#rastro beloved

[majorproblems77]

For your consideration;

Consider.

Sky is only sleepy, because he loves cuddles.

And he always had a cuddle buddy to sleep with.

So he goes to bed early and sleep in late.

I am considering...

And I love it

In fact....

I slipped... Whoops

"Is he sleeping again?" Warriors asked as he sat beside Time, fire crackling beside them. Night had fallen and the camp had long since quietened down as the group were preparing to rest for the night.

"I think so." The old man smiled as he remained as still as possible. The skyloftian had settled on his shoulder and was soundly sleeping.. The small wood carving in his hand limply hanging from his hand.

Warriors smiled gently while shaking his head. As he reached over to take the carving and the small carving knife from the Skyloftian's hands.

"You know. This is probably the latest I've seen him here. He's normally gone to bed by now."

"Well. He's been asleep on my shoulder for..." Time paused looking up at the Sky. "Two hours and twenty-seven minutes."

"Considering you're still in plate armour, thats pretty impressive. Let me get him off you and into his bedroll so you can get some rest."

"No.... No... Don... go..." Sky's voice sounded sleepy in protest. as his hands attempted to grab at Time. Finding The captain's scarf instead. "Dont... leave me." The man in question looked down at the man in his arms eyebrows raised and worry stitched into his forehead.

Time let out a groan as he stood tall. stretching his legs. Looking towards the skyloftian as he swung his arm around. Trying to regain feeling. "That. Sounds like a dream."

"It does." The captain paused. Looking down as the Skyloftian shifted below him. Sky wrapped his arms around the Captain's neck. As he nuzzled his head into the Scarf. "uhh... this is new?"

"Not new." A new voice as the Two men turned around. A flash of blue and black as Wild approached them. "Sky's a hugger." The champion smiled as he approached from the woods. The champion looked at Warriors. Then down to the side. "Let's just say that I'll take your watch tonight Captain." He looked back at the two men. "Sky won't let you go. So you might as well rest while he's giving you the opportunity."

"I've..."

"Nope." The champion pointed to the Skyloftian's bedroll. "You go there. If you try to leave him down now He'll wake up and won't sleep for the rest of the night."

"How do you know?"

"Experience. And its too far to ordonan from here to make it in a day if we leave at our normal time."

"Wild It's my watch I really should..."

"You can take partial watch from besides him, but he need's someone close by." Wild smiled, "And anyway, I'd hate to have to set the sailor on you for upsetting him. Or Twilight for making us late to his home which I might add he's been waiting to get to for weeks now."

The captain looked down at the skyloftian, and sighed. Walking over to the skyloftians Bedroll and placing him down on it, being mindful to not jostle him too much.

Time chuckled. As he also went over. Helping the captain settle the Skyloftian down. "I can stay with him if it makes you uncomfortable. I know you dont like being... Confined."

"If I can do it in the war, I can do it with Sky now." The captain leant his arm down, allowing the Skyloftian to curl around it.

Time chuckled again. "Alright. But let me know." The older man patted his shoulder and stood up. Walking away.

Warriors ended up remaining by Sky's side all night. Sleeping sat upright his arm grabbed by the younger man.

When the sun filtered through the trees the following morning. The captain awoke with a groan as he rolled his neck. He sat up and after hearing the rustling of fabric saw a blanket had been placed over him.

"Hey captain..." A soft voice from behind him made him turn around. The Skyloftian stood a few feet away from him. A mug in his hands.

Sky was fully dressed, he looked like He'd been up for a while. The sailcloth draped over his shoulders. finished his approach to the captain and handed him the mug.

Coffee?

Sky knew he drank coffee?

Silence fell between the pair as The captain took a few cautious sips. It was perfect.

"Thank you for last night... You didn't have to do that."

right...

"It's no bother." The captain said gently as he stood. Rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms one at a time. So he could keep a hand on the mug.

"No really. I know you dont like being forced to remain still. You didn't have to do that." The skyloftian shifted nervously as he looked down.

"It's alright."

"It's just I've always got Mia or Zelda at home I'm never alone and since We've been on this quest it takes me so long to get to sleep when I'm alone cause it reminds me of my journey and how it...." Sky began to move his hands rapidly as he spoke rapidly.

"Sky."

"...reminds me of how I lost my best friend saving another i didn't feel alone cause Fi was always by my side and it made me feel safe and I do feel safe around you guys and all but I just..."

"Sky." He tried again.

Sky continued to ramble. His hands twitched nervously as he bunched the sailcloth between his fingers.

"SKY."

The skyloftian stopped, freezing in place.

"It's alright. We are brothers. You need to just ask."

"I..."

"If you say you're sorry, I'll set Wind on you."

"I'm sorry..." Sky spoke so softly as he ripped his hands together. Thinking the Captain hadn't heard him.

The captain raised his eyebrows before raising a hand to his mouth. Sky's eyes widened as he shook his head. and waved his hands in front of him frantically. "You dont need to do that."

"WIND!"

[lolabearwrites]

Get attacked!! ✨🌈SEND THIS TO OTHER BLOGGERS YOU THINK ARE WONDERFUL. KEEP THE GAME GOING🌈

Beep

AWW THANK YOU <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

[fables-flicker]

Did Link just go face to face with Hylia after bitching about being the hero?

Awkward? Maybe?

Also yes Zelda, that does sound weird but right lol

Yes! It's Hylia....Lmao I didn't think about it that way XD

[mxgnusopus]

disclaimer : oc basado en el juego GENSHIN IMPACT, los siguientes son hc pertinentes a su historia y/o desarrollo.

⭒ She sings the Aria of Sorrows, everyone in Fontaine knew her voice: the Opera's prodigy, our beloved Mademoiselle that make the gods cry with her magnificent symphony.

DUSEK, Marina. 18 y.o, ANEMO VISION, catalyst. The Aria of Sorrows.

Proveniente de Fontaine, Marina siempre demostró destreza innata en la ópera, superando el talento de su padre. La favorita de Lady Furina, aquella que adora escuchar en sus tiempos libres: los aplausos siempre resuenan con fervor cada que su acto acaba.

Cabello rubio, vestido azul marino, y una diadema adorna su cabeza. Su visión cuelga de su pecho, más no la porta como orgullo: es sólo un penoso recuerdo, el cómo la obtuvo no es más que la tragedia misma incrustada en su memoria.

Su madre desapareció, sin dejar rastro alguno: ella buscó, y buscó, su padre casi agota la fortuna de la familia por encontrarla, más: nada.

El día qué, finalmente, Lord Neuvillette pidió el cese de la búsqueda, Lord Dusek organizó un funeral con pesar. Tras la celebración, ella entonó una de tantas Arias favoritas de su madre.

Al finalizar: la visión se manifestó sobre el ataúd de la presunta fallecida, y ella, que sólo atisbó a Lady Furina por una respuesta, sólo recibió una mirada de confusión, para luego: nada, nuevamente.

Ahí, nació el Magnus Opus de Marina: Aria of Sorrows. La melodía de la tristeza.

[mysde-chan-18]

Aquí hay un nuevo personaje :D

ahora su historia:

Es hija de Lucifer,el primer demonio creado su hermana mayor era una chica bastante curiosa y aventurera se solía meter en muchos problemas de niña,cuando creció tuvo que enfrentarse a su gemela mayor para ver quien obtendría el puesto de reina de los demonios. Su hermana mayor ganó,Azazel perdió su ojo derecho en el combate aún así ella nunca le guardo rencor a su hermana por alguna razón,su hermana un día desapareció sin dejar rastro por ende Azazel tuvo que tomar el cargo de reina. Años después se enteró que su hermana mayor fue asesinada y que ella tenía una hija,su reacción no fue muy buena,sufrió mucho pues quería en exceso a su hermana,desde ese día no volvió a ser la misma en la actualidad sigue gobernando y es considerada alguien bastante bella e inteligente,sin embargo en lo más profundo de su corazón sigue extrañando demasiado a su querida hermana. Hiroko

Eng:

Here's a new character :D

now her story:

She is the daughter of Lucifer, the first demon created her older sister was a very curious and adventurous girl, she used to get into many problems as a child, when she grew up she had to face her older twin to see who would get the position of queen of demons. Her older sister won, Azazel lost her right eye in combat yet she never held a grudge against her sister for some reason, her sister one day disappeared without a trace, therefore Azazel had to take over as queen. Years later she found out that her older sister was murdered and that she had a daughter, her reaction was not very good, she suffered a lot because she loved her sister excessively, since that day she has not been the same again today she continues to rule and is considered someone quite beautiful and intelligent, yet deep in her heart she still misses her beloved sister too much. Hiroko

Datos curiosos:

-Su diseño en otras variantes es exactamente el mismo,solo cambia un poco las paletas de colores

-Se lleva bastante bien con su sobrina Rachel Magne(hija de su hermana Hiroko)y quiere mucho a Sara que según Azazel es su nieta

-Ella no envejece al ser un demonio

-La suelo emparejar con Dust! Sans por qué...sí lol

Fun facts:

-Her design in other variants is exactly the same, just change the color palettes a little

-She gets along quite well with his niece Rachel Magne (daughter of his sister Hiroko) and loves Sara very much, who according to Azazel is his granddaughter

-She does not age by being a demon

-I usually pair her with Dust! Sans why ... yeah lol

[majorproblems77]

I saw I got tagged a few times in this one so thank you @musical-chan, @rastro-writes if I missed anyone let me know :)

Here you go!

But who watches the watcher?

Oh no, am I back at it again with the angst? You bet. :)

No pressure tags, @skyloftian-nutcase, @breannasfluff, @arecaceae175, @uniquevoidflowers, @margindoodles2407

Last sentence tag game

RULES: Post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything) and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence.

Thanks for the tags @mistresslrigtar and @dubiiousfood !! Here is what I have, from the next of the depths:

Losing his arm had been a shock, but the loss of his gear was devastating.

Tagging: @flutefemme @leiladebees @louwhose @cooking-with-hailstones @embyrinitalics @ladyhoneydee @hyylia @aurathian + anyone else who wants to play!

[fleurdujardin]

A short tragic love story

She smells the fresh coffee. Soon she realizes that the light is on even though the sun comes through the window. The bread is still in the toaster and the butter waits patiently on the counter. She goes down the remaining steps with her bare feet and walks down the hall to the front door. The bicycle is not there, nor is his corduroy coat that he used almost every day during the winter. The pair of keys that belonged to him are still hanging on the wall. She takes one last look at the kitchen, hoping to find some sign among the shelves: a note, a clue, a trace. She puts her hands to her face and sobs, yanks open the door, and sells out. She broke the quarantine to search for her beloved.

Ella huele el café recién hecho. Se da cuenta de que la luz está encendida a pesar de que el sol entra por la ventana. El pan sigue en la tostadora y la mantequilla espera pacientemente en la barra. Baja los escalones restantes con sus pies descalzos y atraviesa el pasillo hasta la puerta de la entrada. No está la bicicleta, ni tampoco su abrigo de pana que usaba casi diario, durante el invierno. El par de llaves que le pertenece a él sigue colgado en la pared. Le da un último vistazo a la cocina esperando encontrar alguna señal entre los estantes: una nota, una pista, un rastro. Se lleva sus manos a la cara y lanza un sollozo. Acerca su mano a la perilla, abre la puerta de un tirón y sale a la calle. Rompió la cuarentena para buscar a su amado.

[majorproblems77]

What is a blorbo?

(Yes, this is open ask to rant about your blorbo)

So a blorbo is something you just obsess over until everyone is like okay we understand and then you do it more cause you love them

Sky, is my blorbo

Rest below line to save feeds

I love him

He is wonderful in every way, sweet innocent skyloftian child. He is wonderful he is cosey he is eepy and he is just a mood honestly

Like if you dont like sky im sorry but you is lying (jk but)

Who wouldnt love the sleepy boy innocent sweet blorbo beloved

He's eepy, it is in the game, you sit on a stool he naps to regain health

so he nap He killed a literal god he naps again

He is so lovely and we dont deserve the innocent blorbo in the world, he deserves everything ever and I love him and I just yes.

He takes up a lot of my waking thoughts

Blorbo

You've no idea how much seeing this cheered me up, thanks :)

[lolabearwrites]

Fanfic ask game

4, 7, 30?

Thank you for the ask! <3

4.How do you chose which fics to write?

Normally I'll write any idea I have if i have more than vibes!

7. Post a snippet of a from a wip

post botw/pre totk zelink

She met his eyes filled with clear bewilderment, she expected as much, yet once the shock subsided, she didn't expect such a lackluster reaction. "Do you want me to go?" he asked gently. "Well" she paused. Although she truly held no authority, she was still aware in his mind, she was the princess and she was worried her answer would sway him in her favor just because of his desire to please. She didn't want that. "I want you to be happy," she said simply. He knitted his brows again. "Then why are you asking me to leave?"

30. How much do you edit your fics? Do you edit as you write or wait until you finish the first draft?

you guys edit your fics? j/ I'll be honest I don't edit as much as I should, but normally I edit as I go

[lolabearwrites]

I agree! I think one of the weakest aspects of TOTK was how they presented the story. You could easily find the memory of Zelda turning into the dragon first before learning anything literally else of what happened to her. (I think that formal worked better for BOTW, but that was because Link had amnesia and you aren't always going to regain your memories in chronological order.)

Having locked areas and or quests/story beats is a really good idea! I feel like it would encourage players to work through the story. I think it would also be nice if in the next game you're actually living through the story instead of just finding memories of it

Should the next Zelda game be open world like BOTW & TotK, or linear like the prior games? Why?

Personally, I think it should be open world akin to BOTW and TOTK. Some linear story elements for storytelling would be interesting, like certain areas locked behind story somehow, like proper dungeons.

I think the Open world really works for Zelda and lets players explore the world the devs build. But it has to work with the storytelling too.

So open world with linear aspects would be a good mix to give people more direction they want, and keep that open world that drew in so many people.

[noplanwithavan]

RIDING DORIS

It was all getting a bit much a month ago, thoughts narrowed towards jacking it all in. Homeschooling was becoming a joyless chore for all concerned, I lit the touch paper on a spiralling communication saga by losing our one and only phone, and then, to top it all off, the camera packed up. But, in the words of the late great David Bowie, we’ve turned to face the strain, and I can now crow about the “ch..ch..cha..changes..”

We’re back in Spain, but are still basking in the warmth of the shadow Morocco cast over us. Under the glare of its hard-baked light, Europe looks somehow different now. The contrasts and privileges we enjoy more sharply illuminated. When we first began this trip it felt like a rugged, adventurous existence. I would get twitchy if water was running low, clothes were unwashed, or the preferred supermarket chain didn’t present itself. Now I can honestly say none of these things are remotely problematic. Because at a fundamental level stuff works, and the consumer will always be fed; choked full with choice.

Perhaps we can thank Dorris for our change in fortunes. After a lifetime of chasing the perfect storm, serendipity finally shone on Marcus. He checked a surf website and found a post advising surfers that the coast of Morocco was the best place in the Atlantic to ride the effects of Storm Dorris. Which is precisely where we’d landed - in the coastal village of Immsouane. There followed an excitable babble - phrases like “longest right hand point break” cropped up. Much of it was unintelligible, but the overall effect was clear to the girls and I. For once, Dad was ahead of the curve.

We spent the best part of a week, enjoying the camaraderie of the van community here and revelling in how laid back the town felt compared to much of Morocco. No-one hassled us, and the only enterprising ploy was a man in a high-vis vest who appeared each morning, ruffled the girls hair, and charged us 50p to camp by the beach. Until this point it had been uncharacteristically cold (-2 degrees overnight in the desert), but the sun was now out in force. We made a conscious decision to lay off on the schooling for a bit, resolving that we’d rather not do it all than face a daily battle. Marcus surfed each day, while the girls and I made the most of the warmth to eat out for breakfast and make picnics to take to the beach.

Continuing South we passed the Argan groves and Banana plantations around Agadir, threading our way through terraced valleys to the “Valley of the Vans” in Tafraoute. Looking back now I miss those days of driving in Morocco. With few fast roads, and even fewer motorways, the whole experience is an assault on the senses. Those ceaseless landscapes the girls have begun reflecting in their drawings. Symmetrical sand dunes and date palm trees with scaly hides. Outside the window it is vast and timeless; life pressing in upon you from every direction. Towns with dirt roads, and buildings that peter out, collapsing under the weight of exertion or the heat. Marcus recalls a quote from the film “Easy Rider”, a chant which he sings each time we stop. “Man is at the win-dow…man is at the win-dow.” For there is always a man at the window. Even if you are utterly remote and can’t possibly conceive how there could be.. there is. I take advantage of the fact that no-one wants to deal with me, craning past my shoulder in search of “the husband”. It’s a blessed relief after France, Spain and Portugal where I did all the talking. “He wants to speak to you,” I helpfully inform my beloved, stepping back in deference as the usual patter begins. He takes it well, but it can grate. Having pulled over at one point, he leans out the van door grappling to find the switch so we can charge the laptop. Lulu is firing questions from the back, Elsie needs a poo, and just then a man appears, on cue, asking Marcus if wants to buy some of his wares. “I’m sorry, but I’m just trying to sort out MY stuff,” I hear him say with an exasperated sigh. “I can’t sort YOU out too!”

The flip side of such attentive ingenuity becomes plain to see when we arrive in Tafraoute. Set in the bowl of a valley is a stunning prehistoric scene, speckled with motorhomes. It’s not quite the young, happening destination we had been led to expect - more a waiting ground for those escaping a European winter. In response to this steady drip feed of well-off pensioners, a whole local industry has sprung up. We pull in and every 5 minutes someone appears at the door offering a service. There is a bread man, a water man, a woman who will wash your clothes, another asking if we’ll come to her house for dinner, a recycling boy, even a spray paint man who will decorate your vehicle with a camel and a desert scene. It gives Marcus an idea and he gets the girls to set up a stall outside our van trying to sell back to the Moroccans. But despite their best efforts, and new found knowledge of bartering, Elsie and Lulu fail to shift any of the “precious crystals”, (aka worthless quartz) they have been hoarding. We strike lucky with a solar panel guy who does a side line in car batteries. Finally a chance to stock up on a spare leisure battery. After all there’s only so much of a lukewarm fridge one can take. For the first time in months the freezer compartment springs to life and we have ice in our G+T. Bliss!

We left Morocco two weeks ago, and in that time we’ve now travelled all the way north to Andorra. From the dry heat to the snowy slopes. We stopped off along the way to meet some friends of Marcus’s in Madrid. As a city break it was a real highlight. Even though the girls were clearly more impressed by Museo Reina Sofia’s glass-fronted lift than the Picasso painting “Guernica” we had so looked forward to showcasing. Parking for free in a carpark in Valdebernardo, just a few hundred metres from the underground, we would spill out of the van each morning and ride the metro into the city centre. It was a trip down memory lane for Marcus, and one we teased him about mercilessly. Seventeen years ago he had lived here for some months with his Spanish girlfriend Marta. The girls were fascinated to learn they would meet her, asking searing questions like, “Did you used to kiss her?” Elsie became so attached to the idea of impressing this former flame, she even insisted on packing and carrying a special bag for the occasion. “My Marta Bag,” she proudly declared, sifting through her Magpie treasures. It was lovely to meet both Marta, her boyfriend Juan, and another artist friend Sean Mackaoui. We were hosted and chaperoned, and it felt good to wander the city, the scruffy unpretentious Rastro market, the spit and sawdust bars where you can get a pick me up of Vermouth. But most of all it was uplifting to be among such welcoming people. You can be a very self-contained unit at times on the road, and such companionship was warmly welcomed.  

We swung out East for another “people-stop” soon after - via the hanging houses of Cuenca and on to Xátiva, near Valencia. It was a detour, but “The Osmans” are well worth it. Another family, in a similar position to us, whom we met at the start of our trip, they are now entering unchartered territory. Having ditched the campervan and bought a house. Most people might complain if you descended on them 3 days after moving in, but Laura, Jay, Dolly and Nancy aren’t the type to let that get in the way. I’m struck by how at ease we feel with them, having only met them a few times. It feels like a shared bond, and we’re so excited by this new life they are building. The girls get on famously, starting a swap shop of toys and clothes, while Marcus and I take comfort from their kind advice and support on the whole issue of homeschooling. They’re just a bit more animated than we are. And Jay does a great singalong on the Ukele to make learning more fun. We leave fired up and inspired, and in truth things have been going a lot better.

On the way to the Pyrenees we spent a few nights camping by the thermal crystal clear waters of Montanejos. Lying on your back watching the tear-stained gorge above, pine trees swaying in greeting. Wild swimming in 25 degree water does not come much better than this. And I’m struck by how happy we all are. It is not in those worthy, grand Spanish towns, but here in the wilderness that we find our rhythm. We laugh a lot, share jokes and feel united once again. And none of it, not the need to change a gas bottle, or get wifi, or even the fact that we now have 3 phones but none of them work, gets us down. Because I really think Morocco taught us something - to be happy with what we have, and what we are.

[notesonfilm1]

Rocia Dùrcal (1944-206) stopped making films in 1977 with Me siento extraña. Outside Spain she’s probably best remembered as the best-selling female recording artist of her time in all of the Spanish-speaking world, with sales of over 40 million albums. She continues to be venerated in Mexico for her partnership with Juan Gabriel and as an incomparable singer of rancheras. The duet below with Joaquin Sabina on Y nos dieron las diez is a lovely illustration of a ranchera arrangement of Sabina’s pop-rock song, and the difference between Sabina’s singing and Dúrcal’s play with emphasis, tone and notes is as good example as any of ranchera style. It melds beautifully.

In Spain, she’s best remembered as a top sixties female film star, second only to Marisol. Like Lana Turner, how she was discovered is part of her legend. Luis Sanz recounts how he had bought his parents an television set. They were watching a talent show, Primer aplauso whilst he was shaving and he heard this marvellous voice and immediately went out to see who was singing. It turned out to be a pretty adolescent girl with a huge voice. He recounts that when he saw her smile he knew he could make her a star.

Sanz groomed her for stardom; she underwent lessons in various aspects of the performing arts, and Sanz built a starring vehicle for her particular talents, Canción de juventud (Luis Lucia, 1962). It was a hit. She consolidated her stardom with her second film, Rocío de La Mancha (Luis Lucia, 1963) and its success led to her becoming a teen idol on record and a top box office attraction on film in Spain and throughout Latin America. Her last film of the sixties, Las Leandras (Eugenio Martín) was also her biggest box office hit.

Dúrcal, along with Marisol, was one of the few of what in Spain are called ‘Niños prodigios/ Child Prodigy Stars,’ in a cinema unusually driven by them — it was as if through much of fifities and sixties national dilemmas could only be explored through the eyes of children, innocent of the past, hopeful for the future, possibly able to withstand the present. Most of these child stars  (Joselito, Pablito Calvo, Pili y Mili) did not survive and their stardom was left back with their childhood.

However, Dúrcal did survive, and part of the reason she did is because she managed to continue to mean and to symbolise. Throughout the sixties, and as she grew from a teenager to a young woman on film, a lot of the ideological struggles the country was undergoing: tradition vs modernity, the foreign vs the indigenous, the old vs the young, the city vs the rural, changing gender roles in a booming economy; all this and more are articulated in her films and via her changing persona.

Two pop-ock numbers in Buenos dias, condesita, both by Los Brincos, sometimes referred to as ‘The Spanish Beatles’, a group whose music has come to signify this period, illustrate these changes very well (Dúrcal would go on to marry one of its members Antonio Morales aka ‘Junior’ in 1970). See Rocio Dùrcal singing ‘Creo en ti’ in Madrid’s ‘El rastro’ flea-market. She’s previously sung an old-fashioned song, ‘Flores, Flores’ and some young men ask her if she doesn’t have anything more modern.

As the boys ask her if she has something more modern, she answers that it’s all the same and that she has something in all rhythms for all ages and to all tastes. She puts a record on her old-fashioned victrola. She begins to sing ‘Creo en ti/ I believe in you’ in the ye-ye pop-rock dancing style of the era, dancing with the sharp arm and leg movements so characteristic then. She begins singing with two young boys in the frame. She’s now and they’re the future. But later in the song, around the 1.18 minute mark, the then fashionably current drums and guitar of the soundtrack are paired visually against tradition: a lute, a statue of a matador and the old armour of a knight, ie. the new, foreign and modern is foregrounded unproblematically with tradition and españoladas as background. The new as part of the old, an imaginary resolution to then very real contradictions.

In fact the plot of Buenos dias, condesita brings this out even more. Durcal plays María, a young girl who’s helping her grandfather make ends meet by selling music at the flea-market. The grandfather himself is a caretaker at the City Palace of an Earl and his Countess for whom modernisation has brought some hard-times. They’re selling off the contents of their grand Madrid house bit by bit before selling the place off altogether. Meanwhile Ramiro (Vicente Parra) has been cut off by his rich uncle (Antonio Garisa) due to his dissolute lifestyle. Ramiro hires María to pretend she’s his fiancée and fake an engagement so as to have his allowance restored. The party announcing this, and proving to his rich uncle that he’s mended his ways, take place in the Earl’s palace. At that moment the Earl and his Countess drop in unexpectedly but play along with the young couple and fool the uncle. Needless to say, the fake couple turns into a real one by the end of the film.

  In the meantime, María is also hired by a television show where she sings a paean to advertising, another song by Los Brincos, ‘Cartel de publicidad’. Here is advertising as the coming of consumer culture, so new and strange in a country that had only recently undergone a decade of hunger. The music, the outfits, the theme, the voicing of desire for a man — all so foreign and yet symbolising all that was new, modern, desirable in Spain. That this takes place in a television show, that it is sung by ‘la novia de España/ Spain’s sweetheart’ which Dúrcal was referred to in this generation as often as Carmen Sevilla was in an earlier one, and that the character she plays is really a street hawker needing to take care of her grandfather only underlines this (see clip above).

There’s an interesting interview with Dùrcal on youtube — filmed a decade after the release of Buenos dias, condesita — where the cameras go to the village of Dúrcal in Cordoba to ask its citizenry how they feel about naming a street after her. And you see people going to work with their loaded mules, the streets unpaved, middle-aged ladies coming out of their houses still dressed in the black one remembers from those days — and one realises that the modernity of the film had yet to hit the village of Durcal in any significant way more than a decade after the film’s release.

Dúrcal has said she was proud of all her sixties musicals, and indeed she should be. They were the bedrock of her impressive subsequent career and they gave her opportunities. In Buenos dias, condesita, aside from the pop songs, she’s given coplas, flamenco music, chotis, and even one of Violeta’s arias from La Traviata so she can dazzle the spectator with her skill and versatility. Also, the vehicles are built entirely around her skills and her persona, the producers don’t skimp on production values (at least for the Spanish cinema of this period) and supporting cast. In Buenos dias, condesita, Carlos Casaravilla, Antonio Garisa, and other beloved comic actors of the era, as recognised and beloved as the stars bring their own particular charm to the film.  Of these the greatest is probably Gracita Morales, who you can see above. She was able to get a laugh out of a simple line reading, one that never resembled a particular person. She played each character like a turn in a vaudeville sketch. It’s a completely different style than that vaunted by any notion of naturalness yet very typical of the era and still very successful in garnering its effects.

Indeed another reason to treasure these films is because they’re a history of actors and acting styles, often borrowed from the theatre, often adept at particular indigenous forms of comic theatre such as sainete that the films, sometimes lazy as well as low-budget, often lift directly from comic turns on stage and place in the film (see example above) thus these films are a repository of acting styles and routines of yore, a whole patrimony of theatrical traditions, one worth investigating.

What was meant to be a short blurb of a teen musical film has ended up way longer than expected, a credit to the film.

José Arroyo

I

Buenos días, condesita (Luis César Amadori, 1967) Rocia Dùrcal (1944-206) stopped making films in 1977 with Me siento extraña. Outside Spain she's probably best remembered as the best-selling female recording artist of her time in all of the Spanish-speaking world, with sales of over 40 million albums.

[lolabearwrites]

Yeah you're right, it's working for me now :D

Ao3 please not now

[majorproblems77]

A thought occurred to me.

Sky is a knight. He trains every day. He slep a lot, but he trains every day.

And he went toe to toe with Demise, after slapping his sleepwalking bum down like three times.

My point of this. He a strong boi. Which tells me he’s as ripped and strong as Twilight?

Is Blorbo ripped under his clothes and the game just denied us seeing?

OOOHHH a good question, and While I do have a take on this I've gotta be careful how I word it to avoid spoilers. You got me researching things, (And mass comparisons cause I live in kilograms but I know my American friends don't. So I've got both! :D)

So, Here we go :D

Sky is strong, he's very strong, but he's not as ripped as say Twi. He's lived at high altitudes his whole life and trains on the daily, eats pumpkins on the regular alongside what I can only assume is actually quite a healthy lifestyle. But I wouldn't say he's on Twi's level. Twilight is by a long shot the strongest of the links.

He's not a ranch hand like Twilight or say Time. He's not lifting masses of weights on the daily. He's training with a sword that's actually pretty light in comparison.

I did research for this

So taking the master sword as a Longsword blade, from my rough research into the blade. And assuming that Sky always trained with a Longsword. (I don't know about the goddess blade, but I'm working on the master sword dimensions.)

An average longsword weighs approx 1.5kg, (3.3 pounds) - or about a bag and a half of sugar. Which would be heavy, to begin with, but if you lifted that same weight for years without changing it, it would become really easy to lift. Like how if you lift your work or school bag all year it's easy to lift after a while.

After a while it's second nature, it just becomes an extension of yourself.

Sound like anyone? Who can swing a sword like it's nothing??

Whereas in comparison, Twilight works as a wrangler. He wrangles goats. Goats are a little heavier than that. Lets say about (65 - 100kg (between 140 - 220 pounds). Using the midpoint at about 80kg, or 176 pounds. (Or in terms of bags of sugar, 65 - 100 bags) As i couldn't find any information about Ordonian goats but did find information about goats. LOTS OF GOATS

Goats are just heavier. By a bunch.

Man I rambled a tad there

Basically, No, Sky isn't ripped. He's just got one hell of an adrenaline rush. You could even say he was fuelled by spite and hate, the determination to save Zelda and destroy the guy that caused him all the pain in the first place and became superhuman for a while before what I can only assume is crashing so damn hard he slept for several weeks.

But thats all I can say, I don't want to give away spoilers. Spoilers are bad. We ain't here for that.

This was an interesting thing to look into this Friday night, thanks for the ask! :D

[majorproblems77]

Do you have any pets???

I do! I've got two very lovely cats. They are wonderful and I love them

Here have pictures! :D

Sorcha, my beloved girly

And my big fluffy boy, Bennie

[kitdeferramentas]

O sorriso do filho de Hefesto beirava os antagonistas dos filmes de terror. Cortado, de um lado para o outro, só prometendo o... Pior. ⸤ 🔥 ⸣ ⸻ Não sei se você ouviu um boato por aí, mas tem um monstrinho que ataca os chalés a noite. Ninguém ainda pegou ele, mas o rastro que deixa é tenebroso. Ele tira todos os pêlos do seu rosto. Se eu fosse você, tomaria mais cuidado, Digimon. Ou você vai acordar no dia seguinte e ser confundido com uma das crianças. ， Deu de ombros, mantendo-os perto do pescoço e desviando o olhar. A ameaça nada velada permanecia no ar, mas se faria ou não ainda estava na fila de melhor avaliação. A guerra que daria início... Melhor pensar bem. ⸤ 🔥 ⸣ ⸻ Agora sua boca vai ficar mexendo sem sair nada? Vai virar o rosto no sentido contrário do tapa? Não, não! Vai descobrir que o amor da sua vida é, na verdade, sua irmã? Perdoe o desrespeito a sua cultura, mas francamente... O Brasil é mais embaixo no mapa e as novelas são bem melhores. ， Perder qualquer oportunidade para falar do Brasil era um crime para aquele filho de Hefesto. Se a mãe... Não, melhor não. Santa Kimberly era uma santa só por ter mantido-o naquele grau de liberdade, a ponto de se deixar fantasiar sobre a aparência do pai - e de onde viera. ⸤ 🔥 ⸣ ⸻ Amado, beloved, alecrim dourado. Ser um fóssil é o melhor dos elogios que eu já poderia ter recebido. Por quê? Eu digo o porquê. Eu. Estou. Vivo. Mesmo que fóssil signifique morte, o contexto coloca uma bandeira Kitiana agitada a todo vapor. Estou andando para cada um de vocês correrem. Mesmo com uns obstáculos. ， O Culpepper tinha parte faltantes, mas eram detalhes. Se não tivesse todo o repertório habilidoso da parte divina, ainda seria capaz de viver. Certo? Uma contagem mental das partes metálicas fixas e nenhum órgão afetado... É, dava para viver sim. ⸤ 🔥 ⸣ ⸻ Fala que eu não faço o seu tipo, mas ta aí me monopolizando mais que namorada ciumenta. Claro que você não deita na minha, ora. A sua é perfeitamente boa e bem mais confortável que a minha. E é onde está meu pijama preferido. Que tal deixar Natalia ter minha cama hoje e você me abrigar na sua? Quero dormir até mais tarde e chutar umas canelas, digo, abraçar alguém que aguente minha força. Pretty please? ，

Ainda que mantivesse uma carranca séria no rosto, Diego lutava para não cair na gargalhada. Agora que estavam sozinhos, ele podia ceder e rir do amigo, como era típico entre os dois. "Te deixou suado? Eu sempre desconfiei que você tinha uma paixonite por mim. Mas devo dizer que você não faz o meu tipo. Não tem bigode. Seu rosto é lisinho demais, quase como o de um bebê." Os lábios tremiam, assim como os músculos das bochechas. Era tão bom vê-lo descontraído. Depois de tudo o que haviam passado, enxergar uma melhora no filho de Hefesto trazia a Diego uma sensação de paz. Se ele estava ferrado mentalmente, ao menos o bem-estar dos amigos, especialmente de Kit, era o bálsamo que o mantinha com os pés na realidade. "Tá, tá, eu sei que você sempre larga tudo por mim. Não posso ser um pouco dramático? Poxa, Colossus, você sempre estraga o meu barato. Assisti novela mexicana demais com o Santiago, e agora preciso pôr em prática o que aprendi com Paola Bracho." Cruzando os braços, Diego abandonou a seriedade, assumindo uma expressão levemente infantil. Kit podia ser durão, mas também tinha seus momentos de amolecimento. Dizer "não" parecia ainda mais difícil quando alguém pedia com jeitinho. Encurralado, Kit acabava cedendo, tornando-se um "capacho" até que se cansassem de brincar com ele. "Não tente me comprar com suas belas e sábias palavras, Kit. Você é muito mole, muito paizão. Sabe o que falam de você por aí? Que é o fóssil do acampamento. Sabe quantas pessoas eu precisei ameaçar para que parassem de te ridicularizar?" Diego, claro, estava exagerando. Mas ele acreditava que esse tipo de comentário era uma provocação reservada apenas a ele e Dylan. Os outros? Teriam que batalhar muito para conquistar essa intimidade. Ciumento? Talvez só um pouquinho. "Agora vai dizer não. Simples assim." Diego bateu o pé no chão para reforçar sua afirmação. "Não acredito! O seu 'sim' deveria ser exclusivo para mim. Tem uma mulher dormindo no seu quarto, e obviamente não é sua namorada. É aquela sua bruxa de estimação. Aposto que você diria 'não' se fosse eu pedindo para dormir com você. É assim que se conhece os verdadeiros amigos." A possibilidade era nula, dadas as circunstâncias atuais, mas Diego não perderia a chance de apostar no dramalhão, sua segunda melhor arma para qualquer situação.