crowd; so, the audience all heard it too, not just those on the arena floor. Professor Bellis congratulates Bettie. Cynthia, Lance and Steven whisper among themselves. And his mind still whirls with new theories as they gather together.

What does Arceus want? 

‘Seek out all Pokemon’ had meant completing the Pokedex. At least, that’s what he’d assumed. Now, this time, Arceus likely means for them to showcase bonds with their Pokemon, given the context. But what does that actually entail?

Cynthia’s words cut above everyone else's. “Rei. Was that voice…?”

All eyes are on him. He breathes deeply, steeling himself, as the familiar weight of it settles in. Things are moving, now. 

“Yes. I'm certain. That was —”

“Indeed! That was a message from Arceus!”

His words catch in his throat. Off-balance, suddenly, as all his thoughts fall away, replaced by a swooping feeling he can't quite identify —

He whirls around.

Volo is here.

He takes a few steps back, an involuntary half-stumble, before remembering himself. 

Those flashes of movement he's been seeing, the feeling of being watched, a Togepi, unattended: they’re all now terrifyingly validated. He'd half thought them a product of his overactive mind.

“Excuse-moi, pardon me… but who are you?” Professor Bellis ventures. 

“I'm Volo — a humble merchant who loves history and mythology!” With that, he flashes a winning smile. Rei could laugh at the sheer audacity of it all, but his thoughts are still strewn across the dusty ground, scattered, and they slip from his grasp as he tries to gather them up. Whatever sense of gravity he’d felt upon hearing Arceus’ voice has completely lifted.

“But more importantly!” Volo continues. “When the arena shone brightly, I also heard that voice.” He brings his hand up to point at the air with enthusiastic emphasis, a gesture still so terribly familiar. Rei clenches his fists, feeling the nails dig into his skin. Not really out of anger. More as a reminder.

The last time he’d seen Volo had been. Well. Memorable. But that isn’t the image that smiles back at him now, tripping him up. He's in Gingko uniform again, complete with ridiculous oversized backpack, which Rei had thought discarded, up there on the peak. Apparently not. Had Volo returned later, still seething, to collect his things? The concept is strangely hilarious.

“I wonder… these sync stones ultimate… might they be some sort of test from Arceus? If we could show him that ‘bond’ he desires —”

“Sorry, test? Arceus?” Cynthia interrupts with a frown, holding a hand out. “What makes you say that?”

“Why, it's quite simple. Arceus' presence was summoned by these stones, in this exhibition, and he requests us to further show our bond. What else could he desire?” Volo says, gesturing widely. 

Rei finally pulls himself upright — scrapes his thoughts together into something resembling coherence. The initial shock has drained away, settling into a distant sort of apprehension. He watches silently. Volo’s not really saying anything too unreasonable, but where is this leading? 

There’s so much he doesn’t know. What has Volo been doing, all this time? How long has he been on Pasio? What does he hope to gain, approaching them like this?

He’ll let Volo continue, then. It's an opportunity for some of those questions to be answered.

(And it gives Rei time to think of what to say.)

“Well, put that way, that does make sense,” Steven nods along. “Should we organise for more trainers to try the stones, then?” 

“Oui, I would love to gather more data!” Professor Bellis answers. “However, the stones are still quite volatile. There is progress on this, yes, but for now, I would like to limit their use, capisci?” 

At this, Bettie speaks up. “Yeah, it was weird.” She runs a hand through her Pikachu’s fur, the mouse curled up lazily in her arms. Nobody in Hisui was quite that affectionate with their Pokemon. Certainly not Akari, though she'd grown closer with her own Pikachu over time. As for himself, Decidueye had been standoffish, averse to being carried even as a baby Rowlet. Well, actually — as his distracted mind digs deeper into memory, he recalls — there had been Volo and his Togepi. 

He casts that errant thought away, buries it deep once again. Bettie is still speaking.

“And it was like nothing was there, at first, and Pikachu and I had to concentrate really hard. And then — whoosh! Wow! Overwhelming,” she shifts Pikachu’s weight to one arm to gesture with emphasis, “and all at once.”

“And this is when Arceus spoke,” Lance asks. 

Bettie nods, now subdued. “It was a rush! I think you guys could handle it, but I dunno if everyone could.”

“If I may,” and all attention returns to Volo. “It seems the stones can currently be used by trainers with particularly powerful convictions, and bonds with their Pokemon,” he gestures with a smile to Bettie. She blushes. 

At the casual flattery, Rei can't help the small frown that twists onto his face. It seems innocent enough, but compliments and niceties can so easily mask true intent. 

Especially with Volo.

Volo continues. “Perhaps we might solve this by way of a tournament, of sorts. Allowing Arceus to witness our talent and dedication, with the victor bestowed the honour of using the stones! Of course, the winner of such a competition would have the fortitude necessary to handle such power.”

Well, taking that to its logical end… Volo wants to win, and be granted this ‘honour’ he so conveniently proposed. But why go to all this trouble? The stones appear out in the streets quite often — apparently, found even by preschoolers. Volo should have no trouble obtaining them.

Does he know something they don't?

“Bettie here led the first winning PML team, did she not?” At this, the girl in question smiles Mareepishly. “And that is why she was the one to demonstrate the stones, I presume,” Volo inclines his head towards the Champions.

Informed guess, or something more? He thinks back on half-seen, furtive movements, and wonders. 

“That's right,” Steven confirms. “Bettie is a shining example to us: a leader of the next generation. We decided there was no better choice.” 

“So you suggest we hold another tournament,” Lance says thoughtfully. “Well, there is precedent. Prince Lear,” he turns to the Prince, whom Rei had honestly half forgotten was there. “What do you think?”

Before Lear can reply, Volo reinserts himself into the conversation. “It would be a grand tournament, truly fitting of Pasio's reputation. Why, perhaps, the deity Arceus might even be compelled to descend —”

Ah. So that’s what he intends. “Aren't you getting ahead of yourself there?” Rei interrupts. He means to sound stern, but it comes out sounding more incredulous. Not at the idea itself, but at how brazenly it’s admitted.

“Perhaps,” Volo says with a careless shrug. He doesn’t acknowledge Rei any differently than the others, still maintaining their inadvertently shared ruse. “It's only speculation, of course, but it is exciting to think about!”

“Hmph! I believe I was the one being addressed,” Prince Lear declares, arms crossed. His red shades flash dangerously, eyes hidden under their glint. Directed at him, it's almost like the full glare of an Alpha Pokemon.

Rei’s face flushes with heat to the tips of his ears. Great time he picked to enter the discussion. He quietly ducks his head down; the Prince is in charge, here, after all. He'd rather not test his patience. 

Meanwhile, Volo just smiles, seemingly unfazed. 

There's a part of him that really wants to know how Volo does that. It's just — he's so confident. How can he be so sure that everything will work out in his favour?

“A grand tournament,” Prince Lear ponders, tapping his foot. “And what could be grander than the second Pokemon Masters League?”

“Indeed!” Volo beams. “I'm sure the audience would love to see the clash between a king and a deity, would they not?”

Lear's tapping stills. His guarded stance loosens; he's taken aback. Volo emphasised king, and oh, Lear's official title is Prince. Hm.

There's something more deliberate about it beyond just casual flattery. 

Lear uncrosses his arms and seems at a loss, for a moment, on where to put them before straightening up with his hands on hips. “Is that so?” He laughs. “I like the sound of that!” A pause, unnecessarily dramatic. Nobody breaks the silence, not even Volo. 

The Prince looks around with some satisfaction and continues. “Very well, then. The winning team of the second PML will be granted the honour of using the sync stones ultimate.” He grins, sharply, red shades flashing once again. “Which will include me, of course. Hahahahaha!”

“You have a real gift for making quick decisions!” Volo says cheerfully. The tension breaks. Chuckles arise from the rest of the group, and Rei can only stare in disbelief. That — that has to be mockery, right? But everyone else seems to take it as light teasing, even the quick-tempered Prince himself. 

Against his better judgement, his gaze catches Volo’s. 

He doesn't know what he expects to see: amusement? Satisfaction? Triumph? And there's some of that, but it's a wry, knowing sort of look, like a joke shared only between the two of them. 

Already the others are starting to animatedly discuss between themselves. Bettie makes a teasing comment to Lear, who scoffs. Professor Bellis says something about checking in on the sync stone technology. Cynthia, Lance and Steven form their own little group again, speaking in low tones, and he can't quite follow their discussion. 

It seems like he's the only one who notices Volo quietly slipping away, and he's got half a mind to do the same. 

Would it be incredibly ill-advised to follow him? Probably. But he still has questions. And it’s possible that Volo will let his guard down when they're alone. 

(Even to him, that seems incredibly optimistic. But there’s things between them that he himself would rather only unearth in private. Maybe Volo feels the same way. And even if not, perhaps he'll gloat, or tease playfully, and let on something of use hidden in the thorned barbs.)

It's not like he has much left to contribute here. Tournaments and competitions and organised displays are foreign to him. The Neo Champion Stadium had felt so different from the kind of battles he’s used to… which, in part, could be why he lost. 

He needs to train. If everything rests on the result of this tournament, he has to be ready. 

The group seems to be naturally dispersing, at least — Professor Bellis just excused herself — so he won't be missed. With some quick words, he, too, turns to leave. They can handle this part, and Rei will do his. 

Prince Lear had mentioned a winning team, and Pasio battles are generally three on three, from what he's seen. Who could he ask? There's Akari, of course. And the clan leaders, but it would feel strange to team up with only one and not the other. A little bit too reminiscent of another time. 

His steps carry him nearly to the edge of the arena.

Besides, he's getting ahead of himself. He still has to… well, he should explain everything to them. About Volo.

Even all these months later, it still aches. He had buried it all, hoping to let it rot away, to be free of that thorny mass of contradictory feelings that arose every time he dwelled on it. 

But the longer he waits, the more impossible it seems to explain — to explain not only the events of that fateful day, but also his own, confusing silence on the matter. Though he’s tried to plough the field, turn it all over and start anew, it still lies just beyond the surface, and a single misstep is all it takes to snarl him all over again. Why is it that even the thought of confiding in Akari, his closest friend, makes something constrict in his chest, choking out the words?

(Akari is unquestionably the one person he's closest to. But there was a time when that singular title wasn't so clear cut.)

There’s a sort of tunnel that leads out of the stadium, a long darkened archway that passes under the audience stands. He's about halfway through when he hears footsteps from behind, swift and purposeful strides. 

His breath catches, for a moment. But Volo left first, and the arena had been flat and wide, with no corners to lurk in. Besides, it's too loud. Clearly telegraphed.

Cynthia, maybe? 

He turns. The face that greets Rei is slightly less familiar. “Lance,” he acknowledges the Champion. 

“Rei,” Lance greets in turn, stopping a few paces away. Arms crossed, silhouetted against the light of the arena and framed by the tunnel’s dark, arching walls, his tall figure is — intimidating. 

He can’t help but wonder whether that's deliberate. 

“You left before I could ask,” Lance says, and there's a pause. “As someone who has prior experience with Arceus, what do you think of all this?”

A fair enough question. But the way it's said… sounds a little too carefully worded. Casual, but purposefully so.

What sort of answer does Lance expect? 

“It sounds reasonable enough,” he decides to say. As much as he hates to lend credence to Volo’s proposal, he can't think of anything better. It somehow seems to suit their needs perfectly, which he's sure is no accident. “Back in Hisui, I was told to seek out all Pokemon, so I helped with the Pokedex. In the same way, I guess this could help fulfil Arceus' new request.”

Lance nods along, but his brows furrow. “You sounded more sceptical, earlier,” he points out. 

Ah. Not really his intent, but… “That was about the more…” he casts about for the right word, “speculative part of it. I don't know if it would really call Arceus down, or anything like that.” Though honestly, he doesn't know that it won't.

“What do you think will happen, then?” Lance asks, with clear curiosity, and, well. He doesn't really have a good answer to that. 

“... I don't know,” he admits. “I never actually completed the Pokedex, so I'm not sure what happens after Arceus’ request is fulfilled.” He had been close, but there had still been so many minor tasks that needed finishing, things to busy himself with, to arrange and get in order before he had to face Giratina again. 

He hadn't been ready, yet. Maybe Arceus had grown impatient, and brought him here to confront his problems directly. Maybe it cared. Maybe it didn't. 

(Seeing Giratina with Cynthia had felt a little like he was the punchline of some divine comedy.)

Lance purses his lips and looks off into the distance, out of the stadium, past Rei. He wishes he could read the man’s expressions better; as it is, the set of his brows calls to mind Kamado, and everything else tangled up with it. 

Finally, Lance’s gaze turns directly to Rei once again, and he speaks. “That Volo… you two know each other.” 

It’s not a question, but even then, the expression of unguarded surprise he can’t hold back might be answer enough.

Lance has one hand on his hip, the other, at rest, is framed by the drape of his cape. He looks down at Rei as he states plainly, “His clothes aren’t of modern make, so the logical assumption would be that he’s from Hisui. Cynthia confirmed my suspicion. And, historically, Hisuian communities were few and quite tightly knit. It’s more likely than not.” 

He tries to keep his expression carefully neutral, as logic digs deeper, dangerously close to things unexplainable. And the earth is already recently disturbed, soft, friable. He can’t offer much resistance. “I've seen him around,” he concedes.

“But why did neither of you acknowledge the other?” Lance looks confused; frustrated, even. “Even a passing acquaintance would be notable, with both of you being here in the future.”

And here — this is familiar. The accusations. The questions he can’t answer. But it’s different; it’s not that he doesn’t know the answers. He just can’t seem to put them in an order that would make sense, to anyone else.

(Does he really understand, himself?)

But eyes are on him, and he needs to explain, in whatever unsatisfactory way he can. “Volo and I… it's complicated,” he laughs weakly, tugging at his scarf. “He genuinely does love history and mythology, you know. I guess I wouldn't be that surprised if he was right about Arceus.” All those times they’d pored over ruins together, Volo excitedly babbling on about whatever legend this one related to — there had to have been the seed of something real, something genuine, in that. 

It’s not really an answer. Lance can obviously tell, because he crosses his arms. 

“Is he bad news?” he asks bluntly. 

There’s no twisting his way out of this one.

Some of the panic he’s feeling must bubble up onto his face, because Lance’s expression softens, just a bit. The man sighs. “Look, Rei, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but us Champions need to have all the relevant information. This tournament, the stones,” he gestures around them, “affect everyone here on Pasio. So I’m sorry about involving myself in your business, but it's necessary. Should we be keeping an eye on Volo?” 

It’s obvious what the correct answer is. And every second he delays responding makes him seem all the more untrustworthy. He questions, a little hysterically, why this of all things is what he stubbornly roots himself for, risking this place he’s made for himself in another unfamiliar land. 

But his jaw works, and all that slips out of his throat, past the thorny tangle, is a “Maybe.” The most ground he can concede. “Volo’s… passionate about Arceus.” Which is perhaps the biggest understatement of both this century and the last. 

There's an expectant pause. He almost leaves it at that, but it seems it's too unfinished a sentiment for Lance. “He wants to be seen by it.”

“The same way you are?” Lance says sharply. Arceus, he picked up on that fast. Rei hopes he leaves it at that. A rivalry fallen apart, twisted into bitterness and jealousy, nothing more.

Nothing world-ending. 

It’s not like he doesn’t trust Cynthia, and by extension the other Champions. It’s just… he can deal with it himself. It’s what he was probably brought here to do, anyway. The thought of someone else turning him over, and finding him lacking — fighting his battles for him — makes him uneasy. 

“Yeah, something like that,” he answers, with a painful swallow. 

Besides, he hopes he can resolve this peacefully. He’d beaten Volo before, even after he’d flipped the rules of battle on their head. And this time Volo can’t upend the script; one good thing about tournaments, he supposes, is that the rules are rigorously upheld. A different sort of battleground.

He wants to laugh at that. Suppositions and wildly optimistic thoughts are his only foundation, and yet it’s enough for him to reject all possibility of outside help.

Then again, if he can’t even bring himself to tell Akari, what chance does he have of breaking that self-imposed silence, here, on less familiar ground?

Lance hums, assessing this. He uncrosses his arms. “If that friend of yours does anything drastic, tell us, alright?” he says. It’s said warmly, but there's something serious to it. An undertone. “Our job is to help out wherever we can, so don’t hesitate to reach out.”

Rei tries for a smile. “Understood.”  

Lance nods, and looks Rei up and down, though it's only a subtle flicker of his eyes. His gaze lingers on the scarf at Rei’s neck, which Rei realises he’s been fidgeting with unconsciously. He lets go with faint embarrassment, feeling caught out. 

The other man sighs. “You can go, you know?” There’s resignation in his voice. Maybe even something apologetic. In that moment, he seems more like Kamado than ever.

Rei doesn’t want to turn his back to him, but he wants to be here even less. So he nods, stiffly, and turns himself around, continuing the dark walk through the tunnel and out the stadium at a steady pace.

He doesn’t run.  

(But his hand hovers by his satchel, where Decidueye's Pokeball rests.)

It’s only when he’s walked for a good while, out into the harsh sunlight, through the town outskirts and to a more forested spot, that the tension drains from him. He sits at the base of a large tree, feeling a little lightheaded.

That was… an interrogation, to put it bluntly. And he can’t really fault Lance for it. To anyone, he's sure, his actions are confusing at best.

Unfortunately, he’s found that he’s less than clear headed when it comes to Volo. He turns over Lance’s final words. That friend of yours. It’s not surprising Lance phrased it that way; everything Rei had said had been carefully woven to lead him to that conclusion.

Except it hadn’t been misdirection, not fully. He does still think of Volo as his friend, despite everything.

He slumps backwards, against the trunk of the tree, feeling the rough bark dig against the base of his skull. 

What is he supposed to do with that?

Apparently, one of the worst days of his life isn’t enough to uproot over a year of growing camaraderie and budding friendship. Too many memories knot together, a stubborn tangle impossible to pick apart. He’s tried not to think about them too hard, but they tighten their hold once again, from where they lay dormant and buried.

Many of them have been forcibly recontextualised. He’s second guessed every helpful gift, every directly admiring word, every coincidental and fortunate appearance, as something deliberate and cultivated. But some of it, it seems, doesn't fit so neatly with that singular goal.

One day, they’d watched Togepi use Metronome for an hour, ostensibly for Rei’s surveying purposes. Important documentation of a seemingly random phenomenon, and all that. In actuality, they laughed the entire time, with no useful or coherent records to speak of, as the results became all the more improbable. 

They’d camped together, those last months, as the search for the Plates got wilder and more exciting. He knows Volo’s favoured way to build a camp-fire, and how he wakes up unreasonably early in the morning, and that he prefers sweet foods over savoury, unlike Rei himself. A hundred mundane familiarities shared, taking root in fallow ground.

Once, Volo had been his only friend in the entire world.

Is it surprising, then, that he can’t lay this friendship to rest so easily?

He wonders what it means, that the hand offered to him at his lowest point was the same one that always meant to drag him back down. And what it means that he still wants to reach for it.

Had any real feelings been sowed there, on Volo’s part? Or was the entire thing a carefully constructed weaving, an intricate field of grass knots laid around Rei, ready to catch him in their snare? 

He can’t quite strangle the hope that something of their friendship still exists, even if neglected and overgrown. And that’s the part that scares him.

He has Akari, and Adaman, and Irida. He has Professor Laventon and the Captain, though they’re far away. Then there’s the Wardens, more friendly faces: Mai, Sabi, Ingo, and all the others; there's Zisu and Pesselle and Beauregard and everyone else in Jubilife. New friends here on Pasio, too. 

He pulls out Decidueye’s Pokeball from his satchel, and rolls it around in his right hand. He has his beloved Starter.

He has friends. He has bonds.

Why can’t that be enough?

The Pokeball he’s holding isn't the original. He'd had to break that well-loved possession in two, and recapture Decidueye in this modern device. It's a distant echo of its predecessor, wooden grooves and clunky iron replaced by smooth metal and near imperceptible seams. The weight of it is all wrong. 

But despite that, it's still his partner, and that's what matters.

(The two broken halves sit in his satchel, too, carried on his person at all times. It's yet another thing he can't bring himself to let go of.)

He sighs, tracing formless shapes in the dirt. His hand finds one of the sparse clumps of grass that grow here, directly under this wide and mighty tree. Deprived of proper sun, it’s a miracle that there’s any at all. 

It seems more and more likely that he’ll end up looking for Volo on his own. To get answers: not only about the stones, and the tournament, and Volo’s intentions with Arceus, but also for his own ends. 

Maybe there’s still something there. A single glimpse of life in this scorched earth between them.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do then.

Where he sits, what little grass there is has grown long and ragged, as their leaves stretch and reach for the sun. He sets Decidueye’s ball down and plucks two long blades. With a few simple loops and twists, they’re deftly woven together into a knot. He considers it, looping it around his fingers; tightens it, pulling on both ends, until he can feel the entire construct threaten to snap from the force. He stops. 

The thing is, no matter if it was never meant to be real, deliberately sowed, intended ultimately for harvest — it’s all the same, to Rei. He wants to keep it alive. He’s hopeful. Naive. Selfish.

For a single, impossible moment, he wonders whether this is what Arceus meant by bonds all along. 

The knot goes in his satchel, where it will turn dry and brittle with time. But kept safe, unbroken, regardless. Maybe his future self will laugh at his sentimentality. Maybe, he won't remember why it’s there. 

Wouldn't that be for the best?

He tucks Decidueye’s ball away, with care, then hauls himself up, both hands braced against the dusty ground. There’s dirt under his fingernails. From under the tree’s darkened canopy, he squints into the afternoon sunlight.

There’s a lot that needs to be done. He needs to train for this tournament, for one. Learn more about modern battling. Pull together a team. With that, ask Akari, and perhaps Adaman or Irida. Confront Volo, somewhere in all of this. 

After that? Only Arceus knows.

One step at a time. 

He finds his footing, around gnarled roots. The grass crunches underfoot. And he steps into the light.

(So maybe I was just snared by the grass knots you laid in my path. But if I wove my own, would you fall for it too?)

[deoidesign]

how did u learn to paint?? like i just cant wrap my head around it

<3 I love answering asks like this!

You will have to bare with me, I don't save many of my studies, and my files aren't that organized so I don't have as many images as I would like.

The studies I've found most helpful for myself personally with painting are various master studies. (This is also, as always, alongside study of fundamentals.) And always follow a study with self-critique (and, if you can get it, outside critique!)

"Master" in this sense means anyone who you want to learn something from.

One way you can do this is by copying an artist's work directly. This is to try and understand some of their stylistic techniques. Leyendecker, Andrew Loomis, and John Singer Sargent are personal favorites of mine! I try to keep these quick, I'm not trying to get an exact copy.

I also get a lot out of copying photos. In this case, I'm not trying to glean some technique, rather, I'm trying to interpret the photo and explore my own stylizations.

(photo credit mountain men of alaska )

I also really enjoy taking a painting or piece that already exists, and making it "mine" by putting my characters in it haha, which is sort of a combination of master studies and photo studies!

(William Bruce Ellis - Covent Garden (1930)) (Barberini Faun)

And then, in my work that's not a study at all, I'm informed by all of these!

What master studies do is help me refine my style and practice my technique, but also I'm communicating with artists of the past through my art! They're teaching me! And I have so much to learn.

And of course... most importantly... I paint.

a lot.

I don't do as much study anymore, not because I feel I've learned all I need to, but because for work I draw 50+ drawings a week. 'Drawing for work' and 'study' occupy the same space in my brain and I need some fun drawing time!

So to sum up, draw a lot, reference constantly, and copy the people you want to draw more like!

(and, of course, when doing a study off of someone else's work, always give them credit. If it's your photos there's no need.)

[littlefankingdom]

Okay, I'm going to complain about a fanfic I tried to read about Jason again.

This time, not only did his method reduced crimes (which, again, killing criminals, YES EVEN RAPISTS, don't lower crimes and the myth that it does is fascist propaganda to support more violent police forces and a more authoritarian gov), and Red Hood is more respected by Gothamites than Batman (unlikely. Like, he is another crime lord for them, they probably see any good he does as some tactics to get power over people and abuse them, because that's how it works with crime lords and mafia. They help you and then you have to pay your debtback or you die), we also had:

Jason understands more than Bruce that people does crimes because they are in need, which TOTALLY conflicts with him being more violent than Batman. "He only kills very bad people" you cannot judge that, you are just a human, you don't know everything. And you cannot argue that people resort to crimes because of their past and situation, THEN kill criminals, that doesn't work together. Also, Bruce knows and tries to help people, like wtf do you think he does charity for? Who do you think finance Leslie's clinic, which is opened to everyone and completely free? In some comics, he even builds better housing for people with his money, for FREE. Bruce knows, that's literally why he can see the good in his rogues.

Red Hood is hope for the Gothamites, and Batman is fear. Bro, Red Hood kills people, what kind of hope is he bringing? Hope of an early death from a gunshot wound? Batman is hope, he has been hope for decades. Always the same shit, we take Batman's shit and give it to Red Hood to paint him in a better light.

Red Hood's goons are a better police force than the actual police, that they are a reformed police. (THE EXACT WORDS USE BY THE AUTHOR) People hate the cops because they kill without repercussions, Red Hood's goons are under less control and juridictions than the cops, and they kill people more easily. Also, a reformed police means cops train to de-escalate situations, who use their guns less and don't kill people, who use violence less, who have more training in handling different kinds of situations. Red Hood's goons are some random low level criminals, they do not have these trainings people want. And, again, THEY KILL PEOPLE. Like, wtf. Wtf are we saying? Wtf are we writing? Y'all really don't understand the concepts and words you are using.

[antirepurp]

game crashed while trying to enter a boost stage and while i would like to finish the whole game before i really get into finalizing any of my thoughts on the ancients i think. that my idea of the ancients as a kind of uncomfortably militarized civilization holds water actually

where the echidna clan was aggressive and set on expanding their control and the black arms are more Creatures that are looking for new territory if i remember them correctly, the ancients to me feel more. calculative, if you will. all the guardians and enemies, not to mention the titans, are built by the ancients, and i just cannot buy the idea that an entirely peaceful or even pacifistic civilization would rapidly develop that sort of technology and weaponry in what i assume to have been a relatively short time they spent on earth, even if they're being chased by the concept of death. especially when their buildings seem almost rudimentary in some ways, like the "houses" around the islands only vaguely invoke the feeling of housing, none have entrances or windows or anything on them. i think you could argue they're somehow linked to cyberspace, that the ancients partially lived there and accessed portions of it through those buildings perhaps? or perhaps those ruins are akin to storage spaces, and the actual houses were destroyed or wound up decaying over the years. but the weaponry remains. horrendous machines of destruction that ravage the lands and stand up to a conceptual power that cannot be observed in a meaningful way.

on an individual level there's naturally going to be variety, but the inherent war/military focus of all the koco plots just paints this. almost propaganda-esque picture of the ancients?? valiant warriors defending their people from a big bad evil force. from the concept of death and things coming to an end which the series itself has previously stated to be a part of life in games like unleashed and black knight. i think there's some kind of wider meta analysis you could make out of that as well, but im not sure im the right person for that. all i can say that i think there's something uniquely cruel to the ancients with the war/military/weaponry focus, and when its juxtaposed with the being portrayed through the cutesy little things koco are it's kind of. eerie, to me. you could write something remarkably complex out of this but im afraid that the current writers and directors don't have the guts to go that far

[loneliii-aura]

Random but something slightly funny that I encountered as a young teen: there are specific names I didn't process as reflecting anything about race or ethnicity because I was used to them just being names I encountered. The funniest/most awkward was me asking a white friend talking about diversity in welcome to night vale:

"wait what episode does it say Carlos isn't white in?"

"...his name is Carlos?"

"....OH RIGHT."

(Which, tbf, only indicates a very rough ethnic/geographic group that spans across a dozen countries or so and includes several "racial groups" as defined by the US.)

But anyway, I guess time to turn in my Latina card.

[summertimesadnessirl]

Is it inaccurate in a way that allows the modern viewer to understand the mindset and the world of the characters at the time effectively or is it inaccurate in a way that makes it seem like they wanted to make a CW show and they ran out of paranormal creatures?

Is the overall plotting and characterization speaking about issues that people in this time were struggling with and that these historical figures were themselves either struggling with themselves or that their stories were used to examine at the time in some way? Would they fucking say that?

historical inaccuracies in period dramas are okay as long as i like them

[arthurstudieshistory]

things to look more into later:

(mostly related to commonplace books, notebook history, and connecting my fields to one another. this is long and dumb and unnecessary so don’t worry about it)

manuscript history/notebook keeping

ancient roman thoughts on technology

print culture of elementary education

global recordkeeping history

digital commonplacing/web weaving

bullet journals fitting into all this

indexing strategies/roget-ifying

“peter, mark, roget. his book” in context!!

librarian’s personal papers collections

using a card catalog to commonplace?

digital museum of technology?

history of paleoart and methods

paperwork’s place in museum studies, archival science….

ibm mtst…. paperwork explosion context!!!!

history of grimoires/books of shadows

history of secret codes!! print and manuscript culture’s roles in secret societies, underground movements, etc

asoua background and influences

watch the information age documentary

[recklessandyoung]

LOVELY MAY WOULD YOU LIKE SOME PAINTING RECS IM NOT NORMAL ABT??

OF COURSE I ALWAYS DO

[jewishvitya]

A pro-Palestine Jew on tiktok asked those of us who were raised pro-Israel, what got us to change our minds on Palestine. I made a video to answer (with my voice, not my face), and a few people watched it and found some value in it. I'm putting this here too. I communicate through text better than voice.

So I feel repetitive for saying this at this point, but I grew up in the West Bank settlements. I wrote this post to give an example of the extent to which Palestinians are dehumanized there.

Where I live now, I meet Palestinians in day to day life. Israeli Arab citizens living their lives. In the West Bank, it was nothing like that. Over there, I only saw them through the electric fence, and the hostility between us and Palestinians was tangible.

When you're a child being brought into the situation, you don't experience the context, you don't experience the history, you don't know why they're hostile to you. You just feel "these people hate me, they don't want me to exist." And that bubble was my reality. So when I was taught in school that everything we did was in self defense, that our military is special and uniquely ethical because it's the only defensive military in the world - that made sense to me. It slotted neatly into the reality I knew.

One of the first things to burst the bubble for me was when I spoke to an old Israeli man and he was talking about his trauma from battle. I don't remember what he said, but it hit me wrong. It conflicted with the history as I understood it. So I was a bit desperate to make it make sense again, and I said, "But everything we did was in self defense, right?"

He kinda looked at me, couldn't understand at all why I was upset, and he went, "We destroyed whole villages. Of course we did. It was war, that's what you do."

And that casual "of course" stuck with me. I had to look into it more.

I couldn't look at more accurate history, and not at accounts by Palestinians, I was too primed against these sources to trust them. The community I grew up in had an anti-intellectual element to it where scholars weren't trusted about things like this.

So what really solidified this for me, was seeing Palestinian culture.

Because part of the story that Israel tells us to justify everything, is that Palestinians are not a distinct group of people, they're just Arabs. They belong to the nations around us. They insist on being here because they want to deny us a homeland. The Palestinian identity exists to hurt us. This, because the idea of displacing them and taking over their lands doesn't sound like stealing, if this was never theirs and they're only pretending because they want to deprive us.

But then foods, dances, clothing, embroidery, the Palestinian dialect. These things are history. They don't pop into existence just because you hate Jews and they're trying to move here. How gorgeous is the Palestinian thobe? How stunning is tatreez in general? And when I saw specific patterns belonging to different regions of Palestine?

All of these painted for me a rich shared life of a group of people, and countered the narrative that the Palestininian identity was fabricated to hurt us. It taught me that, whatever we call them, whatever they call themselves, they have a history in this land, they have a right to it, they have a connection to it that we can't override with our own.

I started having conversations with leftist friends. Confronting the fact that the borders of the occupied territories are arbitrary and every Israeli city was taken from them. In one of those conversations, I was encouraged to rethink how I imagine peace.

This also goes back to schooling. Because they drilled into us, we're the ones who want peace, they're the ones who keep fighting, they're just so dedicated to death and killing and they won't leave us alone.

In high school, we had a stadium event with a speaker who was telling us about a person who defected from Hamas, converted to Christianity and became a Shin Bet agent. Pretty sure you can read this in the book "Son of Hamas." A lot of my friends read the book, I didn't read it, I only know what I was told in that lecture. I guess they couldn't risk us missing out on the indoctrination if we chose not to read it.

One of the things they told us was how he thought, we've been fighting with them for so long, Israelis must have a culture around the glorification of violence. And he looked for that in music. He looked for songs about war. And for a while he just couldn't find any, but when he did, he translated it more fully, and he found out the song was about an end to wars. And this, according to the story as I was told it, was one of the things that convinced him. If you know know the current trending Israeli "war anthem," you know this flimsy reasoning doesn't work.

Back then, my friend encouraged me to think more critically about how we as Israelis envision peace, as the absence of resistance. And how self-centered it is. They can be suffering under our occupation, but as long as it doesn't reach us, that's called peace. So of course we want it and they don't.

Unless we're willing to work to change the situation entirely, our calls for peace are just "please stop fighting back against the harm we cause you."

In this video, Shlomo Yitzchak shares how he changed his mind. His story is much more interesting than mine, and he's much more eloquent telling it. He mentions how he was taught to fear Palestinians. An automatic thought, "If I go with you, you'll kill me." I was taught this too. I was taught that, if I'm in a taxi, I should be looking at the driver's name. And if that name is Arab, I should watch the road and the route he's taking, to be prepared in case he wants to take me somewhere to kill me. Just a random person trying to work. For years it stayed a habit, I'd automatically look at the driver's name. Even after knowing that I want to align myself with liberation, justice, and equality. It was a process of unlearning.

On October, not long after the current escalation of violence, I had to take a taxi again. A Jewish driver stopped and told me he'll take me, "so an Arab doesn't get you." Israeli Jews are so comfortable saying things like this to each other. My neighbors discussed a Palestinian employee, with one saying "We should tell him not to come anymore, that we want to hire a Jew." The second answered, "No, he'll say it's discrimination," like it would be so ridiculous of him. And the first just shrugged, "So we don't have to tell him why." They didn't go through with it, but they were so casual about this conversation.

In the Torah, we're told to treat those who are foreign to us well, because we know what it's like to be the foreigner. Fighting back against oppression is the natural human thing to do. We know it because we lived it. And as soon as I looked at things from this angle, it wasn't really a choice of what to support.

[mrs-bingley]

For example, take this portrait I am currently obsessing over:

Looking at the face of that young girl, I was thinking "how old could she be?" I mean, the face is that of an adolescent to me. The portrait says she's Lady Maria Conyngham (died 1843). So, being a noble, I hoped the internet had a record of her somewhere. I only found the Wikipedia page of her mother, Elizabeth Conyngham. Who was actually the mistress of King George IV (impressive, I guess?) but it only had a note on Maria

So given the painting was done in 1824-25 now I know that yes, she was indeed a teen at the time (14/15).

She also had a sister, the date of birth is not stated but we have a portrait and they looked very similar:

Same slanted eyes, same mouth, same nose. And same hairstyles.

And the story gets tragic with her early death, especially because I can't find a trace of what happened. Even on the page of the husband (she married at 22 and he was 8 years older than her) it only says that they got married, had two children the first of which died an infant. But no reason of her death.

I'm trying to look if there's any kind of record of this. What kind of sickness lead to her untimely death? Did she die maybe during a third pregnancy? I'm curious, I'm still looking. For some reason, I want to understand why she died so young.

I don't know her, I will never know her and I will never be able to learn much more about her probably. But I look at this child looking at me from 1824, I see that soft smile and I can't help but care. It's safe to assume that it's been many years since somebody thought about her and yet here we are, 180 years later, looking at her and wondering about her. That makes me feel emotional about our shared humanity.

Sometimes I go on archive dot org just to look at art made by artists mostly forgotten especially portraits of people mostly forgotten to remember I am human

[littlefankingdom]

Playing Assassin's Creed Unity as a French with a bachelor degree in history and a passion for revolutions wasn't that much of a good idea...

Like, the radical revolutionaries are with the Templars? Yeah, no, they were very against religions, especially catholicism because of its connection to the French monarchy (the crown and the Church had a pact to maintain each other's power). They literally decapitated statues of saints on churches, like Notre-Dame (the heads we have now are new heads because we lost them for centuries). They hated catholicism, they would not have been with the Templars.

And that's only one of the issues I have. But at least, it seems we have Alexandre Dumas' father, the General Dumas, which is nice. (I think it's him, they didn't present him yet, but it could another black generals they had at the time)

[starprince-art]

the lavender menace 🪻💅

kind of a silly painting I did about gay culture, the joke is kind of on the nose but whatever

[ahqkas]

♯ JEALOU$Y ; theodore nott

PAIRING! theodore nott x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! an unexpected situation catches you off guard in the heart of florence and your boyfriend reveals a side of him you’ve never seen before (based off this req.!!)

WARNINGS AND TAGS! fluff, jealous + italian theo, translation of foreign language + lmk !

WORD COUNT! 1.3k

NOTES! he’s so fine when he’s jealous❕

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THEODORE NOTT WAS FAR FROM HAVING A SHORT TEMPER (UNLIKE HIS BEST FRIEND) BUT THAT DIDN'T MEAN HE WAS NECESSARILY CARELESS. Sometimes, jealousy wrapped around his heart like the snake representing his house, squeezing and picking at the muscle, giving it wounds for blood to shed from.

And every time he tried to push those feelings aside, they came back even stronger than before in a crashing wave full of raw emotion. He felt like a puppet on a string that was pulled tight by the cruel hands of jealousy. His actions were no longer his own.

The summer sun bathed the picturesque streets of Florence in a warm, golden glow, casting a honeyed hue over the ancient city. Cobblestone pathways, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, stretched along the bustling streets. Each turn revealed a new delight: charming cafés with wrought-iron tables spilling onto the sidewalks, historic landmarks standing as silent reminders of the past, and vibrant marketplaces bursting with life and color. The air was rich with the scent of blooming flowers, mingling with the earthy aroma of aged stone and the tantalizing whiff of fresh espresso. The fragrance was an intoxicating blend, making every breath feel like a taste of paradise. The sounds of Florence added to the sensory feast: the melodic chatter of locals and tourists, the clinking of glasses and cutlery from the outdoor restaurants, and the distant strains of street musicians playing heavenly tunes on their violins and accordions.

Florence, in the embrace of summer, was absolutely beautiful. It was a place where history and romance intertwined, where every corner held a new discovery, and every moment was a celebration of the beauty of life. The city's magic lay not just in its landmarks, but in the way it made you feel — alive, enchanted, and eternally in love with the world around you.

You walked hand in hand with Theodore, your fingers intertwined in one as you explored the enchanting city. This vacation had been his idea, a chance for the two of you to escape the pressures of Hogwarts and immerse yourselves in the beauty and romance of Italy. Theo's Italian heritage made the trip even more special; he was eager to show you the places that held a special place in his heart.

As you wandered through a bustling street, you paused to admire a street artist's breathtaking paintings. The vibrant colors and detailed brushstrokes captured the scenery of Florence in ways that made the city's beauty stand out even more, and you found yourself lost in the artwork. Theo had stepped away momentarily to get you both something to eat from a nearby stand, leaving you alone but content. The hum of the city buzzed around you, voices of people blending with the occasional strum of a guitar.

While you were engrossed in the art, a group of local boys approached, their laughter and chatter filling the air. They were handsome and confident, their flirtatious smiles and easy charm unmistakable. One of them, with dark, curly hair and a mischievous grin, stepped forward, clearly intent on catching your attention. His eyes sparkled with interest as he gestured towards you.

"Sei molto bella." ("You are very beautiful.")

You blinked, a bit taken aback. Although you had picked up a few phrases during your time with Theo, your grasp of the language was far from fluent. You understood enough to know that he was complimenting you, but the exact words of meaning escaped you.

Before you could respond, another boy joined in, his tone equally playful. "Vuoi venire a fare una passeggiata con noi?" ("Do you want to go for a walk with us?")

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, both from the unexpected attention and your inability to respond. Your eyes darted around, hoping to spot your boyfriend. You were feeling increasingly uncomfortable, unsure how to extricate yourself from the situation.

Just as you were about to attempt a polite but awkward decline, you heard Theo's voice, sharp and commanding. "Ehi, lasciatela in pace!" ("Hey, leave her alone!")

The transformation in him was startling. Theo, usually so calm and composed, had a fierce intensity in his eyes. He stepped between you and the group of boys, his posture protective, his expression a stormy mix of anger and determination. The easygoing demeanor he often sported was replaced by a fierce warning.

His broad shoulders squared, blocking the boys' view of you completely, creating a barrier that was both physical and emotional. The bright warmth of the sun seemed to dim in comparison to the fire that burned in Theo's gaze. It was as if a switch had been flipped, transforming him from the gentle, sweet boyfriend you knew into a guardian ready to defend the owner of his heart and soul.

The boys, who had moments ago been brimming with confidence, raised their hands in mock surrender, laughing nervously. "Calmati, amico. Non volevamo causare problemi," one of them said, trying to diffuse the situation. ("Calm down, friend. We didn't want to cause trouble.")

But Theo wasn't having any of it. Each word was a blade of a dagger, cutting through the casual flirtation of the boys, leaving no room for doubt about his intentions. "Non vedete che non è interessata? Andatevene prima che mi arrabbi davvero." ("Can't you see she's not interested? Walk away before I really get angry."). His voice was low and menacing as he continued in rapid Italian, his words too fast for you to catch but clearly effective in making the boys rethink their approach. They muttered a few apologies before scurrying away, casting wary glances over their shoulders.

Theo turned to you, his eyes softening instantly as he took in your bewildered expression. The fierce protector you had just witnessed melted away, replaced by your sweet boy you knew so well. "Are you okay?" His hand found yours, fingers intertwining in a comforting touch.

You nodded, still a bit shaken. "I'm fine. They were just . . . I didn't understand what they were saying," you admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed.

Theo's lips curved into a reassuring smile. "They were trying to flirt with you," he explained. "But don't worry, they're gone now."

You managed a small laugh, the tension easing out of your body. "I figured that much," you said, your voice lightening. "Thank you, Theo."

He stepped closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. The warmth of his embrace and the steady beat of his heart were instantly calming. "I'm sorry if I scared you," he murmured, his breath brushing against your hair. "I just couldn't stand the thought of them bothering you."

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. The fierce protectiveness in his gaze had melted into something softer, more tender. "You were amazing," you said honestly. "I've never seen you like that before."

Theo's smile widened, a hint of pride in his expression. "Well, I can't help it," he said, his tone teasing but sincere. "You bring out the best in me."

As you continued your walk through the beautiful streets of Florence, Theo kept you close, his arm securely around you. The incident with the local boys faded into the background, replaced by the joy of being together in such a magical place. The city's charm and Theo's unwavering affection made you feel like you were living in a dream.

Later that evening, as you sat together at a cozy café, sipping on rich Italian espresso, you couldn't help but feel grateful for Theo. His protective nature, his deep love for you, and his ability to make you feel safe and cherished were all things you treasured deeply. As the sun set over the Florence skyline, painting the sky in brilliant hues of pink and orange, you leaned into Theo, feeling utterly content.

In that moment, with the world bathed in the soft glow of twilight, you knew that no matter where you were, as long as you were with Theo, you were home.

[psychomusic]

okay i tried to write it in the tags but it got too messy and long. HI I STUDY ART HISTORY AND CULTURAL HERITAGE and i have an idea to interpret it but I'm not familiar with mando lore so i need someone to like review it lol

cubism aims (between many things + I'm generalizing because there are obv different phases and interpretations of it by diff artists) to show an object through different times. you can never see a "full" chair - you're always gonna see one side of it. you have to walk around it or move it around to see the entirety of the chair. cubists (or at least some of them) make you see all sides of the chair in one moment. it's a "distortion" of space and time. (obv it's a lot more than this and much more complex but this is what i wanna highlight for my interpretation)

so. cubism in star wars obv didn't arise in the context of 20th century avantguarde. if cubism is the style developed by their culture, maybe this way of dealing with the representation of time depends on how the mandalorians understand and narrate time. (again I'm not familiar with mando lore so tell me if it makes 0 sense) they could, for example, see time as something rather still, instead of moving on a line or a circle like we do: they could believe that in every moment there is everything that there will be and that already has been - everything that is present now was present back then and will be present in the future. in this context that sees "time as a capsule" the sacking represented is not one specific sacking, and debating on which sacking it was would be futile. what's more artistically interesting would be what "core truth" do mandos see and choose to represent on wall that the event stands for. it's more interesting to see what it says about how mandalorians see themselves.

(also just. fyi, this idea of trying to figure out what specifically a painting or an art in general is representing is an idea that is deeply rooted into western's understanding of art - the idea of copying and representing reality, in this sense, is not common in places where the greeks' understanding of art didn't arrive)

in the case of this painting, the center is taken by a giant mandalorian towering even higher than the biggest ecumenopolis in the galaxy, towering over defeated enemies that stand for some of the biggest institutions of their time (jedi and republic). this speaks tons on how mandalorians see themselves - they're literally the biggest in the galaxy, the strongest, the best, the most powerful and fearful. it's interesting though that there isn't a bunch of mandalorians in group that tower over everything but one big mando. this showcases of how tight their sense of community and identity are. they represent themselves as one. they're so connected with each other that they have no problem in representing themselves as just one individual. maybe, but it's a stretch, it's them acting as one big individual that made them so bigger than everyone and everything else.

on the topic of halos and christian imagery, i'd like to point out that in some art history spaces it's believed that halos are an evolution of some tactics to distinguish people (specifically emperors) in big and messy roman narrative reliefs like Trajan's triumphal column or Marcus Aurelius's: they're so full of people it's hard to distinguish the scenes and characters. (I'll put some images to make it clearer)

this was the average complexity of a scene. these columns are like 30 meters high. it'd be impossible to distinguish the emperor from a soldier (even with the original colors) at such distance. so they decided that the emperor would be isolated from the rest of the people, who were "pressed together" - he'd be on the foreground with no one behind him (because if there was, their head would pop out from behind his shoulders) and no one pressed on his sides (or just their successor or someone that needed to be "praised" on the side). this left a sort of void around the emperor, especially the head. as this need to distinguish the emperor from the rest grew (with time, roman emperors became more and more autocratic and at some point they introduced the divine right to reign) this void started to be emphasized with colors like gold (used often for divine or important beings). when christians started to make their art, they "copy-pasted" many of this pagan systems to resematicize them (it must've had a big effect back then) and then, gradually, with time, we started to associate these symbols with christianity. MAYBE mandalorians had a similar story (or have similar story)

like. maybe they have clan or family based art that uses these tactics to highlight the leader that guides the clan (if i remember correctly, sabine's mom was the leader of her clan and pre visla was a sort of head figure for death watch, so, i figured mandos do have quite the sense of hierarchy that they'd highlight in art) and this got translated into identitary paintings to highlight their greatness even further.

if anything is going to move me to watch the clone wars it's finding out there's a goddamn star wars version of picasso's gernika painting. i am going to lose my mind. what the fuck could this possibly mean in the context of star wars