#romane speaks french
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comite-de-salut-public · 8 months ago
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How many times a day is the roman empire brought up?
Actually not that many! The Roman Republic, on the other hand...
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bywandandsword · 5 months ago
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So I'm researching Cajun folklore to try and reconnect more with my culture and idk if it's just me being GaelPol brained, but it seems very much like there's a Cajun Fairy Faith that parallels things I've seen in the Irish, Scottish, and British Fairy Faiths
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facts-i-just-made-up · 3 months ago
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What’s your favourite linguistics fact?
I wrote a history of the English language a while back that I'm pretty happy with-
English was invented in the year 927 by Lord English of England. Because 927 was a long time ago, he called it "Old English." Lord English of England was German, so the language was mostly just German with a dash of the language spoken by the original inhabitants of England, the Romans.
It became popular to speak English until 1066, when English Island was taken over by a French guy named Norman. Norman insisted everyone speak French, but they didn't know French so he just dropped some French words into the middle of the language and called it "Middle English."
After Middle English, trade patterns and technology such as the printing press and podcast allowed the infusion of numerous other languages, which all melted into English in their own way. Because they melted with each other, the new language was called "Modern English." Several sounds and phonetics changed over the years as well, so this was called the era of the Colossal Vowel Movement.
About this time, England did its usual bullshit and colonized pretty much every place on Earth that it could. English thus spread like a linguistic coronavirus across America, Africa, Australia, and Atlantis, which managed to purge the English influence by sinking to its total destruction and thereby avoiding the horrors of having to speak English.
Today, English is the most spoken language on Earth, not because the most people speak it, but because those who do just never shut the fuck up. Several books have also been written in English, including "Fifty Shades of Grey," "A Weasel in My Meatsafe," and "Pounded In The Butt By My Handsome Sentient Library Card Who Seems Otherworldly But In Reality Is Just A Natural Part Of The Priceless Resources Our Library System Provides."
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speaknow-sw · 18 days ago
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THE POET AND THE ROSE Content : no smut just Anakin being himself. Age gap ? Anakin is 30 you’re 21. Vaginal touch and breast play. 3.7k words.
꧁ Chapter 1 : A Treaty in Vows ꧂
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From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century
"They say the pen is softer than the sword, Yet neither have mercy for hearts of stone. I write not to conquer, but to endure, To whisper to shadows when I’m alone."
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The clash of swords had long faded into memory, replaced by the measured beat of war drums. The French and British armies had bled each other dry over countless seasons, yet no victor emerged. The French Empire, once unyielding, now sought peace, not for lack of strength but out of weariness. Across the sea, the British, proud and unbowed, saw no other way forward.
And so it was that the fate of two nations rested not on the battlefield but in the fragile vows of marriage.
General Anakin Skywalker stood in the drafty war council chamber of a French outpost, his imposing frame dwarfing the room. His armor gleamed faintly in the torchlight, though the marks of countless battles marred its surface. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched behind his back as he listened to the terms of peace being read aloud.
"The King offers his daughter, the Princess, in marriage," the envoy concluded, his voice careful, almost hesitant.
Anakin’s lips curled into a grimace. He turned to Obi-Wan Kenobi, his second-in-command, who leaned casually against the stone wall, his expression betraying none of the mirth Anakin knew lay beneath.
"So this is what our victories amount to? A wife." Anakin’s tone was clipped, laced with disdain.
"It’s a union, not a surrender," Obi-Wan said lightly, though his eyes were sharp. "An end to the bloodshed, Anakin. Isn’t that what we’ve fought for?"
Anakin growled under his breath, pacing the room like a caged lion. He was a man of war, forged by the fires of battle, not the silken threads of diplomacy. The thought of binding himself to a woman he’d never met, for a peace he wasn’t sure would last, set his teeth on edge.
"She better be under fifty," he muttered, earning a snort from Obi-Wan.
"Knowing your luck, she’ll be a saint. Or worse, she’ll be kind."
Anakin shot him a glare but said nothing. The decision was not his to make. He was a soldier, bound to his king’s command, and the decree was clear.
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From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century 
"To bind two nations with a golden ring,
A fragile thread between war and peace.
But peace is no gift—it is a battle of its own,
A sword wrapped in silk, waiting to pierce the heart."
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Westminster Abbey was a grand, sprawling structure, its high arches and marble columns whispering of a legacy far older than France’s green hills. The air was heavy with incense, the murmur of the gathered crowd muted by the solemnity of the occasion.
Anakin stood at the altar, his back straight, his hands resting loosely on the hilt of his ceremonial sword. He had traded his battle-worn armor for fine but unfamiliar attire: a dark tunic edged with gold, a heavy cloak draped over one shoulder. Yet even in finery, he looked out of place, a predator among prey.
He kept his gaze forward, ignoring the curious eyes of Roman nobles who whispered behind painted fans. His thoughts were a tumult of irritation and resignation.
The doors at the far end of the hall groaned open, and a hush fell over the crowd.
The princess entered, her form veiled in a cascade of ivory silk. She moved with practiced grace, her steps measured, though Anakin noted the faintest tremor in her hands as she approached.
When she reached the altar, Anakin risked a glance at her. He could see nothing of her face beneath the veil, only the outline of her delicate figure. She was smaller than he’d imagined, her presence dwarfed by the weight of her ceremonial robes.
The priest began the rites, speaking in both French and the English tongue. Anakin’s responses were curt, his voice a deep rumble that carried through the hall.
Finally, the moment came.
"You may lift the veil," the priest intoned.
Anakin's hands hovered over the delicate fabric of her veil, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd expected to feel nothing, a sense of detachment from this forced union. But as his fingers brushed against the silk, he felt a jolt of electricity course through him.
Slowly, he lifted the veil, revealing her face inch by inch. Her eyes were the first thing he saw, a vivid color that seemed to pierce right through him. They were wide and luminous, framed by long lashes and set in a face of such beauty it took his breath away.
Her hair was a cascade of curls, tumbling down her back like a river of water. Her lips were full and pink, parted slightly as if she were holding her breath.
Anakin found himself staring, unable to look away. He'd seen many beautiful women in his life, but none who had affected him like this. It was as if the very sight of her had stolen the air from his lungs.
"You're... you're beautiful," he heard himself say, the words rough and awkward.
She blushed, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice soft and melodic.
The priest cleared his throat, breaking the spell. "The ceremony is complete. You may now be presented as husband and wife."
Anakin blinked, coming back to himself. He took her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin against his. It was small and delicate, a sharp contrast to his own rough, battle-hardened hands.
For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
"Princess," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.
"General," you replied, your tone measured but soft.
As they turned to face the crowd, Anakin felt a strange sense of pride well up inside him. This woman, this stranger, was his wife. The thought was still foreign, almost surreal. But as he looked down at her, saw the way her eyes shone up at him, he felt a flicker of something else.
Hope.
Perhaps this union, forced though it may be, could be more than just a political arrangement. Perhaps, given time, it could be something real. Something meaningful.
But Anakin knew better than to hold his breath. In his world, there were no guarantees. Only the harsh realities of war.
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From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century
”Bound by vows of gold and stone,
Two strangers stand beneath the crown.
The weight of peace, a heavy throne,
Where swords are lowered, yet hearts may drown.”
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The reception was held in the grand hall of his castle, a sprawling room lit by dozens of chandeliers dripping with crystal. Long tables were laden with silver platters of roasted meats, ripe fruits, and delicate pastries. Musicians played softly in the corner, their strings and flutes weaving a delicate melody that was nearly drowned out by the chatter of the guests.
General Anakin Skywalker stood rigid at the altar, his jaw set, his expression an unreadable mask. He loomed in the sea of French grandeur, his presence at odds with the refinement of the occasion. The fine clothes he wore—a dark blue tunic trimmed with gold—felt foreign, a costume draped over the hardened warrior beneath. His scarred hands rested on the hilt of a ceremonial sword, though his instincts yearned for the familiar weight of the blade he had carried through countless battles.
Around him, the French elite murmured behind fans and jeweled hands, their gazes drifting to him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. He could hear their whispers, faint and venomous.
"A barbarian…" "He doesn’t belong here…" "And she is meant to marry that?"
Their words did not bother him; he had grown used to such scorn. What rankled was the reason he stood there. Marriage. Peace. He was a soldier, a man who lived for the battlefield, not for the political games that followed.
Finally he sat at the head of the table, his new wife beside him. He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony, unsure of what to say. The weight of the day pressed heavily on him, the noise of the room grating against his nerves.
You were quiet, your gaze fixed on the goblet of wine in your hands. The soft light of the chandeliers caught the gold in your hair, making you appear almost otherworldly. Anakin found himself stealing glances at you, though he quickly looked away each time you shifted, afraid you might catch him.
"You’re brooding again," Obi-Wan said, leaning toward him from the next seat over. His tone was light, but his eyes flicked meaningfully toward you.
Anakin scowled. "I’m not brooding."
Obi-Wan smirked. "You are. Perhaps you should try speaking to your bride instead of glaring at your wine."
Anakin shot him a look that could have melted steel, but before he could respond, a sharp crash echoed through the hall.
All eyes turned toward the source of the noise—a French noble, Lord Aulbry, red-faced and unsteady on his feet, had knocked over a goblet. The wine spread across the table like blood, pooling near the edge.
"How fitting," the noble slurred, his voice loud and cutting. "A barbarian at the head of our table."
The room fell silent.
Anakin’s jaw tightened, but he did not move. You stiffened beside him, your fingers tightening around the stem of your goblet.
"Peace, Messire," one of the French officials said hastily, rising to calm the situation. "Tonight is a celebration, not a—"
"A celebration of what?" the noble sneered. "Of our empire’s weakness? Of selling off our princess to a savage?"
Anakin’s hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword, but you placed your hand lightly on his arm. He glanced at you, surprised by the gesture. You gave a small shake of your head, your expression unreadable.
"I suggest you hold your tongue," Anakin said, his voice calm but dangerous. His gaze locked on the noble, who faltered under the intensity of his stare.
The noble muttered something incoherent and stumbled back to his seat, and the tension in the room eased, though it did not dissipate entirely.
You leaned toward him slightly, your voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you," you said, your tone careful.
"For what?" he asked, equally quiet.
"For not drawing your sword."
He allowed a faint smirk to cross his lips. "It was a near thing."
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The castle chamber assigned to them was warm, lit by the soft glow of a roaring fire. The heavy wooden door closed behind them with a resounding thud, leaving them alone for the first time.
Anakin moved toward the hearth, shrugging off his cloak and tossing it onto a nearby chair. He could feel your eyes on him, though you said nothing.
"Does this room meet your standards, princess ?" he asked, his tone dry as he turned to face you.
You stood near the bed, your hands clasped before you. Out of the elaborate wedding attire, you seemed even smaller, dressed in a simple nightgown of white linen.
"It is fine," you said quietly. Then, after a pause, you added, "You may call me as you like, sir."
He arched a brow, and saw roses embroidered on her gown. "My rose, then."
"And what shall I call you?" You asked, surprising him with your directness.
"Anakin will do, or my husband." he replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with expectation. Anakin felt the weight of the evening press down on him. He had no desire to take you roughly right now—not out of indifference, but because he could see the tension in your posture, the faint nervousness in your eyes.
Instead, he moved toward you slowly, as if approaching a startled doe. When he reached you, he took your hand in his, his calloused fingers brushing against your softer ones.
"You’ve been through enough today," he said gruffly. "You needn’t fear me."
Your gaze searched his, and something in your  expression softened. You nodded, a small but significant gesture of trust.
He guided you to the bed, but instead of undressing you, he took a seat beside you and began to unlace your tight shoes. His movements were careful, almost reverent, as though you were something fragile.
"You don’t have to—" you began, but he interrupted you.
"Let me," he said, his voice softer now.
The flickering light of the fire cast a warm glow across your face, illuminating the delicate features that had captivated him since the moment he'd lifted your veil. As he knelt before you, gently removing your shoes, Anakin felt an unfamiliar tenderness stir within him.
"These shoes look uncomfortable," he murmured, his fingers brushing against your ankle as he worked. "I'm surprised you managed to stand through the entire ceremony."
A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "It's not the first time I've worn them, my husband."
The formal address sent a shiver down his spine, a reminder of the weight of this union. But as he looked up at you, saw the way your eyes shone with a mix of nervousness and curiosity, he felt something else. A spark of connection, however tenuous.
"Anakin," he said softly, his hand still resting on your foot. "Please, call me Anakin right now..."
You nodded, your cheeks flushing slightly. "Anakin," you repeated, as if testing the name on your tongue.
He rose to his feet, his hand moving from your ankle to your waist. The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, but there was a strength beneath it that spoke of the warrior he was.
"You're trembling," he observed, his thumb rubbing small circles on your hip. "Are you cold?"
"No," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I'm just... nervous."
Anakin's heart clenched at the admission. He knew all too well the fear of the unknown, the anxiety that came with stepping into uncharted territory. But he also knew the power of vulnerability, the strength that could be found in laying oneself bare.
"There's no need to be afraid," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "We have all the time in the world to... get to know each other."
The last words were laced with a hint of suggestion, but there was no pressure in his tone. Instead, there was a promise, a silent vow to take this journey together, one step at a time.
He drew back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "May I ?” He asked, a hand on the thin strap of your linen gown. 
Anakin's eyes searched yours, a silent question hanging in the air between you. He could feel the weight of the moment, the anticipation that seemed to crackle like electricity.
But there was no rush, no need to force the issue. Instead, he leaned in, his lips brushing against your throat in a feather-light kiss. The touch was innocent, almost chaste, but the scruff of his jaw sent a shiver down your spine nonetheless.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "I find myself at a loss for words."
His hand slid from your waist to your back, drawing you closer. The heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of your nightgown, a reminder of the man beneath the armor.
"Tell me," he continued, his voice low and husky. "What do you want, my rose?"
The question hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation all at once. Anakin knew he was treading on dangerous ground, that one wrong move could shatter the fragile trust that had begun to grow between you.
But he also knew that this moment, this first night as husband and wife, was a turning point. A chance to build something real, something lasting.
You took a shaky breath.“Anything you’d like me to have, husband…”
Anakin's heart raced at your words, a heady cocktail of desire and tenderness surging through him. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, "Are you sure, my rose?"
Your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping your lips. It was all the encouragement he needed.
Anakin's hands slid down to your waist, his fingers splaying across the small of your back as he pulled you flush against him. He could feel the heat of your body, the way your curves melted into the hard planes of his own.
"I want to worship you," he murmured, his lips trailing down the column of your throat. "To taste every inch of your skin, to make you writhe with pleasure."
His hands roamed lower, cupping your buttocks and squeezing gently. The thin fabric of your nightgown did little to hide the heat of your skin, the way your body responded to his touch.
"Tell me what you need," he urged, his voice rough with desire. "Tell me how to please you."
Anakin's own need was a throbbing ache, his cock straining against the confines of his trousers. But he held himself back, determined to focus on your pleasure first.
He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. "I want to hear you, my rose. I want to hear you cry out my name."
His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the hem of your nightgown higher and higher. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your muscles quivered beneath his touch.
"Is this what you want?" he asked, his fingers brushing against the damp heat of your core. "Do you want me to touch you here?"
Anakin's own breath was coming in ragged gasps, his control hanging by a thread. But he held back, waiting for your response. This was your journey, your pleasure. And he would follow your lead, no matter where it took him.
His scruff ghosted against your shoulder. “I fucked many whores senseless in brothels…but never thought I’d have an angel to satisfy. This is the culmination of my mere mortal life…to have you in my arms, quivering from the pleasure I’m giving you …how lucky I am to be alive right now.”
Anakin's words washed over you, a heady mix of reverence and desire that sent shivers down your spine. You felt cherished, worshipped, like a goddess being praised by a devoted supplicant.
"Anakin," you breathed, your voice trembling with need. "Please..."
It was all the encouragement he needed. With a low growl, Anakin swept you into his arms, carrying you to the bed. He laid you down gently, his body covering yours as he hovered above you.
"You're my angel," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire. "My very own heavenly creature, sent to grace my mortal life."
His lips found yours in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep as he claimed your mouth. You responded with equal fervor, your hands fisting in his hair as you pulled him closer.
Anakin's hands roamed your body, mapping every curve and hollow. He pushed the straps of your nightgown down, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze.
"Beautiful," he breathed, his fingers skimming over the sensitive flesh. "Perfect."
He lowered his head, his tongue flicking out to taste your nipple. You arched into him, a low moan escaping your lips as pleasure coursed through you.
Anakin lavished your breasts with attention, his mouth and hands working in tandem to drive you wild with need. Your hips bucked against him, seeking friction, but he held you down, his weight pinning you to the bed.
"Not yet, my rose," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "I'm not nearly done with you."
His hand slid down your body, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You trembled beneath him, your body aching for his touch.
"Please, Anakin," you whimpered, your voice barely recognizable to your own ears. "Please…husband..."
With a low groan, Anakin obliged. His fingers delved between your folds, finding you slick and ready. He stroked you slowly, his touch maddeningly gentle.
Suddenly a knock echoed “General, the French renegates attacked a village, we need you as fast as possible.” A voice spoke urgently through the thick wooden door.
The knock at the door jolted you both out of your passionate haze, the harsh reality of your situation crashing down upon you. Anakin cursed under his breath, his expression hardening as he sprang into action.
He quickly fastened his armor, the tender lover of moments ago replaced by the fierce warrior you knew him to be. You watched him through narrowed eyes, your heart pounding in your chest.
How could you have let yourself be swept away like that ? This man, with countless deaths on his hands, had touched you with such tenderness, had made you feel things you'd never felt before. It was a betrayal of everything you stood for, everything you believed in.
"I have to go," Anakin said gruffly, his voice devoid of the warmth and affection he'd shown you just moments before. "Your people have attacked a village. I need to lead my men."
You nodded stiffly, wrapping the sheets tighter around your body. "Of course. Duty calls."
Anakin paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He turned to look at you, his eyes searching your face. "Princess..."
"Go," you said firmly, turning away from him. "Save the village. That's what you're good at, after all."
The bitterness in your voice was unmistakable, and Anakin flinched as if struck. But he didn't argue, didn't try to change your mind. With a curt nod, he left the room, the door slamming shut behind him.
You were alone, your body still thrumming with unfulfilled desire. But it was tinged with shame, with the knowledge that you'd betrayed your principles for a moment of pleasure.
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back furiously. You were stronger than this, better than this. You wouldn't let a man, no matter how charming or skilled, make you forget who you were.
But even as you tried to convince yourself of your own strength, a small voice whispered in the back of your mind. A voice that wondered what might have been, if you'd given in to the passion that had burned between you.
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From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker
"A fleeting touch, a ghost, a flame, A breath that whispers your quiet name. The silk of your skin beneath my hand, A treasure I cannot yet command.
I burn for what I cannot claim, This ache, a tether, this want, my shame. Your gaze, a wound in my chest both sharp and sweet, A battlefield where I’m brought to defeat.”
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pseudoquiddity · 2 months ago
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Are people aware that the Bachelor's quoting of Latin is a very common part of the academic field? With all those posts calling him pretentious for Latin, I can't be too sure. The difference is that, today, Latin is not necessarily the academic standard when it comes to terminology and so readers can find Latin phrases mixed with German, French, Russian (etc.), too - depending on the subject.
I pulled a random article on Italian futurism and it uses the terms/phrases unheimlichkeit, homo faber, il linguaggio nascosto della tecnologia (so on, so forth). It becomes natural to the essay's conversation (in this case, futurism).
The Western academic world, for centuries, was fed off Roman stories and for most of the Western world's past, Latin was the predominant "intellectual" language until French became the status quo, and now it's English. So when it comes to studying in a certain era, not knowing Latin might bar a person from scholarly work.
Someone who spoke and wrote in Latin very prolifically was Thomas De Quincey (Englishman early, mid-1800s), and he wrote a few short stories. One of which, he's sitting with a coachman and speaks a Latin phrase in passing and then immediately strikes himself as silly because the working class coachman probably doesn't understand him.
Just one example of many where Daniil is clearly expressed as someone completely out of their usual, personally comfortable social circle. Sometimes one language just doesn't cut it for the description of things, but now an avenue of regular expression has been completely shut off from him.
Though I wonder if he uses Latin with general abandon in the town, is mostly speaking to himself when he uses Latin, or if, like De Quincey, is going you fucking fool, he doesn't understand you!
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mikimakiboo · 3 months ago
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Okay okay okay story concept again including bad sans poly but you can see it as platonic too
I thought about it while washing my hair lmao
Under the cuuuuuuut
So they all come from different time periods, Killer is a thief from the Antiquity during the Roman Empire around the years -30, Horror comes from a Viking tribe around the years 900, Cross is a knight in medieval times around the late 1200s / early 1300s, Nightmare is a high noble during the Renaissance around the years 1600 and Dust is a minimum wager in our current time period
They were never supposed to meet but there was a glitch in the timeline that caused them to get ejected in another time period, and where did they end up ? In Dust's backyard (he lives on the first floor of an old building)
Problem is, they all speak different languages: Killer speaks Latin, Horror speaks Old Norse, Cross speaks Old French, Nightmare speaks Classical French (I set them in France cause that's the history I know best lmao) and Dust speaks modern English, so that means Killer Horror and Dust cannot understand anyone, Nightmare learnt Latin and can manage to understand some of Cross's French but Cross struggles badly to understand him and doesn't know any Latin, and none of them speak neither Old Norse nor English
Luckily Dust has his phone so he uses it to try and translate but it is still difficult to have a good translation of Old Norse and Old French, so Nightmare has to translate Old French into Classical French for Dust to translate and for Old Norse they let Google do its things and hope it's accurate
But anyway, they manage to understand each other a little while Dust also needs to monitor everyone because they are all very frightened by everything modern around them and clearly don't know how to act in a society, especially Horror
And then when they are all semi-aclimated to their surroundings, the timeline glitches again and they all end up in another time period, this time being Cross's, so it's his turn to monitor everyone and teach them how things work, except this time they don't have Google because there obviously isn't any internet connection at that time
And then the timeline glitches again and they are transported into someone else's time period and it keeps happening until they eventually visited everybody's time period
But then Error arrives, a God, who just spent a really long time localizing the glitch and localizing them to sent them back to their respective time periods, but the thing is they all became very attached to each other, managing to understand each other without translator, going on many adventures through time periods, teaching each other some things from home, and they really don't want to lose their connection with each other, so they kinda force / beg Error to let them see each other, and at first Error doesn't want to and just wants them to go back to where/when they belong, but they are being insistent and he doesn't want to deal with it, so he ends up giving each of them a ring that they can use to open portals and jump from time period to time period to go see each other when they please
They're all very happy
@ancha-aus tagging you because I know you like bad sans poly and story concepts even tho I'll probably won't work on it before loooooong if I ever decide to work on it that is 👀
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caprifiles · 8 months ago
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smth smth about the fact that charles leclerc is fluent not only in english, but french, italian and a little bit of spanish, and max verstappen speaks dutch and german as well, as english. smth about this is just–
like, they are fluent in the most popular languages in absolutely different linguistic groups of indo-european family (roman and germanic).
i mean, they couldn't be more opposite but they are.
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aquarianshift · 3 months ago
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Monkee Noses: A Quick & Dirty Guide
Analyzed, compare/contrasted, and rated by a certified nasophiliac.
Mike
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A lot has been said of Mike's nose, and deservedly so. On an otherwise soft, even delicate face, it is his strongest feature (sideburns excepted). He doesn't have a heavy jaw or particularly strong chin, so the line of his nose balances his profile well, lending an air of masculine distinction. And it's not even that big.
...Okay, it's big. The bridge is quite tall—almost as high off his face as his forehead—and long. For those of us who (like me) got into the Monkees by way of the Beatles, you may have been expecting the schnoz of the group to have a Roman bump or at least some kind of down-slope. But Mike's nose is almost perfectly straight from brow to tip, level enough to balance a glass of water if he leaned back a bit.
Mike's nose is so long ("How long is it?") that it begins to crowd his mouth, which doesn't take up much real estate as it is. But he has a very symmetrical face, and his tall, narrow nose anchors his other features beautifully. It makes his eternally boyish face look older.
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It's cute!
(Fun nasolinguistics fact: the French word for "nose" is nez.)
Micky
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When the angels were handing out extra helpings of nose, Micky was in the hair line getting seconds. In terms of his profile's nose-to-chin ratio, he is essentially Mike's opposite. The bridge of his nose is mostly flat, and the body more wide and round than narrow and long. This is most evident in the way his nose widens when he smiles. A broad nose is perfectly suited to a face as smiley as Micky's, making his grin seem to stretch a mile from cheek to cheek. Though, like Mike's, his mouth and nose are fairly close together, Micky's ends so high on his face as to make him look perpetually youthful—and mischievous.
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When compared side-by-side, we can see that Micky's nostrils are more left-right horizontal, while Mike's go straighter out, almost perpendicular to his face.
To clear up some Micksconceptions: Micky's nose may be small, but the prominence of his chin makes it look smaller than it really is. And most importantly, he does not have a PUG NOSE! A pug nose would have virtually no bridge and turn upwards such that his nostrils faced forward while looking at you straight on. (Though not for nothing: just as a bulldog is bred to latch onto a charging bull without letting go to breathe, Micky's pushed-in nose was made to give head without coming up for air.)
Davy
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I naively went into this exercise thinking I would have nothing to say about Davy's nose. Neither long as Mike's nor short as Micky's, neither wickedly sharp nor softly rounded, Davy's nose is not his most distinctive feature. But upon closer study, it is as interesting and complicated as Davy himself. First, it is set rather high on his face, pulling on his upper lip a bit to complete that slightly pouty look. Second, his profile is not totally straight. He has the barest ridge of bone (not prominent enough to be called a bump), and the tip of his nose actually hooks down the tiniest bit. This down-curve is exacerbated by the severe arch of his nostrils. From beneath, we can see the opening is more pointed than smoothly curved, making him look like his nostrils are always flared.
These features in addition to Davy's deep laugh lines (another fun linguistics fact: those are called nasolabial folds) result in a very aristocratic nose. It lends all too easily to a sneer, which is unfortunate re: his height—he's probably never been able to look down it at anybody.
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Next to Peter, whose nose points out and slightly up, we can see Davy's very slight down-turn. We can also practically see our reflection in that shine. A little more powder, please?
And speaking of Peter...
Peter
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My thoughts on Peter's nose could fill a library, so I'll try to be brief. It has a high bridge with a gradual concave slope, but it's when we reach the tip that things really get interesting. Though the bridge is slender, the lower half of Peter's nose is slightly bulbed, giving him a sort of Snufkin/Little My look. The underside of his nose comes out from his face at a nearly perfect 90 degrees, but the slope of the bridge is so steep that it has the appearance of being daintily upturned. This is not to say his nose is unmasculine, or god forbid, delicate. In the shape of Peter's nose, there is a gentle masculinity, like the alternative spark of peacenik sensibility in the man himself. It is sensitive.
All the Monkees have expressive noses, but Peter uses his the most in his acting. As soon as you see the corners of his mouth start to droop in an Emmett Kelly frown or his upper lip curl in a snarl of confusion, his nose becomes the star of the expression.
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When Peter crinkles his nose, as he is wont to do, it loses some of its slenderness. I would say that out of the four, Peter has the most awareness of his nose, and how to make it work for him rather than vice versa. It is as much a part of his look as his profound dimples, sandy mop, or smiling eyes.
Sex appeal: Do I have to start over?!
bonus:
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Thanks if you've read this far! I may be an obsessive and a self-professed expert, but I am not the final authority. I welcome any other thoughts you might have. (Should I do one for the Beatles?)
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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 5 months ago
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Hey, so you seem to be the the All Knowing in terms of twst. With Glorious Masquerade getting a rerun soon, I was looking at the cards.
So what the heck is up with Jamil's freaking hat? I'm sorry but I can't look at it without laughing. It looks so stupid. The closest thing I can think of that matches it is the combined crowns of upper and lower Egypt, but this is the equivalent of France so that can't be it.
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While I’m flattered that people come to me with their questions, I want to take a moment to remind everyone that I’m just another TWST fan like you are! ^^ It’s stressful to be considered “all knowing” or a fandom authority 💦 That puts a lot of pressure on me to speak on certain subjects or to interact in a certain way (since people might put too much stock into what I say), and then that ends up detracting from my enjoyment. I’d rather not be put on such a high pedestal, please and thank you.
Now, onto the question!
According to Rollo in 1-13 of Glorious Masquerade, the costumes the NRC students were gifted are “patterned after designs that are over 500 years old.”
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If we extrapolate this to real life, the implication is that these costumes have roots in Renaissance era (14th century to 17th century) French fashion. Interestingly, Rollo’s own hat is similar to a tricorne, which was primarily worn in the 18th century… so technically, his hat is more “modern” than what the NRC students wear 😂
So I browsed through records of hats from the indicated period and guess what? I couldn’t find an exact match—though I did find a lot of hat designs that I found way sillier than what the NRC boys have. Like… sorry, what is THAT 😭
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Some headwear which bears a vague similarity to Jamil’s hat are the Egyptian combined/double crown (the pschent), which Anon has already mentioned, and the French hood, which was worn by women in the 15th century.
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The actual closest match I came across was the mitre, a liturgical headdresses worn by Roman Catholic officials. If you look at it from the front, it doesn’t look like much, but it definitely has the height of Jamil’s hat. But then look closer and you’ll realize the mitre does not have one single flap of fabric, but rather two.
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If you take the front flap of a mitre and fold it back, you would probably get something very similar to what Jamil wears. (Note that the black part of the hat is NOT his hair, but is fabric that is part of the hat.)
Considering that Noble Bell College is styled like a cathedral and that the Renaissance era from which the Masquerade Dress clothing derives is characterized by the rediscovery of classical literature, art, and philosophy… perhaps it’s not so strange to see a hat borne of religious associations.
… Why did Jamil specifically get this hat? Not sure, I’m not religious myself so don’t ask me to psychoanalyze him from that angle 😂
The golden part securing the front is unusual and does not appear in French fashion of the time (at least not from what I could tell?). It’s styled like pschent but more likely is meant to be turban-like due to Jamil’s inspiration, Jafar, having the same feather sticking up in the middle of a bulbous hat. You’ll notice Jamil had a “feather” too, albeit metal:
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To summarize, I think the design of Masquerade Dress Jamil’s hat borrows from multiple inspirations and not just one/old French fashion. Yana has stated before in a March 2023 interview with the Apple App Store that the cultures of Twisted Wonderland are unique and that the clothing that appears in the game are not “reinterpretations of existing costumes”. She seems to incorporate elements from both high fashion and from a variety of cultures to arrive at the final designs. For example, there are elements of many Nordic cultures in the Apple Pom outfits, and the Pomefiore uniform has a Japanese kimono-like silhouette despite the dorm being based on the the Evil Queen (originating from a German tale). I assume something similar happened when designing the Masquerade Dresses; Yana and co. wanted to combine elements and make something of their own.
Final comment I'll make, the shape of Jamil's hat looks like a kind of dumpling... It makes me hungry.
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st-just · 7 months ago
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ive seeeen you mention listening to history podcasts before, are there any that youd recommend? I have looked at whats out there but a lot of the popular ones I saw seemed to be rather dubious if you get me
So an assortment off the top of my head
Mike Duncan's stuff is both generally very good and also the inspiration of 90% of the history podcasts I listen to, so useful for cultural literacy if nothing else. (He podcasted his way into being a bona fide public intellectual for a moment there!) History of Rome is exactly what it sounds like, a narrative history from the mythical foundation of the city to the fall of the Western Empire (getting much more detailed and in depth as it gets into the imperial era). Revolutions is an anthology on what can be called the great revolutions of the modern western world, with series on the English, American, French, Haitian, Spanish American, German/Italian/French again (1848), French round three (Paris commune), Mexican and Russian (also includes a semester-length intellectual history of 19th C europepan leftism) revolutions. First two series are fine but it really gets good with the French Revolution and the Haiti series is some of the best pop history I've listened to or read. Also doubles as just a decent history of the long 19th century in Europe.
Tides of History is the only one of this list that feels like it has an actual production budget and more than one person working on it as part of their actual job. The host is the other guy whose podcasted himself into being a bit of a public intellectual (would rec his substack!) The downside of having a budget is most of the older stuff being locked behind a paywall, which is a shame because the early seasons are some of the best approachable history on the late medieval and early early modern period in Europe I've heard or seen. The current season is about the late bronze age world, and continues to be excellent.
History of Byzantium is explicitly an attempt to pick off where Duncan left off and follow the Eastern Roman empire from the fall of the west to 1452 (it's still in progress, now well into the 13th century). Also much like History of Rome, it starts off fairly general and vague but gets much more detailed as it goes. The general narrative history is intercut with semi-regular interviews with academic historians about the subject of their expertise for more in depth and probably rigorous discussion.
Speaking of Byzantium and Friends is hosted by one of the more prominent working byzantinists and consists of absolutely nothing but that. Much, much more academic - there's a level of assumed background knowledge to get much of anything out of the episodes, and and a level of academic inside baseball, but accurcy-wise this is the podcast I trust most out of all of them.
History of Japan is, again, what it sounds like. One of many podcasts begun by a grad student probably procrastinating working on his thesis that has lasted long enough for him to graduate, get married, and settle into a full time job. Vast majority of episodes are 20-30-minute mini-histories on, say, the biography of a particular political figure or part of a mini-series on the spread of Buddhism or something (plus a few much, much longer series on e.g. the Meiji Restoration). Currently in the middle of remaking/expanding a series that's a general high-level survey of Japanese history to celebrate hitting episode 500.
Criminal Records shares a host with it, but is (intentionally) less rigorous and much more bantery (having two hosts helps, them being married presumably good for the chemistry), also technically a true crime podcast - specifically about weird crimes and legal cases throughout history. My favorite episode is the one on the oldest surviving court case in the record from ancient Sumeria.
The History of the Crusades and it's sequel Reconquista continue the trend of admirably self-explaining names. They're nearly-entirely narrative and political histories, so if you're not interested in crowns, marriages and wars probably give them a pass, but very granular and detailed as they go. Crusades finished after the fall of Jerusalem and then a follow-up about the Albigensian Crusade, Reconquista currently still ongoing (in the 11th century at the moment, I believe).
Pax Brittancia is the one I just finished binging as depression-ameliorating background noise and what I've been posting about recently. Another begun by a grad student avoiding their thesis who has since become a doctor (who had previously completed a podcast on the history of witchcraft, which I have not listened to). It's ostensibly a history of the British Empire, beginning with the Stuart Dynasty (and personal union with Scotland) and moving forward with sufficent attention to detail that after five years and change it's objectively just a very in depth history of the Wars of Three Kingdoms (incl. causes and aftermath). Includes many, many interviews with established historians, including a whole series on Covenanter Scotland and whether its rise should be considered a Scottish Revolution. The narrative just reached Cromwell's inauguration as Lord Protector.
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thatswhywelovegermany · 10 months ago
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Frau Gauden
In the German region of the Prignitz, Frau Gauden (Mrs. Gauden) is the leader of the Wild Hunt. She leads this army of supernatural hunters together with her 24 dog-shaped daughters.
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The Wild Hunt, also known as the Wild Army or the Wild Ride, is the German name for a folk tale widespread in many parts of Europe, particularly in the north, which usually refers to a group of supernatural hunters who hunt across the sky. The sighting of the Wild Hunt has different consequences depending on the region. On the one hand, it is considered a harbinger of disasters such as wars, droughts or illnesses, but it may also refer to the death of anyone who witnesses it. There are also versions in which witnesses become part of the hunt or the souls of sleeping people are dragged along to take part in the hunt. The term “Wild Hunt” was coined based on Jacob Grimm’s German Mythology (1835).
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The phenomenon, which has significantly different regional manifestations, is known in Scandinavia as Odensjakt (“Odin's Hunt”), Oskorei, Aaskereia or Åsgårdsrei (“the Asgardian Train”, “Journey to Asgard”) and is closely linked to the Yule season here. The reference to Wotin/Odin in the name Wüetisheer (with numerous variations) is also clear in the Alemannic and Swabian dialects; In the Alps, people also speak of the Ridge Train. In England the train is called the Wild Hunt, in France it is called Mesnie Hellequin, Fantastic Hunt, Hunt in the Air, or Wild Hunt. Even in the French-speaking part of Canada, the Wild Hunt is known under the term Chasse-galerie. In Italian, the phenomenon is referred to as caccia selvaggia or caccia morta.
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The Wild Army or the Wild Hunt takes to the skies particularly in the period between Christmas and Epiphany (the Rough Nights), but Carnival, Corporal Lent and even Good Friday also appear as dates.
Christian dates have superseded the pagan dates, which see the Wild Hunt moving, especially during the Rough Nights. This period of time is assumed to be originally between the winter solstice, i.e. December 21st and, twelve nights later, January 2nd. In European customs, however, since Roman antiquity, people have usually counted from December 25th (Christmas) to January 6th (High New Year).
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The ghostly procession races through the air with a terrible clatter of screams, hoots, howls, wails, groans and moans. But sometimes a lovely music can be heard, which is usually taken as a good omen; otherwise the Wild Hunt announces bad times.
Men, women and children take part in the procession, mostly those who have met a premature, violent or unfortunate death. The train consists of the souls of people who died “before their time”, that is, caused by circumstances that occurred before natural death in old age. Legend has it that people who look at the train are pulled along and then have to move along for years until they are freed. Animals, especially horses and dogs, also come along.
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In general, the Wild Hunt is not hostile to humans, but it is advisable to prostrate yourself or lock yourself in the house and pray. Whoever provokes or mocks the army will inevitably suffer harm, and whoever deliberately looks out of the window, gaping at the army will have his head swell so much that he cannot pull it back into the house.
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The first written records of the Wild Hunt come from early medieval times, when pagan traditions were still alive. In 1091, a Normannic priest named Gauchelin wrote about the phenomenon, describing a giant man with a club leading warriors, priests, women and dwarfs, among them deseased acquaintances. Later references appear throughout the High and Late Middle Ages.
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facts-i-just-made-up · 10 months ago
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Facts about the English language
English was invented in the year 927 by Lord English of England. Because 927 was a long time ago, he called it "Old English." Lord English of England was German, so the language was mostly just German with a dash of the language spoken by the original inhabitants of England, the Romans.
It became popular to speak English until 1066, when English Island was taken over by a French guy named Norman. Norman insisted everyone speak French, but they didn't know French so he just dropped some French words into the middle of the language and called it "Middle English."
After Middle English, trade patterns and technology such as the printing press and podcast allowed the infusion of numerous other languages, which all melted into English in their own way. Because they melted with each other, the new language was called Modern English. Several sounds and phonetics changed over the years as well, so this was called the era of the Colossal Vowel Movement.
About this time, England did its usual bullshit and colonized pretty much every place on Earth that it could. English thus spread like a linguistic coronavirus across America, Africa, Australia, and Atlantis, which managed to purge the English influence by sinking to its total destruction and thereby avoiding the horrors of having to speak English.
Today, English is the most spoken language on Earth, not because the most people speak it, but because those who do just never shut the fuck up. Several books have also been written in English, including "Fifty Shades of Grey," "A Weasel in My Meatsafe," and "Pounded In The Butt By My Handsome Sentient Library Card Who Seems Otherworldly But In Reality Is Just A Natural Part Of The Priceless Resources Our Library System Provides."
If English were a dress, it would be purple.
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ammuusseedd · 3 months ago
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My roman empire is all the clues in 02x07 (and a little of 02x06) that Lestat was mostly mind-controlled during the trial so here we go
We start with the introduction of Lestat in 02x06:
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He's smoking... In front of a mirror. Film language and all that jazz.
At the beginning of episode 7, you can see his hands look like they're bruised. Why would that be?
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When describing first seeing Lestat, Louis says: "It (Lestat being there) had all the hallmarks of a hallucination."
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When saying about Nicki "Fragile mind prone to corruption", you can see Lestat minutely shake his head as if he's disagreeing with what he's saying. It could be grief but then seconds later he kind of blames Armand for his death because he looks at him in the audience.
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Next there is a moment that is supported by a rumour so take it with a grain of salt, but the first time Madeleine "wakes up" she starts mumbling French (there is another moment later on). The rumour (from an extra on set, allegedly) stated that Lestat was trying to speak through her, because he couldn't talk telepathically with Louis or Claudia. Of course she was the easiest to control by the coven so it didn't work.
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Next we have Lestat holding this pose for several seconds (can't gif, you need to trust me his leg just stays like that, like a puppet).
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At one point Lestat is literally napping in the chair while Santiago is making excuses for The Drop. Then he goes off script.
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While Lestat is apologising to Louis about The Drop, we have Santiago panicking and looking at Celeste (Madame Justice), who's representing the coven controlling Louis and Claudia... Because she's supposed to keep him under control too! But she's like, idk, love conquers all or something.
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So this is kind of important because Armand also admits here Lestat is going off script, you can't script a hurricane etc. Louis is also wondering why Lestat is such a weirdo, going to Paris to sentence him to death, but then apologising and Armand goes, omg you can never know with this guy, he makes you wonder what's real... Sure Jan.
A bit later we have Louis asking Lestat if that's what he wanted/ this is working for him and Lestat is uncharacteristically quiet, almost as if someone is keeping him that way... We could speculate he looks angry about it, even.
Also Madeleine stands up and tries to reach Claudia - but she was controlled by the coven, right? So maybe whoever was controlling her at that moment is busy subduing someone else.
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And this is not related to Lestat, but to Armand. He's talking about how the audience is hypnotized by the performance of Lestat & Santiago but when he says, "Piranhas looking up through the tank water, waiting for the chum to be dumped.", we get a shot of Armand looking up at the stage.
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I'm sure there's lots of stuff I've missed, because tbh I'm not that observant and a lot of these had to be pointed out to me, but overall does it make sense that Lestat would also ask to be sentenced the same as Louis and Claudia? During the whole trial, he is very inconsistent in his acting - at times sounding robotic, at time gesturing with lots of artifice, as shown above, at times napping. We know Sam's not a bad actor, so it's logical to conclude those were choices.
If you have more examples, please add them so I can deepen my obsession with this topic even further.
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fromcold · 5 months ago
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sorry but armand's time in paris is the funniest thing ever. like pov you are the failson of the roman coven and they send you to paris despite you having no relevant work experience and barely speaking french, so you spend 240 years running them into the ground just living absolutely fucking miserably in a cave, and then when some new guy shows up threatening your way of life instead of killing him like you're supposed to you pine over him and stalk him and then he completely annihilates your way of life in five minutes and you claim this is because you let him. then you fuck him in his opera box in front of his boyfriend and he fucks off but leaves you a big pile of money to invest in a terrible theatre company, just so bad that only british people come to see you. you have sex with half of them because "it's repertory theatre, it's how one endures". and you exert your control over them by making them sing annoying songs and saying things like "respectfully can you buff something else". then another new guy shows up and again you are like oh this one I will kill but guess what, you end up on his dick too. and it turns out that he's an ex of your ex, and you gradually lose more and more control of your failing theatre company because you're too busy enacting d/s dynamics with your situationship.
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mask131 · 1 year ago
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The missing Arthurian knight - rediscovered in 2019
Well the title is a slight lie - the missing knight wasn't rediscovered in 2019, it was earlier than that, but he didn't became public until 2019.
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So what's this "missing knight" about? Well as the title says. There was a knight part of the Arthurian myth, and he had been missing ever since the Middle-Ages, and he was only recently rediscovered.
Or rather, to be exact - there was an Arthurian novel centered around a knight that existed and was a famous and well-known part of the Arthurian literature in the Middle-Ages, but that completely disappeared, and was forgotten by culture (as much popular culture as the scholarly one). Until very recently.
This rediscovered novel has been a hot topic of all Arthuriana fans in Europe for a few years now - and yet I do not see much talk about this onto this website, despite Tumblr being a big place for Arthurian fans?
So I will correct this by doing a series of posts about the subject. And this post will be the first one, the introduction post presenting to you "Ségurant, le chevalier au dragon" ; "Segurant, the knight of the dragon". A French medieval novel part of the Arthurian literature (hence the "chevalier au X" title structure - like Lancelot, the knight of the cart or Yvain the knight of the lion from Chrétien de Troyes), the reason this story was forgotten by all medievalist and literary scholars is - long story short - because it never existed in any full manuscript (at least none that survived to this day). It was a complete story yes, with even variations apparently, but that was cut into pieces and fragments inserted into various other manuscripts and texts (most notably various "Merlin's Prophecies").
The novel and the Knight of the Dragon were rediscovered through the work of Emanuele Arioli, who rediscovered a fragment of the story while looking at an old manuscript of a Merlin Prophecies, and then went on the hunt for the other fragments and pieces scattered around Europe, until he finally could compile the full story, that he then published in 2019, at the Belles Lettres publishing house, in 2019.
Arioli reconstructed the text, and translated it in both modern French and Italian for scholarly and professional editions (aka Honoré Champion in France, a reference for universities)...
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... But also for a more "all public, found in all libraries" edition - the famous 2019 edition at Les Belles Lettres.
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And not only that, but he also participated to both a comic book adaptation with Emiliano Tanzillo...
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... and an adaptation as an illustrated children novel!
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Finally, just a few weeks, the Franco-German channel Arte released a documentary about the reconstitution and content of this missing novel called "Le Chevalier au dragon: Le roman disparu de la Table Ronde". (The Knight of the Dragon - The missing novel of the Round Table). The full documentary is on Youtube in French for those that speak the language, here. And in German here for those who speak German.
Unfortunately there is no English version of the documentary that I know of, nor any English publications of the actual text - just French and Italian. But hey, I'll try to palliate to that by doing some English-speaking posts about this whole business!
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virescent-v · 1 year ago
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French Kiss
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A/N: This is a combination of two requests I got: a fluffy fic of Emily telling you she has a crush on you and asking you out and a fluffy fic of Emily teaching you another language. Combining them seemed perfect!
Summary: Emily teaches you a little French ;P (Translations for the French is at the bottom!) Word count: 950 Warnings: nada, this is tooth-rotting fluff. :) Well, the only warning might be that I got the translations from Google, so if they're wrong don't yell at me lol Ps: If you haven't seen the tiktok of Paget speaking French....go do that first. 🫠😩🥵😵‍💫
You hated the fact that you never took a foreign language in middle or high school, when it was easier to learn. Now, it felt like grasping the semantics of another language was nearly impossible. 
You let out an exasperated whine, rubbing your temples. “Why does French have to have so many rules?” 
Emily chuckled, rolling her eyes at your antics. “It’s not that bad once you get the hang of them,” she said, rubbing your shoulders. “Quoi qu'il en soit, c'est une belle langue.” 
You squinted your eyes, glaring at her. While teaching you, Emily would consistently throw out random French sentences, hoping the constant exposure would help you. It only further irritated you. “Says the one who’s been fluent in French for most of her life, and who has lived in Paris.” Another eye roll. 
Emily’s smile grew. “J'aime parler une langue que vous ne pouvez pas. Tu es très mignon quand tu es irrité.” 
Another second of glaring might make your face permanently stick like that, so you decided to ignore her. “Moving on,” you said, looking intensely at the notes before you. “Possessive adjectives. Mon, ma, mes for the masculine, feminine, and plural my.” Your face scrunched up, your eyebrows furrowed a little. “Easy. M’s for the my’s.” You felt your tongue peek out in concentration. “Ton, ta, and tes for you.” 
You tapped your finger along the paper, the rhythmic cadence a tactic you hoped would help you remember everything. A loud sigh. “Why do these languages have to have gendered descriptors for everything?” 
Another giggle came from beside you. “Parce que, oie idiote, ce sont les langues romanes!” Emily exclaimed, forcing a more dramatic French accent. 
A loud pause. “Did you just call me an idiot?” 
You’ve never heard Emily laugh so candidly, loud and carefree. It made butterflies erupt in your belly, a deep blush heating up your face – not out of embarrassment, but because you made her laugh, made her nose crinkle and her eyes shine. It was one of your favorite sounds. 
You’ve had a crush on Emily for months, ever since you started working closely to her at Quantico. A shared case between your two units brought you together and you quickly became friends, bonding over similar interests and upbringings. 
You thought of the idea of having her teach you one of the many languages she knows as a way to spend more time together. It was an added bonus that you got to hear her speak another language; something about the way French rolled off her tongue was hypnotizing and…incredibly hot.  She had jumped at the idea and you became hopeful that she might have shared feelings for you. But after weeks of constant texting and a few study sessions, she’s never hinted at feeling anything other than friendship. 
“Absolument pas! Cependant, je pense que vous êtes incroyable. J'adorerais t'emmener dehors un jour.” Emily paused, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. Hey eyes traveled across your face, taking in everything, like she was trying to profile you. “Comme rendez-vous?” 
You felt the air shift even though you couldn’t understand what she was saying to you. It was in the way that she looked at you, how her dark eyes had grown fond, intimate almost, as if she was trying to stare into your soul. You had an inkling of what she had said, rendezvous being an easy translated word.  
“Ask me in English,” you whispered. 
Emily turned more to you, grasped your hands in hers and looked you in the eye. “Would you like to go out with me? As a date?” 
Your smile was timid, growing as you watched her start to fiddle with your fingers in nerves. “Oui, Emily.” One of your hands came up and brushed hair behind her ear, watching her grin spread. “But I have a question for you first.” 
Emily’s smile turned a little more serious, a hint of nerves creeping back into her expression. You watched as she took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever you might ask of her. “Ask away.” 
You paused, schooling your features into something you hoped was more serious, letting her sit in her nerves for a second just to mess with her. “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” 
You watched as Emily’s brain stuttered, her mouth opening for a second before she burst into another fit of laughter, her hand coming up to cover her eyes for a second out of shocked awe. “I’m glad Lady Marmalade taught you something in French, my god.”  
You two laughed together, the tension of finally admitting your shared feelings broken. As you calmed down, Emily gazed at you, all of her feelings for you finally shining through. You felt your entire being warm to the look she was giving you, finally overjoyed in being able to relish in the attention you craved from her. 
As your gazes locked and held, you decided to break out the one other sentence you had been practicing in French. The one sentence you were wishing you would get to use on her. Your hand cupped her jaw, another timid smile gracing your lips. “Puis-je t'embrasser?” 
Emily smirked, inching her face towards you, pulling you closer by your hips, before whispering, “Oui, s'il vous plait.” 
Your lips met in a soft, tender embrace, tongues lightly gliding over one another. It was the first kiss of what you both hoped was many.  
As you broke apart, a quiet giggle traveled up your throat, making you softly shake your head in exhilarated bliss. “I love French lessons.” 
Emily waggled her eyebrows, a mischievous smirk growing. “I can’t wait to teach you more French things.” 
___________________ 
Translations: 
- “Quoi qu'il en soit, c'est une belle langue.”  - Regardless, it’s a beautiful language. - “J'aime parler une langue que vous ne pouvez pas. Tu es très mignon quand tu es irrité.” - I like speaking a language you can’t. You’re very cute when you’re irritated. - “Parce que, oie idiote, ce sont les langues romanes!” - Because, silly goose, it’s the romance languages! -”Absolument pas! Cependant, je pense que vous êtes incroyable. J'adorerais t'emmener dehors un jour.” - Absolutely not! However, I do think you’re amazing. I’d love to take you out sometime. -“Comme rendez-vous?” - As a date? -Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” - Do you want to sleep with me tonight? -”Puis-je t'embrasser?” - Can I kiss you? -”Oui, s'il vous plait.” - Yes, please. 
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