#pictures stolen from an ancient edit of mine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

illusionsofdreaming · 3 years ago

Note

would it be okay to request headcanons with the main trio from TCF who aren't in a relationship with the (fem) reader yet but they like each other, the guys get hurt or something and the reader is so scared of losing them or was so anxious that she ended up kissing them? You can edit a few parts if you'd prefer! thank you, i know you have a lot of requests but you're the only one who writes x reader for them-

Notes: It took forever+forever but I finally gave up trying to perfect it- y'all just going to have to deal with these half baked potatos as I sob in the corner for my lack of functioning writing braincells.

+ 'nonny I know you asked for Fem reader but I'm just so used to writing gender neutral nowadays I actually forgot to write Fem reader in. Uh. I mean it's gender neutral so it should work regardless?? I'msorrypleaseforgivemeforthisblunder

Ft: Cale, Alberu, Choi Han

Cale Henituse

He’s covered in blood.

Again.

He glanced down at his shirt, once white, now completely soaked and rapidly losing warmth. The icky feeling of sticky cloth stuck on skin caused goosebumps to break out all over his arms. The lethargy that weighed on him was hard to ignore, but expected after using his ancient powers-

“Cale!”

He turned just as the full force of you barrelled into him and he staggered, unbalanced and would’ve fallen had you not pulled him back. He barely had time to protest at your rough greeting when you began frantically patting him down as if scouring him for weapons.

“There’s so much- where are you hurt?” you demanded harshly, your tone pitched higher than normal. “Raon call for Saint Jack and the others, medics- anyone that can help!”

“Y-yes! I-I will! Weak hu-human you better not die or I will destroy the kingdom!”

“Wai-“ his protests were ignored as the dragon flew off, leaving Cale dumbfounded with his jaw hanging down in disbelief. “Wait you don’t have to find the others, I’m fi-“

“Cale Henituse, if I hear you say ‘I’m fine’ I’m going to sock you to kingdom fucking come.“ you seethed. His lips snapped shut obediently, swallowing the aforementioned phrase down as a foreboding chill crept down his spine.

But I am..?

“How could you..” your voice shook even as you clung onto his soaked shirt so tightly your knuckles turned white. “You’re always doing stupid things like this…”

Cale frowned, feeling a bit indignant. Sure his plans weren’t the most thought out at times, but to call them stupid…

“If you waited for us to come, then you wouldn’t have to- why do you keep sacrificing yourself like this?”

That triggered an alarm in his head. What strange things were you talking about? The act of sacrifice were done by martyrs and selfless heroes and Cale Henituse was neither of those. He wanted to correct your misunderstanding but you were worked up and hysterical and it was with horror that he realised you were crying.

“________-“

“Don’t talk! Please, just conserve your energy- I won’t let you die, I promised the kids and the others- I won’t let you-”

The alarm bells in his head rang even louder and he fought to be heard over your rambling, “_________- no one’s dying, I’m fine-” it felt as if his heart had leapt to his throat as he stopped your fist before it could make contact. You really weren’t joking when you said you’d punch him. He tightened his hold on your wrist when you tried to twist out of his grip and swallowed nervously. “I’m not hurt _________,“ he emphasised, willing you to meet his eyes.

“Stop bullshitting me Cale- how much of a fucking idiot do you take me for? How can anyone be fine after losing this much blood-“

“It’s not mine.”

You stilled in his grasp.

“…W-what?”

He frowned. Was it really that hard to believe his words? “The blood’s not mine.” he repeated and made sure to meet your disbelieving gaze head on so that you could verify the truth in his words. “They were cut down before they could harm me. None of this blood is mine. I was not hurt.“ It was a partial lie. He did cough out some blood after instinctively activating the shield for protection but he felt that that was knowledge you’d be better off not knowing.

The coiled tension in you leaked out and Cale slowly released his grip on your hand and took a cautious step back - just in case. It was a good thing he managed to deescalate the situation before the others arrived. Just convincing one person was hassle enough and from experience alone, he knew the others weren’t as merciful when it came to learning about his injuries, regardless of severity or his protests otherwise. Cale shuddered. He really didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Ron’s cold smile again. He glanced up and saw Raon’s flying figure and he waved lazily to the dragon hoping the young one would understand that the healers were no longer necessary, it had only been a false alarm.

“..ot.”

“Hm?” He looked down, hearing you mumble but didn’t quite catch what you’d said.

He was not prepared to be yanked forward and for your lips to mash against his. There was a brief sting where your teeth had caught on his lip and the uncomfortable sensation of having your teeth clack against each other, noses in the way. He froze, like a deer caught in headlights, thoughts reeling but before he could think of acting, to push or pull you in even closer-

You let him go just as abruptly and he staggered, breath stolen, mind in absolute disarray.

Then you slapped him. Which definitely cleared his thoughts. “You idiot!”

Stupefied, he watched as you stormed off, stuck in a daze as he cradled his face where his cheek and lips tingled for different reasons.

“…What..?”

Choi Han

Choi Han didn’t know what Cale saw in you back then, a complete stranger whom they saved by chance and nursed back to health with utmost care. You, who Cale insisted was the final key to their masterplan and then asked Choi Han to act as your escort.

There were many things Choi Han didn’t understand when it came to Cale-nim’s decisions. But that wasn’t so unusual and he’d never made it a habit to question Cale’s reasoning, having learned to be patient, knowing the pieces would eventually slot together in the grand picture. So although initially wary he was of your unclear history and affiliation, he stayed by your side and did his duty without question.

And perhaps after weeks of accompanying you, he’s beginning to see what Cale saw. Though powerless and weak, you were righteous and passionate, holding true to your belief even in the face of adversaries. You were the perfect replacement for the tyrannical ruler of the country, someone capable of salvaging the crumbling system of a neglected, abused society and lifting it to new heights and glory.

With the flames of revolution ignited, everything hinged on getting you safely to Cale on the final stage. While the revolutionaries fought and acted as distractions above ground, he escorted you through the abandoned waterways.

The undergrounds were dark and cramped, incredibly disadvantageous to a swordsman such as himself. When assassins leaped out in an ambush; Choi Han didn’t hesitate. Without time nor space to draw his sword, he pushed you behind him and raised his arm to block the strike.

As the momentum of the assassin’s blade stopped, it became simple matter to quickly disarm and finish them. Having checked and affirmed that there’s no forthcoming attacks, he urged you to hurry, now worried as they weren’t expected to be discovered so soon.

Something must’ve happened, we should hurry to Cale-nim’s side-

He was halted with a firm grip on his other hand and was pulled back as he was met with your stern, unwavering gaze and declaration that you will not move another step from this spot until his arm got treated first.

Which was a ridiculous request considering they were running on a tight schedule. He frowned and his fingers flexed against the hilt of his sword as you pulled him to the side.

When none of his objections were being heard, he tried reasoning with you. The wound may look horrible, but he’d assured you he’d angled his arm just so that the blade would’ve caught on his bone rather than tendons. It was a strategic move that not only blocked momentum but also kept damage to his non-dominant arm at the minimum. He would not have bled to death nor would he be crippled from it, something that barely needed the emergency care you insisted on.

“It’s not necessary, we need to get to the tower room first.”

“The room is not moving anywhere, I’d rather not risk having you develop an infection because you neglected to care for your wound.“

He flinched when alcohol was poured on the cut and Choi Han breathed out slowly, his frustration mounting as precious seconds passed. Something in his chest stirred uncomfortably. He’s not accustomed to having others care for his wounds, having spent so many years caring for them himself whilst hiding his weaknesses from monsters in the Forest of Darkness.

“I will attend to it after I’ve brought you to Master Cale’s side, we must-“

Your eyes flashed with anger as your grip tightened painfully around his arm. “So many things have been lost to reach this stage, I’d rather not lose more on the way there.”

“Cale-“

Perhaps you’ve had enough as well as the next thing he knew, your fingers dug into his arm and he found himself yanked forward and you pressing a hard, determined kiss that stole whatever he was going to say from his lips.

“Cale Henituse,” you said sternly when you parted and picked up a roll of bandages, “can afford to wait a bit longer.” you glared at him as if daring him to argue otherwise.

Not that it was necessary, considering he’d doubt he’d have the coherency to answer anything with the way all the blood in his body was rushing to his face.

Alberu Crossman

He didn’t feel anything upon the moment of impact. Only the shocking cold of metal being slid into his side and the vicious gaze of the perpetrator pressed up to his front.

The pain ripped through a moment later and he gritted his teeth, red spilling down his lips. It hurts.

Activity bursted around him, screams of fear echoed through the ballroom as guards rushed to his side. However one voice in particular caught his attention and he looked up to catch your horrified expression, lips parted in a desperate cry.

His forehead furrowed as a strange sense of guilt washed over him- he didn’t want you to see this- but he didn’t have time to explore the feeling as his hand latched firmly on the hand which still held the weapon in his side, preventing their escape.

His smile was red, “Caught you now, rat.”

═════☩══♛══☩═════

He tousled his hair dry with a towel as he read through the reports in his hand.

Alberu was exhausted, the fight to rid his side of his enemies’ spies had always been an ongoing and tedious project. His enemies were cunning and always played things safe however their impatience this time would cost them. Now that one of their own has fallen into his hands, they can start pulling in the net.

A knock sounded on his door and he didn’t bother looking up from his reports as he gave permission. “Come in.”

“Did you manage to find any new information from them?” he asked immediately as the door opened. Anything gleaned from the assassin would be beneficial to his cause. Not that he truly expected any confessions to be given this night. Any hired killer worth their salt would know not to betray the mastermind behind a hit. But there were more than one way to find credible information aside from words torn directly from the lips of a captive.

When no answer came, he looked up and immediately dropped the papers he was reading.

“___________…”

In the aftermath of the attack and the capture of the assassin he’d been immediately escorted to the healers for first aid. With the bare minimum done he’d left quickly to take control of the situation, calming the aristocrats and giving orders to assign all guests to be escorted to a room in the palace to rest from the unexpected development - the smarter ones would know this was just a way to keep all suspects in one place, stalling for time so that his trusted aides may work to narrow down the most likely suspects. He had been meaning to find you and explain once everything settled but this time you took matters into your own hands.

Your eyes glanced at the documents he dropped. “Am I disturbing your work?”

“No,” he replied instantly, fighting back the urge to shuffle the papers behind him. “No, you’re not.”

The room lapsed into silence once more as neither of you seemed keen to address the elephant in the room.

“About tonight…” he started slowly, “they had to believe I had my guards lowered.”

The truth was, though he believed you would not have been behind the attack, you had to be tested all the same. Should it be known you’ve been partial to this plan, it would’ve given the real culprits leverage to use.

You approached him and he wished you would say something. He noted the redness in your eyes and felt a stab of guilt lodge in his chest. “It had to be believable.”

You didn’t meet his eyes and your hand hovered over where his wound had been.

He lifted the edge of his shirt up to reveal the pink scar tissue underneath. It was ugly and badly healed due to the rush he had been in. “I wasn’t in any real danger.” he said softly, staying still and resisting the urge to shiver when your fingers traced the scar.

“You’re picking up bad habits from Cale.” You said so softly he would’ve missed it had he not been paying attention.

“The padded shirt under prevented the blade from going too deep.” he explained, hoping you’d understand that he hadn’t been reckless. Everything had been planned carefully. He slowly tucked his shirt back in as you withdrew your hand, already missing the warmth you brought to his skin just moments ago.

“__________…”

You leaned in and placed a small kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Don’t do that again.” you whispered against his cheek.

He could only watch in astonishment as you turned away and exited his room.

“..Okay..” he said hoarsely to the empty room.

#tcf #trash of the count's family #imagines #tcf x reader #cale henituse #alberu crossman #choi han #kiss #pre relationship #confession..?#i honestly don't have enough brain power to tag things rn #i also have not proofread this much so #it's A MESS #i'll come back to edit this when I'm more awake or something #ngl the whole time while i was struggling with this #i was thinking how ridiculous that i've spent so long agonising over writing with words #but consuming it would only take less than a minute LOL #now im back at 0 and im feeling a bit sad

192 notes · View notes

samantharay2 · 4 years ago

Text

[Fuyuhiko x Reader] Love! Love! Chapter 6: You’ve Got Mail!

1,899 words

Warning: Mature; Danganronpa 2 spoilers

Italicized text = emphasis / inner dialogue / sound effects

Arrows (→) = section breaks

Curly braces ({ }) = letters

Last edit: 2020-11-27

Masterlist

On that fourth day, Monokuma had informed you that an organization by the name of World Ender is responsible for bringing you to the islands as well as bringing about the end of the world. He also claimed that the alleged traitor is working for the said organization, to which Monomi had no comment.

On the fifth day, Nekomaru and Kazuichi confessed to having tied up Nagito and leaving him in the dining hall of the old hotel building.

And on the fifth night, Monokuma unveiled the next “motive” for the killing school trip: Twilight Syndrome Murder Case .

⇢

On the sixth day since arriving on the Dangan Islands, you return to your cottage from breakfast to find a small, white envelope sticking out of your mailbox. You pull it out to discover that it's blank and stick your head inside to check for anything else that you may have missed, finding a decent-sized box stuffed all the way in the back. You reach your arm in to pull it out and learn that it is unaddressed, too. You bring the batch of mail to your room and set the items at your desk. The box was unexpectedly heavy.

You open the white envelope to uncover a letter handwritten in bold, black print as if etched by a heavy hand. It's marked with today’s date on top:

{

I might have found a clue that pertains to you. If you wish to discuss it, meet me at the diner on the second island at 8 pm tonight. I advise you not to discuss this with anyone else, and come alone. If you’re worried about this being a setup, I'm leaving my gun and knife with you. Don’t shoot yourself. Don’t cut yourself either.

- Kuzuryu

}

You nearly drop the letter and swivel over to the cardboard box.

TH-THERE’S A GUN IN THERE!?!?!?

Suddenly you notice your heartbeat pounding in your ears like iron against an anvil.

You have to see it for yourself.

Box cutter in hand, you cautiously inch your way over to the box, pick it up, and carry it to your bed.

You take a deep breath.

You drag the blade along the rusty cardboard and empty its contents. Sure enough, there is a pistol and tanto laying on your bed.

Well shit.

It takes approximately sixty seconds for your heartbeat to calm down before you can even think about how to proceed.

Well, I can’t just leave them here.

You punctiliously inspect the items before you:

You recognize that the pistol is the same one that Fuyuhiko had used to disable the machine gun. It feels cold, metal, and heavy, like a block of lead in your hands.

The knife, by comparison, is light but razor-sharp.

You secure the items inside your bag.

Clearly, you have no use for them as the Ultimate Diplomat. However, seeing as Fuyuhiko went through all the trouble of delivering them to you, along with the letter, you figure that he must really want to talk to you. By relinquishing his weapons to you, he is disarming himself and leaving himself vulnerable. You can’t imagine he’d be hiding any other weapons within his suit, considering that the only thing he had on him in the classroom were the clothes on his back, and while he could undoubtedly kill you with his bare hands, somehow, you don’t think that’s the case, especially since you are the one who is armed now.

You fold the letter back up and place it back inside the envelope, put it in the box, leaving it on the floor beside your desk. You resolve to meet Fuyuhiko at the diner at eight pm tonight.

⇢

Fuyuhiko is sitting at the middle booth under the only light on in the diner. He is staring past the large, yellow envelope he had set in front of him, fists under folded arms, when you walk in, your usual, cheery self.

“Hey, I got your letter! You said you wanted to speak to me about something?”

He motions for you to join him. He looks more tense than usual and attempts to clear the qualms scratching at his throat. “Yeah, thanks for coming.”

You set your bag down on the seat next to you. “No problem! So, what did you want to speak to me about?”

He directs your attention to the yellow envelope on the table between you and slides it across to you. “I found this while I was on the islands. I was wondering if you could look at what’s inside, and tell me what you know about it.”

“Sure!”

For the second time today, you open a mysterious envelope, and for the second time today, you are blindsided by a piece of paper.

Shit. This is a waste of time. Just from the look on your face, Fuyuhiko can tell that you don't know a thing about what lay inside the envelope. He had been studying you ever since you walked through the door, and upon witnessing your reaction to what lay inside the envelope, your e_c eyes had become the most innocent eyes he had ever seen.

Your eyebrows were raised as if they were desperately trying to let in as much light as possible from the dinky light fixture above to discern what exactly it is that you are looking at.

What you are holding in your hands is what appears to be the spitting image of you and Fuyuhiko outside Hope’s Peak Academy, dressed in its signature brown and white school uniforms. Your gaze is unfixed at some point beyond the foreground, with your ever-present smile parted as if caught in the middle of telling a great story, complete with sweeping hand gestures. And on your right is Fuyuhiko, whose gaze is fixed on you, with relaxed eyebrows and a soothed smile as if you are the most interesting thing in the world to him. He looks completely smitten.

You drop the piece of paper as if holding it any longer would cause you to burn.

"Wh-What is this?" you ask the Fuyuhiko before you. He was unmoved.

"I don't know."

"Where'd you find it?"

"Does it matter? Do you know anything about it or not?"

Seeing as this is a one-way conversation, you search the image for a brush mark or stroke—any sign of forgery or digital alteration—but... nothing . You sift through your mind, searching for a memory, but... nothing!

Yet you cannot deny that this is a photo of you. It has all your flawless imperfections, even the ones that you didn't know you have. Plus, there is something strangely familiar about it.

"No. I don't," you say. "But I can see why you think I would, but…" You search your mind for a memory, but… nothing. "...I have no recollection of that! You and I only first met in the classroom at Hope's Peak Academy before being directly transported here, and I haven't even received my school uniform yet, so how can this be possible?" you exclaim.

"I don't know either..." Fuyuhiko admits. He looks distressed. Then, it suddenly dawns on you.

" ...Unless...—! " You gasp. "Do you think that what Monokuma said is true!? That we really did attend Hope's Peak Academy together and lost our memories of it? That they were stolen!?"

Fuyuhiko is hesitant to answer. "...That would make sense, wouldn't it?"

"It did remind me of Mahiru's photos…" you muse.

He just felt like a lead weight had been dropped in his stomach.

"Wh-What do you mean?"

You think that the Fuyuhiko looks pale, but that it may also just be a trick of the single light fixture casting a shadow over him. So, you continue, "It reminds me of the photos that she's taken of us at the beach and at the party on the first island," you explain. "Candid photography is her specialty, and, I’m no expert myself, but it looks like it was taken by someone who knows how to use a camera. It makes good use of lighting, composition, and focus, and it looks like it was snapped at just the right moment. It has all the makings of an Ultimate Photographer.”

The Ultimate Yakuza tightens his fists. He wants to break something. He wants to break someone.

“Are you okay?”

Your concern startles him out of his premeditation.

“Y-Yeah...Is that all?”

“That's all I can think of for now at least.”

He looks out the window. It’s already nightfall, and the only sources of light out are the diner’s whirring neon signs and the streetlights in the parking lot. 8:30 , his watch reads. His words are coarse and dry like sand.

“Sorry for making you come out so late. I’ll walk you home.”

He takes the yellow envelope, leaving the picture on the table for you to take. You go to put it in your bag when you suddenly remember what you had been carrying with you. "Wait! I have something for you, too!" You present the inside of your bag to Fuyuhiko. "Please take your weapons back. I've never used a gun, so much as a knife before, so I might end up hurting myself or someone else. Besides, they’re way more useful in your hands than in mine." you say, remembering how he saved all of you at the ancient ruins.

He stares at them blankly for a moment before taking them up in his jacket. “Fine.”

⇢

On your way back to the cottages, Fuyuhiko leads the way, gripping the yellow envelope, with you following him closely behind. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that something is bothering him. As you go to leave the parking lot and make a left towards the bridge to the central island, you catch a glimpse of the drugstore on the right and stroll up to his side.

"Are you sure you're okay? We can stop by the pharmacy and pick up something if you want. They have over-the-counter medicines like aspirin, too. Or, we can go to the supermarket."

He rebukes you tersely. "I said I'm fine, and, if I were you, I would worry more about myself, and I wouldn't share that photo with anyone. Someone might get the wrong idea and think that we're the traitors."

"...Do you think that I'm the traitor?"

He practically scoffs, "No."

"I don't think that you're the traitor either," you smile.

The two of you walk the rest of the way in silence and finally arrive at your cottage. He waits for you to unlock your door to make sure that you can get inside safely. He doesn't want any needless casualties on his watch.

"Thank you for walking me back, Fuyuhiko, and for telling me about the photo. If I think of anything else, I'll be sure to let you know," you assure him.

"Good night," is all he says before turning to walk back to his own cottage.

"Good night," you reply. You close the door to your cottage and put the photo in your desk drawer for safekeeping before falling asleep trying to remember a memory that you cannot yet remember.

⇢

Meanwhile, Fuyuhiko stays up writing yet another note and places it, along with and the rest of the photos he won from Twilight Syndrome Murder Case , into the yellow envelope.

A part of him wished he hadn't told you at all.

Taglist: @shigarakis-fifth-hand

#fuyuhiko x reader

34 notes · View notes

kunt-dracula · 6 years ago

Text

If I Were In ‘Vikings’ Headcanon~ Part 1??🤔

║Okay so I’m not as caught up on Vikings as I used to be. I might watch every few episodes and that’s if I watch it at all. Some of it’s because school is back in session and I’m at school 3 times a week from 8am to 8pm because I also work on my campus. The other reason is because my sister is getting her home renovated and so her and her 4 kids (whom are all under the age of 7) are living with me so my tvs are playing cartoons 24/7.

What I’m getting at is, if it’s inaccurate or seems highly unlikely due to events or character personality, I don’t know😂😂 but I wanted to try it so I am.║

Also

There will be quite a few changes to the storyline of the show. To simply put it, my baby Ragnar ain't dead and him and his kids get along just fine.🤣

➖

(Cartoon-ishly edited just for the occasion🤣👍🏾)

𝒦𝒾𝓎𝒶𝓉 (ky-yaht)

/I didn’t feel that my own name (Raine) would make a suitable ancient Egyptian name/

(My Attire during my teen years in Egypt)

⚜️Daughter of Pharoah Wahkare Khety III and Hetepheres.

⚜️ I didn’t have much a relationship with my mother due to the fact that she died merely a few years after my birth.

⚜️My father did what he could, but he wouldn’t stay around me much due to how much my physical likeness to my mother pained him.

⚜️I ended up spending more time with a caretaker that was assigned to me.

⚜️Around the time I was 12, he had wed another; a priestess named Ioja.

⚜️Soon after her crowning, it became sure to me what her true intentions were. Getting my father to be devoted to her and only her.

⚜️It started with her cutting into our conversations, arranging outings without telling me and making sure I had no knowledge of them at all.

⚜️When that ceased to work, she began spewing lies to my father about my ‘promiscuous’ behavior with male servants and even a few peasants.

⚜️Although I deny the allegations, it's clear to me that he's taking her side over my own.

⚜️After years of nonstop arguing between me and his wife, my father's breaking point was reached when he came upon a set of highly venomous snakes tangled within his bead sheets when he awoke one morning.

⚜️To make matters worse, each snake had a bracelet of mine he had gifted me around its body.

⚜️I was undoubtedly framed by Ioja who then tried to convince my father that I should be executed—in turn, I pointed the finger at her and made the same suggestion.

⚜️Frustrated and unsure, he had us fight one another and the defeated’s fate will be sealed.

⚜️Unfortunately, the odds were not in my favor and I was overpowered.

⚜️Not having the will not heart to slaughter me, he went against his own word and had me exiled—which didn't seem to effect Ioja at all since she had gotten what she wanted still, me out of the hierarchy.

⚜️Seemingly filled with guilt my father offered me an abundance of gifts before my departure.

⚜️I kept my clothing and jewelry and was given more, a fairly large amount of money. And him being disturbed with the idea of me being alone—the female servant that I was closest to was sent to travel with me wherever I settled.

⚜️Opwet—my older companion— had gotten me out of my funk, telling me that she was a firm believer in the concept that everything happens for a reason. [I picture her as a slightly younger Cicely Tyson😄]

⚜️Not sure of where to go, Opwet made the statement that she had not been to her birth village in decades.

⚜️My curiosity and ache for a change of scenery was all the push I needed for us to migrate to Kairouan.

⚜️Once we were settled in a home for the both of us, I had asked Opwet about her history. That was when she informed me that in her younger years she was the best healer in Egypt which led to her working for my family and then she was converted by my selfish father to be a caretaker for my mother during her pregnancy and then me.

⚜️I almost instantly asked her to teach me how to be a healer. It was always something I had wanted to do but was denied because of the written fate that my title held. But now that I was no longer royalty, what was to stop me from fulfilling my desires.

⚜️It wasn't easy. Far from it actually. There were a lot of specific procedures, rituals, and concoctions that went along with the role. It wasn't until I turned 21 that I finally got it down.

⚜️By the age of 26, I was a very well known healer throughout the city. The entrance to my home quickly became a revolving door to patients.

⚜️While caring for a pregnant woman who had been weak from it, Opwet was left with the woman while I went out to a fruit stand to purchase more mangoes. [The all natural prenatal vitamin.]

⚜️While at the stand my love for pineapples hit me and I began piling them in my arm.

⚜️One rolled off my arms and tubbles to the ground.

⚜️Contemplating just how I was going to pick it up with my arms full, someone beat me to it.

⚜️Of course, the first thing I noticed was the large pale hand holding the pineapple outstretched towards me.

⚜️The owner was a tall man. Very attractive. A great deal older than me, judging by the white strands of hair peppered his beard. Lips stretched in a crooked smile showcasing teeth that matched his skin, but what really hooked my attention were his almost glowing blue eyes.

⚜️He was someone I had never seen before but judging by his appearance he was no doubt one of the Vikings that word had circulated about through the city.

⚜️ ”Þakka þér fyrir, Viking.” {Thank you, Viking.} I say, shocking him. His shocked expression pulled a smile from me.

⚜️ ”Þú talar tungumál þjóðar minnar?” {You speak the language of my people?}

⚜️ ”aðeins nóg til að halda einfalt samtal. Þú ert ekki sá fyrsti sem ég hef haft ánægju af að hitta.” { Only enough to hold a simple conversation. You're not the first Norseman I've had the pleasure of meeting.}

⚜️I lose my focus on what I'm doing for what had to have been at least 15 minutes. It's not until the frustrated stand owner asks if I was going to pay or not, that I snap back.

⚜️Before parting ways I tell him my name and he tells me his. Ragnar Lothbrok.

⚜️That would not be the last I’d see of Ragnar Lothbrok.

⚜️He showed up at my home to talk but Opwet wasn't having it and told him that he couldn'come in unless he needed medical attention.

⚜️Not even a day later he returned to my home with injuries he had gotten during ’sparing’ but in all honesty, they looked self-inflicted.

⚜️Not a day passed that I was rubbing him down with shea butter to heal his scars. So much that I had to start using my own personal batch that I used daily. I wasn't happy about it.

⚜️Constantly having to fight with my inner ’thot’ and thoughts while doing so.

⚜️He was fascinated and distracted by 3 things: my hair, my skin and mostly my derriere.😒

⚜️Had the nerve to ask if I was I had stolen goods hidden under my dress. 🍑

⚜️”Did you just touch my rear?”

⚜️”Sorry I thought it was—what’s the name of that large fruit? ...Watermelon yes. I simply thought it was a watermelon, especially in that green dress.”

⚜️Opwet: *eating a peach in the corner*

⚜️When it got dark, he would attempt to stay the night. Again Opwet didn't play that and she would make him leave.😆

⚜️In all, he was impressed with my skills and stated that they could really use someone like me in Kattegat and asked if I would consider going back with him. Shocked, I told him I would think about it.

⚜️It was then that he told me about himself. He was in his 50s but obviously very fit for his age being that I thought he was much younger. His son was the current king of Kattegat. A role he had given up once he got older, though he still had authority over the village.

⚜️When it was his last day in Kairouan, I couldn't help but ponder over my dilemma. Opwet only persuaded me to go. She restated her believe that everything happened for a reason and that I was being offered an opportunity that I should take.

⚜️ I did want to go but I didn't want to leave her. She wanted to stay and help the people of Kairouan and kept persuading me to leave for Kattegat to do the same for their people.

⚜️She was nearly relentless and finally got me to leave with Lothbrok. To a new world and a new beginning.

[Near the end I got lazy. I was tired, sorry. 😆

I'm not sure if this is even good or not. I was higher than the clouds when I wrote it.🚬

I'm kinda tempted to do a part 2 on when I'm actually in Kattegat but that all will depend on how y’all react to this.]

#vikings #ragnar lothbrok #ragnar x reader #headcanon #headcannon

37 notes · View notes

ripplesofaqua · 7 years ago

Text

Varric’s “Tale of the Champion”

The in-game image for Varric’ s “The Tale of the Champion” has two pages of almost-illegible text. I was actually able to decipher what they say with photoshop. It’s not what I expected - it’s just history, and Varric seems to have “borrowed” from Brother Genitivi (idk maybe there’s footnotes that I can’t make out or something). Let me know if you’ve seen anything similar on the internet or if you have suggestions for the words I missed (or alternate word suggestions, some of my choices still seem a little weird).

Text and Pictures after the cut.

[edit: the pictures came out smaller here than I hoped, but if you copy and paste or save them somewhere, you can zoom in much better]

Page 1

In the ancient past, the city that is today Kirkwall sat on the very fringes of the Tevinter Imperium. It was the heart of the Empire’s slave trade, at one point housing almost a million slaves taken from elven lands as well as the more barbarian rogues to the east and north. They were transported there by sea and fed into the unquenchable fires of the city’s industry (working/mining?) jet-stone quarries and a sea(?) of foundries that produced the steel the rest of the Empire needed. The slavers of ancient city grew wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. But it was all built on the backs of the downtrodden. This was a place of darkness and despair, a pit that few escaped, and when the tide finally turned against the Empire, the slaves rose up here in an orgy of violence that has rarely been matched. The city that exists today is built upon the bones of that goal, one that most cultures today would prefer to forget.

Page 2 - This was a mirror image, so I had to flip the original text horizontally.

The two most prominent features in Hightown are the Keep, the home of the city’s ruling Viscount and his court, and the Chantry, home to the Grand Cleric and the center of religious worship in the city. These are both dwarven structures dating back to Imperial times, homes to the wealthiest magisters and nearly destroyed after the city’s fall long ago. They have (some sort of manor/building?) here (?) rebuilt and converted, and the wealthy here cluster in the homes around the Keep and the Chantry as if their position in the city relied entirely upon their proximity to the center of power. Narrow white-cobbled lanes wind from the stairs to the High Market, a rich merchant’s area bordered by the daunting stone edifice of the Dwarven merchant guild. In more prosperous areas the growing power of Orlais shows itself in the elaborately ornamented manors where trees are trimmed into amusing geometrical shapes.

So yeah, not typical writing for Varric, though it makes sense for a story centered in Kirkwall and its dark past. But, f some of those words seem familiar, it’s because they are.

“At the height of the Tevinter Imperium's slave trade, Kirkwall's elite prospered beyond dreams of avarice. Hightown was built for the wealthiest slavers, its glitzy mansions rising atop a great wall of rock that borders, on one side, the Waking Sea. Lowtown cowered on its other side until Kirkwall's slaves rose to plunder and destroy Hightown's riches.

Today, Hightown's prominent buildings are the Keep, home to the ruling viscount, and the chantry, home to the grand cleric and the city's religious center. Both are converted estates that once housed wealthy magisters, rebuilt and converted after the uprising.”

- From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi - Codex entry: Kirkwall - Hightown

“Kirkwall once lived on the edge of the Tevinter Imperium and was home to nearly a million slaves. Stolen from elven lands or shipped from across the sea, all slaves fed the Imperium's unquenchable thirst for expansion. They worked in massive quarries and sweltering foundries that produced stone and steel for the Empire.”

- From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi - Codex entry - The City of Kirkwall

“It was Emerius then, named after its founder Magister Emerius Krayvan, and it was but one outpost on the very fringe of the Tevinter Imperium. There the magister's serfs worked the quarries for the jet stone needed for the mighty temples of Minrathous.”

- From Kirkwall: the City of Chains, by Brother Genitivi, 9:24 Dragon - Codex Entry - The History of Kirkwall Ch 1

#Dragon Age #Varric Tethras #Tale of the Champion #Kirkwall #Damn now my eyes hurt #Varric tell me you didn't plagiarize...

3 notes · View notes

7r0773r · 5 years ago

Text

Autobiography of a Corpse by Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky, translated by Joanne Turnbull

Now I understand: Any “I” not nourished by “we,” not umbilically attached to the maternal organism enveloping its small life, cannot begin to be itself. Even the mollusk hidden inside tight-shut valves, if one helps those valves by binding them with a tight metal band, will die. (Autobiography of a Corpse, p.13)

***

With a new day nearing, I began to consider how to convey everything without saying anything. To begin with, I must cross out the truth; no one needs that. Then variegate the pain to the limits of my canvas. Yes, yes. Add a touch of the day-to-day and over all, like varnish over paint, a veneer of vulgarity—one can’t do without that. Finally, a few philosophical bits and ... Reader, you’re turning away, you want to shake these lines out of your pupils. No, no. Don’t leave me here on this long empty bench: Hold my hand—that’s right—tight, tighter still—I’ve been alone for too long. I want to say to you what I’ve never said to anyone: Why frighten little children with the dark when one can quiet them with it and lead them into dreams? (In the Pupil, p. 60)

***

3. PURVAPAKSHIN

This name wound up in a notebook of mine years ago. I remember I was rummaging through English editions of ancient Indian texts, copies of the Vedanta and the Sankhya, commentaries and compilations, when I came across it: Purvapakshin. The Purvapakshin seems never to have existed, yet who of us would have the right to say “I am,” if not for the Purvapakshin? This man-myth was invented by Indian casuists for the sake of constructing antitheses. Builders of systems came and went—one after another. So many builders, so many worlds: Each one—be it Vyasa or Patanjali—brought with him his “yes.” And each one, having relinquished his “yes,” returned to death. But the man-myth Purvapakshin never died, if only because he was never born; he never said “yes” to anything or anyone because his name means “he who says ‘no,’” A defender of antitheses, the Purvapakshin objects to everything always; treatise after treatise, millennium after millennium. Therein lies this man-diagram’s sole existence: to trump every “yes” with his “no.” For me too the immemorial Purvapakshin is the non-dialectical personification of an Indian rishi. I can almost see and keenly sense him here beside me on my evening boulevard bench: Wrapped in ragged, many-colored stuffs, his stubborn bony brow bowed, he unpurses his thin, shriveled lips for the sake of a single, brief-as-a-blow “no.” Oh, how often have we—elbow to elbow, the Purvapakshin and I—on these noisy Moscow boulevards, amid the clangs and whirlings, the rush of lights and shadows, raised up over all of this, again and again, our “no.”

Yes, I am drawn to him, indeed I almost love him, him alone perhaps, this man who does not exist, with his “no.” I want to squeeze my temples between my palms, draw the whole world into my consciousness, and brandishing my “no” like a hammer, object to everything: smite what is above, below, and all around; strike near and far. This is my one happiness, however fitful, however sick: overturning all verticals; extinguishing the imaginary sun; entangling the orbits and the world in worldlessness.

I cannot make this life, which walks over me, other than it is or altogether nonexistent, and even so—I object; we object: the Purvapakshin and I. We do not want clockwork days; we do not want lives insured by State Insurance; we do not accept the ideas ironed into newssheets neatly folded in four; as in the days of the emperor Ashoka, so now, in this time of tsarlessness, he says and I repeat, he asserts and i concur: “no.” A persecuted and half-dead pauper, I cannot overturn all things, the houses that have sunk into the ground, all the lived-in-to-death lives, but I can do this: Overturn the meanings. Let the rest remain. Let it. (Seams, pp. 64-65)

***

7. STOLEN SOLITUDES

For everyone, reality is in one’s self. Yet every “I” is sewn into a “we”; from individuals—however loosely stitched together—comes a society, a kind of unit composed of solitudes. The strangest paradox of all is a city, connecting the unconnecting. Here the need to be alone nearly coincides with self-preservation: People survive so as to buy from each other, at a cost of ceaseless labor, the chance to be without each other. People hoard the coins from their art, their work, their thieving so as to acquire walls. In the countryside, far from human congeries, their solitudes are not protected, not bounded by walls, and so open to attack; in the city, they are organized, hidden behind blinds and walls, kept under lock and key, properly defended. Man, however, must be not only without man but without God; the tenet of divine omnipresence violates his right to solitude; that unblinking eye fixed on his life, peering through its mystical triangle as through a prison-cell peephole, must be removed. Hence the distinctive urban atheism of beings who, after a long day of rushing about among questioners and observers, of struggling frantically to break away from “we” to “I,” crave at least a few minutes of complete isolation, out of sight and reach of everything without. Thus does the silkworm, when its time has come, creep away in anxious search of stillness, soundlessness, so as to wrap itself in its cocoon. A city, too, consists of anxious creepers and a system of discrete cocoons, its only purpose. And of course a city is most city-like not at midday but at midnight, not when it’s all clamors and clanks but when it’s all hush and dreams: Only a deserted street with dead, rayless windows and rows of shuttered doors can fully explain a city. Yes, we can only live back to back; everything—from the small children on an urban boulevard slapping together their separate cities, of sand and clay, to the corpses in suburban cemeteries lying in graves separated from one another by iron fences—everything confirms and corroborates this thought.

I remember once, as I was pacing up and down the crooked camber of a side street before dawn, I heard first footsteps, then someone’s measured muttering. The footsteps broke off but the muttering continued. I walked toward the sound. By a gray stone pile, still hazy in the half-light, stood a man with his back to the wall; his legs wobbled, while his head looked as if it would come unscrewed from his coat collar. He did not notice me or the dead stone surround and, as if inscribed in an inviolate magic circle, went on rocking and raptly repeating: “God, thank God, doesn’t exist. Thank God, God doesn’t exist.”

This sounded like a declaration of solitude. Walking past the drunk, it occurred to me that the only thing that still interested me was following human solitudes, solitary souls who were trying—with comic ineptitude and tragic obstinacy in the thick of this human hive—to inscribe themselves in their own inviolate circle. As my hours of leisure were long and many, I decided to devote myself unstintingly to stealing solitudes. That’s right. Indigence and indolence always incite one to sin: to steal solitudes. (Seams, pp. 70-72)

***

And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and departed, and went and hanged himself. And the chief priests took the silver pieces, and said, It is not lawful for to put them into the treasury, because it is the price of blood. And they took counsel, and bought with them the potter’s field, to bury strangers in. Wherefore that field was called, the field of blood, unto this day.

With these four verses I could fill a dozen tomes and turn them into ten adventure novels. In fact, let’s review the images: a handful of coins thrown down on the temple flags; a man’s neck in a noose; an avaricious potter none too mindful of the money’s smell; a striking title—”The Price of Blood”; a burial ground for stravaging strangers; and a masterful last verse that takes that square of earth earmarked for the dead by its four corners and stretches it unto... But that will depend on who decides to develop this theme—a realist, a Symbolist, or a Romantic.

I’ve been circling round the third verse for a long time and once I got inside, though by a different door; I tried to picture the potter’s field, cracked and sere with the scorching heat, strewn with dry-needled thorn branches, a hundred square cubits or thereabouts, surrounded by cart tracks and paths, a web of roads delivering strangers done stravaging. Here the theme asked me a question: Why had the chief priests in buying land for a burial ground bothered only about foreigners and not about their own, not about Jerusalemites, or even about themselves? The fourth verse explains: the price of blood. The chief priests, who conducted the proceedings against Jesus with a subtle grasp of canon law, cannot be accused in this case of improvidence: one cannot bury one’s own in earth besmirched with blood, whereas with strangers one needn’t stand on ceremony. Farther on, however, the theme began to frown: strangers there were many, land there was little; the bodies multiplied, not so the burial ground. The field of blood, like a pool without drainpipes (the kind never found in math primers), was soon filled to overflowing and the theme brought to a standstill; one had to apply to the ghosts trailing over the graves, to appeal to restless strangers who even in death could not lie still till Judgment Day. In short, one had to resort to the sorts of stale Romantic stunts that neither censorship nor good taste (a rare coincidence!) will let pass.

So then, still circling the third verse, I entered it through “bought” and chose for my hero the thirty pieces of silver: unromantic, ringing, countable, relatively imperishable. After all, who and what remained of this gospel story about deaths: one man was crucified; another hanged himself; still others (the strangers) were buried one after another in the field of blood. Only the thirty ringing coins remained in circulation; wherever those silver pieces roll, my story shall follow. I’ll begin. (Thirty Pieces of Silver, pp. 162-63)

#Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky #book quotes

0 notes

theconservativebrief · 6 years ago

Link

This month’s cover of National Geographic depicts a lone white cowboy looking out over the American West, with the question: Whose land is it anyway?

National Geographic’s November issue. National Geographic

The Instagram promotion of the cover juxtaposes the American cowboy and the words “Battle for the American West” with a Native American, dressed in full regalia in front of a Utah state building.

This visual framing — the heroic white savior versus the savage native — is not new to the American imagination or to the magazine. For decades, National Geographic has been criticized for its colonialist approach to nonwhite cultures, specifically indigenous communities. Critics argue that it has been peddling visual tropes of “savage” or “uncivilized” brown and black people for more than a century.

As part of the magazine’s April 2018 “The Race Issue,” Susan Goldberg — the publication’s first woman and first Jewish editor-in-chief, since its founding in 1888 — flatly denounced National Geographic’s troubled history. Her mea culpa was headlined, “For Decades, Our Coverage Was Racist. To Rise Above Our Past, We Must Acknowledge It.”

As part of the story, Goldberg hired John Edwin Mason, a University of Virginia professor specializing in the history of photography and the history of Africa, to examine how the magazine pushed readers toward racist stereotypes and tropes.

Mason was almost speechless with some of the depictions he came across in the archive, like a 1916 story about Australia where aboriginal Australians were called “savages” who “rank lowest in intelligence of all human beings.”

“What Mason found in short was that until the 1970s National Geographic all but ignored people of color who lived in the United States, rarely acknowledging them beyond laborers or domestic workers. Meanwhile it pictured ‘natives’ elsewhere as exotics, famously and frequently unclothed, happy hunters, noble savages — every type of cliché,” wrote Goldberg.

Which brings me back to November’s cover — a blatant disregard for what seemed like a sincere reckoning. I corresponded with Mason to inquire about his work with the famed publication, whether he sees progress, and how he felt when he first saw the magazine’s November cover.

The Q&A, lightly edited for clarity, appears below.

Kainaz Amaria

Tell me a little bit about your work with Goldberg on the magazine’s “racial reckoning.”

John Edwin Mason

My instructions were to dig deeply into the magazine’s archives to evaluate the ways it had depicted black and brown people — overseas and in the US. I found that its photographs and illustrations tended to position black and brown people as racial inferiors, as people inherently backward and incapable of progress. These depictions were sometimes overtly racist at least until the 1970s. The sometimes explicit corollary was that white people were the natural rulers of the globe.

The magazine has changed significantly for the better over the last few decades, but the habit of seeing black and brown people as the other — that is, of viewing them from the standpoint of whiteness — has never completely gone away.

Kainaz Amaria

Let’s back up a bit. Can you describe the era in which National Geographic was founded and how it came to prominence?

John Edwin Mason

The magazine was born at the height of so-called “scientific” racism and imperialism — including American imperialism. This culture of white supremacy shaped the outlook of the magazine’s editors, writers, and photographers, who were always white and almost always men.

They saw the world through the same elite perspective as American policymakers and politicians based in Washington DC. They were tied to that elite white male perspective. The magazine almost thought of itself as a branch of government. It believed very much in the colonial enterprise.

I didn’t detect any defensiveness in the editors when I spoke with them about this. Instead, I sensed a genuine willingness to address the magazine’s past and to improve the ways it depicts people of color. And, as it turned out, the race issue was superb.

Kainaz Amaria

For folks that are new to understanding issues around representation in photography, can you tease out why the imagery of a cowboy on a horse and a Native American person in regalia combined with the text “Whose Land Is It?” feels like it’s from another time? What were your initial thoughts when you saw November’s National Geographic cover?

John Edwin Mason

Surprise, disappointment, and a touch of sadness. The cover of the November issue is a step backward. The Instagram presentation is two steps backward.

The image of the white cowboy reproduces and romanticizes the mythic iconography of settler colonialism and white supremacy. After all, we know that most cowboys weren’t heroic and that a very large number of them were Latino or black. We know that the land that the cowboy worked had been stolen from Native Americans. The myth was created to obscure all of that.

The cover of the November issue tells us that it’s about “The Battle for the American West” and asks “Whose Land Is It Anyway?” The photo of the cowboy, bathed in golden sunlight, while sitting on his horse and surveying the landscape, answers the question — implicitly but clearly. The American West is his. It’s a white man’s county.

On Instagram, a photo of a Native American — dressed in tribal garb, mouth wide open —immediately follows the image of the handsome, stoic cowboy. The implied racial hierarchy is clear. One is exotic and primitive; the other is, like the magazine’s presumed readers, white and civilized.

“The magazine missed an opportunity to disrupt entrenched ways of seeing the West”

This way of seeing the West reproduces the iconography of settler colonialism. You could put it on the cover of a book extolling the righteousness of Manifest Destiny, the 19th-century notion that white settlement was divinely destined to spread across North America.

The cover photo also reminds me of the iconography of Afrikaner nationalism in South Africa. The man on a horse, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and commanding the landscape, was a recurring motif in Afrikaner nationalist imagery. As in the US, it grew out of a desire to naturalize and justify settler colonialism and the theft of lands owned by indigenous people. White Americans don’t like to think of their country as a settler state, but, like apartheid South Africa, that’s exactly what it is.

Kainaz Amaria

This seems to directly contradict their mea culpa. How could it have been done better?

John Edwin Mason

I was as disappointed by what the cover didn’t do as by what it does. The magazine missed an opportunity to disrupt entrenched ways of seeing the West. Why didn’t it use a portrait of a Native American? Or if you wanted to stay with the theme of conquest, why not an image of a white pioneer woman? At least it would be a reminder that the West wasn’t simply a white man’s world. Or if the theme of the cowboy was important, why not a dark-skinned cowboy?

Kainaz Amaria

Anything else you’d like to add?

John Edwin Mason

There were many options that the magazine could have chosen to encourage its readers to see and think anew. But it ignored them all.

The photographs in the online version of the cover story also create a racial hierarchy. Native people are seen only in traditional clothing. A photo of an ancient Pueblo dwelling and photos of petroglyphs and pictographs that are many centuries old represent their culture. Visually, they’re associated only with the past. The article shows whites, on the other hand, dressed in modern clothing and engaged in recognizably modern activities such as farming, mining, and outdoor recreation. They’re surrounded by associated modern technologies of jeeps and trucks and mountain bikes. Whites, then, are depicted as progressive and dynamic, the opposite of Native Americans, who seem to be mired in the past.

Kainaz Amaria

Let’s go beyond the cover. What are your thoughts specifically on how the other stories inside the magazine are framed?

John Edwin Mason

It contains some truly excellent reporting and photography, including the cover story about the rancher who sold his land to the Nature Conservancy.

It’s clear to me that the cover and the Instagram promotion don’t do the magazine justice. The content is more complex and nuanced than they would lead one to believe. This is especially a problem since it’s very likely that most people who see the cover and the Instagram post will never read this issue of the magazine. They’ll see only the message that the cover and post send, a message that reproduces and reinforces an enduring myth of settler colonialism.

Kainaz Amaria

This a really good point. If the cover reinforces visual cliches that could offend audiences, is it fair to ask people to engage with the stories inside? Charlie Hamilton James, who photographed the cover story for their October issue, noted that in his experience, clichés are often used to draw an audience into the story.

It’s a balance of course and there’s perhaps no right or wrong. In my experience people respond to cliche – I didn’t do the cover so I can’t comment. But when I was a film maker I would draw people in with the cliche then change then change the narrative.

— CharlieHamiltonJames (@chamiltonjames) October 24, 2018

I’m interested in your thoughts around this argument. Do you think using clichés works to draw in audiences?

John Edwin Mason

It seems to me that National Geographic has itself demonstrated that cover photos can draw readers in while simultaneously challenging their preconceptions. I’ll point to the cover of the January 2017 issue on the gender revolution. It featured Robin Hammond’s powerful portrait of a transgender girl, dressed in pink with hair to match, whose pose and direct, utterly self-possessed gaze riffed on Édouard Manet’s “Olympia.”

Many readers probably found the portrait to be unsettling. Yet it’s also undeniably compelling and an almost irresistible invitation to open the issue and read more.

Clichés are crutches; National Geographic doesn’t need them. Its mission isn’t to tell people what they think they already know about the world. It’s to show them something new.

Original Source -> National Geographic’s November cover falls back on a racist cliché

via The Conservative Brief

#IFTTT #The Conservative Brief

0 notes