#sonoric illusion

[stormvanari]

me, last year: ok *dusts hands* that’ll be the only animatic i’ll ever do

me, after watching a Mario and Rabbids-Sparks of Hope walkthrough months later: well shit

[finchly-tintinnabulation]

- Andromeda -

Roboute Guilliman x M!OC (Finch)

Tags: Arranged marriage, AU shenanigans, crossdressing and gender fuckery

Plot bunny AU set during 30k, Great Crusade era after the Fall of the Eldar but before the Horus Heresy, I was stewing about how they would interact before becoming tired old men. Guilliman is more confident/self-important, and Finch is more insecure. Very much inspired by @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond drawing 30k and 40k Guilliman side by side, as well as some wives of the Primarchs content. Big thanks to @daily-shenanigans784 for the beta read. Pls help unmedicated ADHD is cooking my braincells

The Chorus: @thisuserislilsilly

- - -

Guilliman resisted the urge to glance around, but he knew that the voice— soft, sonorous, masculine— came from his new “bride”, the pile of gauzy fabric sitting beside him as revelry surrounded them. “You could have bargained for a better deal, you know.” It was the first time his new fiancee had decided to speak, most of the talking and the offering having been done by her (their?) father while the veiled figure had sat silent and stately on one of the mounts favored by the humans on the surface of this planet.

Lounging at the head of a table hosting a great feast for his legion, the chatter seemed to dim to Guilliman’s ears as this strange little secret unfurled before him, his focus drawn away from the impromptu celebration of his engagement to the xenos beside him. “There was no blood shed, no ammunition used, and I have returned another world to the Imperium. Enlighten me.”

“As in, you could have asked to see more selection.” Amongst the countless layers of bone white silk, accented with cold blue like winter fog and studded with dark rubies, a pair of delicate gloved hands folded upon the table. “My people may be licking their wounds, but they are ever prideful. Did you not think to appraise your sacrifice?”

Sacrifice. The concept of a defeated enemy offering tributes was not a foreign one, but the easy and almost dry acknowledgement was odd and discomforting. His crusade was a righteous one, he was not some drake resting upon its horde. “Theoretical: the Imperium wishes for me to find a wife, while accepting the offer of a bride may appear to snub other allies. Practical: this is an opportunity that has dropped right into my lap.”

“That was on purpose.” His fiancee sighed.

“What are you trying to tell me?” Guilliman’s voice was casual, but made it obvious that his question was not to be ignored.

“That your desires were foreseen, and my Craftworld has retreated with only a single casualty. It is as if you have been offered cuts of meat, accepting sweet fat hiding bones rather than sinew hiding flesh.” A white gloved finger trailed the rim of a fine porcelain dish before it, food untouched and veil unmoved.

Jaw ticking, the Primarch was not exactly pleased by the prospect of having been manipulated, his thoughts and motives sifted through by xenos he had fought quite regularly in the Emperor’s name. “Why say anything, my dear? Depreciating your own value isn’t quite the strategy I would employ.”

To his surprise, the figure sighed. Defeat. “...My role has been played. If you decide to kill me, there is little difference in the outcome the Farseer sought. Besides, you didn’t seem to be all that interested in my value before.” They listlessly waved a hand, almost mocking.

Guilliman hadn’t been raised with an absence of women in his life, unlike what he had discovered of many of his brothers. Tarasha Euten was one of his most trusted advisors and loved ones, and he held no illusions of masculine superiority. However, he had found that he couldn’t quite picture marriage to a woman. 

His enthusiastic legion had been delighted by the prospect of their genesire having a wife at his side, but somehow the xenos had seen and exploited a disinterest he thought he hid so well. That they had known he wouldn’t concern himself with a bride beyond appeasing the Emperor and choosing with only a political goal in mind.

“Who are you, then?”

“Not a princess, that’s for certain.” His bride scoffed. “We have no monarchy... I’m an artisan.”

That would have been amusing if it didn’t fill him with silent irritation. Such a flimsy lie, one that his new fiancee seemed almost eager to tear through like tissue paper. “A ploy to make their gift seem more enticing?”

“One of many to appeal to your human customs. The white garb is another, as is the veil. The one escorting me was a Seer, but apparently the father of a bride is charged with giving her away at the altar.” Not a drake upon its horde. Suddenly the phrasing of giving a bride at an altar brought to mind more myths of young women being left to be eaten by monsters from his youth on Macragge, making him internally shudder.

“I suppose your true father might have had objections.” Guilliman mused.

“Maybe.” They muttered dismissively. No family, a flippant attitude to the prospect of being executed for their betters’ deception, and a sense of honesty that felt like a slap to the face. Not to mention the fact he was having some suspicions as to certain details that were hidden behind those many layers of fabric. 

What was this feeling? Pity, perhaps? Intrigue? If nothing else he was curious.

“...I have little use for beauty, there would be no harm in showing your face.”

“That’s good, as I have none.” A soft laugh, like the chime of a bell, inexplicably warming him far more than any of the alcohol he had consumed alongside the feast. Guilliman’s bride searched for the hem of their veil, delicately resting the fabric upon their fingertips as they seemed to become bashful, turning to face him. “Just, ah… I assure you I have been genuine, and… I hope you are too.”

It took him a moment to recognize that his bride was holding their veil for him to lift, making his hearts jump strangely, torn between unwrapping them to uncover the mysteries hidden within the fabric and a desire to reveal them slowly like opening a gift. He felt as if this was a sight he wished to save for himself, rather than share with the rest of his legion.

Cautious, Guilliman bent down and carefully slipped his hands beneath the obscuring fabric, lifting it as he leaned in to study the face of the Eldar he’d been speaking to. 

One cheek was marred by a pockmarked array of scars, extending back over a ruined ear, a series of rough splits undoubtedly caused by blunt force to the side of the head. A gently sloped nose and sharp jaw, full mousy brown brows and freckles from time in the sun. Most arrestingly were his eyes. A deep viridian green flecked with sage, sharp and discerning, glittering with intelligence and… resignation. 

“…The Farseer hoped I would accept my place if I found a mate… she said it would make me happy.” A bitter little smile thinned his lips, looking ashamed as if this was a true admittance, rather than another deception to punch through. 

The Eldar seemed to expect him to respond, perhaps admonishing the fact that the gender of his bride was unsuitable for a man of his station. The thought crossed his mind briefly, the will of the Emperor ever on his heels, but fascination was leading him on. He claimed to lack beauty, but the story and wit he found on the Eldar’s face drew him in like the sublime expanse of the galaxy. With a hand he realized was large enough to splay across his fiancée’s entire face, he gingerly reached out to brush fingertips over the scarring on his cheek. 

“Uh, I seized and had a fall early in my training…” He muttered by way of explanation, dark eyes flitting to avoid Guilliman’s gaze, obviously bewildered. 

”Worried about battle scars with someone at the head of a legion.” The Primarch teased. “What would you like me to call you?”

The Eldar flushed, pursing his lips. “The envoy told you my given name.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“…Finch. Consider me to be… your future left hand man.”

[xxdemonicheartxx]

Flight Rising flights but as art mediums:

There are some overlaps in mediums since dragons are so tight knit and far spread

Earth: tile work/mosaics, jewelry work, ceramics, stone sculpture, chalk, clay work, plaster, leather work, rain chains

Water: plaster work, woven tapestries, shell jewelry and chimes, pearl inlays, decorative sails and flags, basket weaving, sandstone carving, watercolors, mirrors and glass sculptures

Shadow: optical illusions, black and white photography, puzzle boxes, uranium glass work, maybe iron work, mycology arrangements, shadow boxes, gouache, anything that involves glowing in the dark

Light: stone carving and gold foiled painting, sometimes tapestry weaving to depict an image or scene, impressionism, oil paint, tempera, portraiture, clothing and attire, mirrors, pigment making

Plague: hyper realism, and taxidermy, ceramics, bone carvings, tattoos, ink block prints, collage art, murals, leather work, totems and large outdoor installations

Nature: floral arrangements, dye work, wood work, candle making, hot wax painting, landscaping, rain chains, wind chimes, tapestries, needle felting, carpentry, animal cosmetics (haircuts, animal safe dye, nail and claw painting, etc), apparel/clothing, pigment making

Ice: needle felting, wood carving, quilting, ice carving and sculpture, snow sculptures, knitting, the art of tea blends, dried plant arrangements, carpentry, fabric weaving, tapestries, crochet, wood burning, blanket weaving, candle making, dye work, wood turning

Fire: welding, decorative weapon smithing, glass blowing, wood burning, wrought iron, stained glass, latticed metal, terracotta, ceramics, obsidian and basalt carving, graphite, slate, charcoal

Wind: paper mache, ribbon mediums, basket weaving, sonorous sculptures, wind chimes, feathered attire, really tall and thin structures/sculptures, jade carving, blanket weaving

Arcane: resin, stained glass, welding, intricate silver work, collaborative neon work with shadow (they need that special eye for glow in the dark), crystal carving, zen gardens, bonsai art, screen printing, photography, illuminated manuscripts, clothing and apparel, gold foil work, abstract art

Lightning: bronze cast sculptures, sand sculptures (when lightning strikes the sand and turns it to stone) aluminum casts poured into ant colonies/hills, pop art, up-cycled art, photography, art that is still capable of being utilized and interacted with because people and dragons are part of the medium, assemblage art, banners and flags

[oliolioxenfreewrites]

Another Sneak Peak into Novaxiom. My world of Sonoric Sorcery!

The First Chapter! I wrote this overnight as I finally finished the outline I liked. I could do a deeper dive into this if you are interested :)

I emerged not like you did—not from some warm, comforting womb but from the cold, unyielding depths of the Crystalline Expanse within the Polar Symphonies of Novaxiom. My first memory isn't a mother's lullaby or a father's proud tears. No, my first memory is a perfect chord resonating through my being, waking me from a timeless slumber.

Imagine that. A vibration jolts Your entire existence into consciousness, a note so pure it slices through the void. That’s how it all started for me. One moment, I was nothing but an inert crystal; the next, I am Syrin, a sentient carved from the essence of the Gods themselves.

At first, everything was a symphony. The world unfolded in a stir of light and sound, each note and each shimmer a part of a grand composition that I could only begin to barely comprehend. So, I roamed the crystalline caverns with a kind of naïve wonder, my every movement refracting light into dazzling displays. The ancient energies flowing through the crystals whispered secrets of the past, long-forgotten songs, and the echoes of beings who had vanished eons before my awakening.

I could sense it all: the harmony, the beauty, the balance. It was intoxicating, this perfect world of resonant energy and light. But as with all things, perfection is an illusion, a fragile construct waiting to be shattered.

I remember that first discordant note vividly. It was faint at first, a subtle vibration that didn't quite fit with the rest. But it grew stronger, more seductive, like an unfamiliar yearning in my mind. Innate curiosity or maybe a sense of enticing the hands of doom - I'm still unsure which - drove me to follow that dissonance deeper into the caverns. It led me to an ancient, forgotten shrine, a place of power and ruin.

Here’s where it gets interesting. The shrine wasn’t just a relic but a battleground, the site of a long-lost struggle between harmony and discord. The air was thick with the remnants of that ancient conflict, and the dissonance I’d sensed was its ghost, still haunting the ruins. It spoke of betrayal, power, and a curse upon my kind—those like me who were born from the very essence of Novaxiom.

In the shrine, I learned of the beings who came before me. Auralis, the master of sound; Mentis, the weaver of thoughts; Vitalis, the giver of life. These primordial forces shaped the world and, in their wisdom—or folly—created beings to guard and guide the balance. But power corrupts. And where there is power, there will always be those who seek to twist it to their ends.

The Cacophonous Wars—what a mouthful, huh? It sounds almost lyrical. In reality, it was anything but. It was a barbaric, devastating conflict that almost tore the world apart. Psillusionists, with their twisted magic, turned harmony into a weapon. Korux, the name still sends shivers down my crystalline spine, was the worst of them. His legacy of darkness and discord is a stain that Novaxiom will never fully erase.

I saw it all through the remnants of the shrine. I witnessed the echoes of history replaying within those crystalline depths. I swear it! I witnessed the rise and fall of Korux, the Psillusionists' punishment, and their subsequent transformation, which led to the birth of Dysphoni.

Now, here's where it gets a bit muddy... Dysphoni are born deaf, cut off from the natural Sonoric energies that shaped our world. Defeated, they retreated to the Shattered Saskatchewan, harnessing and developing their own dark arts, manipulating silence and discord. Isolated and discriminated against, their resentment grew with each generation.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. It sounds like a bedtime story, a cautionary tale told to frighten children into behaving. But this isn’t a joke; I shouldn’t even be telling all of this to you; it’s all too dangerous. The Dysphoni didn’t just fade into the background. They bided their time, honing their skills, waiting for the perfect moment to rise again.

And rise they did. Led by a descendant of Korux, they surged forth from the Shattered Saskatchewan, their silence a weapon, their discord a plague. They aimed to engulf Novaxiom in darkness again to finish what their ancestors had started. The Great Silence, they called it, was an era where sound would be subjugated, where silence and discord would reign supreme.

But here’s the twist. The Dysphoni weren’t just the villains of the piece. They were victims, too, shaped by a curse that wasn’t entirely their fault. Born into a world that feared and shunned them, they turned to the only power they had left—silence. It’s tragic, really. A cycle of pain and retribution that keeps spinning out of control.

So, where do I fit into all this? I’m the observer, the chronicler of this endless symphony of creation and destruction. I’ve seen Novaxiom’s beginning, witnessed the rise and fall of its most remarkable powers, and now I stand on the precipice of its future. My role as an observer allows me to share these experiences with you, engaging and connecting you to the world of Novaxiom.

I walk through the Crystalline Expanse, my faceted form shimmering in the dim light, and I wonder. What’s next for us, for Novaxiom? Can we break the cycle, or are we doomed to repeat the same mistakes, to fight the same battles repeatedly? The echoes of the past are loud, but perhaps, just perhaps, we can find a new chord, a new harmony that includes even those born of silence.

Maybe that's the answer—not more conflict but integration, acknowledging the pain and resentment, and finding a way to turn it into something beautiful. It sounds naïve, I know, but after everything I’ve seen, maybe a little naivety is precisely what we need.

For now, I have to keep wandering; there are so many more frequencies I can attune to! At least the Gods gave me something to work with on this crazy ass planet! Just gliding along these snowy hills, listening to the songs of the crystals, the whispers of the past. I’ll keep telling you the story of Novaxiom in the hope that one day, we’ll find the harmony we’ve been searching for. It’s a long shot, but what else is there to do in a world where even silence begins to sing?

Tag List! ✬

@drchenquill @illarian-rambling @kaylinalexanderbooks @leahpardo-pa-potato @slenders1ckn3ss

@somethingclevermahogony @inky-duchess @sassystyl @rotting-moon-writes @highlycosmic

@avaseofpeonies @oc-atelier @ceph-the-ghost-writer @paeliae-occasionally @davycoquette

@unforgettable-sensations @hissorrow22 @boredwritergirl @scorpiothesaint @thewrathoffemalerage

@rirori-jeorgiarn @spookyceph @enne-uni @the-golden-comet

if anyone is interested in joining or being removed from the tag list, just reply to any post & let me know! :)

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Your Secrets Shall Be Mine

Author's notes: the main conflict between Primaris Dark Angels and First Born Dark Angles is the paranoid secrecy that the older ones hold to. The Primaris are going to find the information that is being kept from them.

Author's notes: a new primaris boy for Husbandry! His name is Kerubiel Abderail.

Summary: a search for Truth, and to root out the secrets that his older brothers withhold from him ends with blinding light and sonorous darkness. He blinks. And realizes he's no longer on The Rock, but on a planet doesn't recognize. Welcome to Ancient Terra, big guy.

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @ms--lobotomy , @thevoidscreams, @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams

There is much that Kerubiel has learned while he trained on Mars. There is much that he has learned while deployed with the first founding chapter, The Dark Angels.

He and his fellow Primaris Space Marines have noticed very quickly that there are a lot of things that the First Born brothers keep from them. Information, good information is hard to come by in this shitty, fucked up galaxy.

Their older brothers being closed mouthed, stingy bastards only makes his life, and the lives of his brothers that much more difficult and in that much more danger.

He has learned that the Primaris Space Marines rollout has not been as easy or as welcoming for the rest of the Chapters as the Ultramarines had been.

He refuses to suffer and die, his brothers suffer and die due to the firstborn brothers deciding that he isn't worthy of information that is valuable and useful.

He does not know why they are so paranoid, secretive, and distrusting of them. He and his brothers are trying to show that they are worthy of respect and trust.

But the stubborn, dramatic, petty, and catty bastards just refuse to listen and see them for who they truly are. So- he and his fellow Primaris Marines have to use whatever means is at their disposal in order to get that intel- so that they know what their Older Brothers know.

Kerubiel shakes his head a little as he looks around this planet, he doesn't remember being here before. In this forest- he had been on a Hive world- acquiring information that his Older Brothers were selfishly hoarding.

Now he's here. Wherever here is. He closes his eyes and focuses his Will- to try and break the illusion if that is what this is. He grunts a little, when he realizes that is not the case.

So he walks- finding a source of water and heading downwards. Most human civilizations live along the water, or down stream of it. Kerubiel double checks his vox- they are working, and he silently listens on some of the channels he has access to

What he hears doesn't make much sense, however- one of the brother-cousins that's nearby is Cedric of the Black Templars- the Primaris Apothecary is one he's met before- and has patched him up while they trained on Mars.

He takes in a deep breath and uses his familiarity with Cedric's soul- good he's near shadows and surrounded by metal- part of a base of some kind.

With a rustle of leaves and a shift of wind he walks from the forest into the Base. Kerubiel has to lean against one of the walls as his legs buckle and his vision swims in and out of focus and darkness eats away at his vision.

By the Throne- that had taken far more energy than he thought it would. He's noticed that his body is being nonresponsive as he tries to move, and unfortunately his body, betray him as he feels himself finish falling to the floor with a soundless sigh.

The wounds he'd attained in the battle he'd recently been in complaining at him louder as he tastes the tang of blood in his mouth.

Fuck. Teleportation doesn't usually take that much out of him, but he's almost drained dry. He sees a flicker of movement and blue hued armor and he growls at the blurry blue form as he can't stop his eyes from closing as he mutters out, "Cedric."

[siena-sevenwits]

More Chapter One Reactions - An Illusion of Wings (@scarvenartist)

I can tell it’s an awful wrench to have to sell Papa’s books. When you haven’t got your father, selling something beloved to him, that you’ve held onto into poverty this far, would be hard. Especially when he’s personalized them so much with himself.

“I herd my bewildered siblings through a sonorous funeral ceremony.” Oh, what a tone this line sets – details like the oppressive heat, the disapproving portraits, sounds bouncing harshly off surfaces – this is such great environmental story telling, and different from the usual details writers might choose to reflect grief, confusion, and that terrible sense of the world having to change completely when all you want to do is cry. And then to have to hear people talking of them and their prospect that way…

All the organic, tiny bits of worldbuilding are adding up so naturally – it’s like zooming in on a picture and seeing more and more and more, but never unfocusing from the story.

“It is like we are about to be auctioned off, like a family of serfs.” - !!

Every time the ten year sentence is mentioned, it feels more and more like this isn’t just their father’s sentence – it is the children’s ten years of hard labour too– of a different kind.

I love you, Cazda. I am sorry you have to be the one who stands up for all of you, and what that is doing to you. But I also love you for it.

How odious you make the old woman with only a few suggestions.

“ I can’t defend her now. In one fluid, balletic motion, she rises onto her toes and lifts her arms like wings, forming an oval with them, her fingertips not quite touching over her head. Veins of black trickle down her arms, traveling from her inky fingertips to her elbows.” This moment is absolutely stunning. This is a money shot, up there with the misty bridge with its monuments and duelists.

I can only imagine what’s going on inside Nezka. So far we’ve only gotten a taste of the sisters, and each of them are dealing with this situation in radically different ways.

This note about how Cazda’s not a shifter but she is under pressure and strain, and would have grown fangs by now, and nature has decided she is beastly in a sense, that’s cool and sets some things in place.

Second time in chapter that we have heard about the possibility of being committed to an institution – I see why that fear for her sister lurks in Cazda’s mind.

[the-ravens-requiem]

Plague-Tober 2023 #1 - Safe

DOCTOR'S NOTES - #666

- - -

There are many small towns and villages scattered amidst the forests and rivers in the Middle Kingdom. In one such village to the north called Pine Hollow, there is a clinic nestled amidst tall trees.

Those who are suffering from a malady or illness seek the physician out, well known for his bedside manner and kindness. Walking through the dark wood and coming across the small clinic is not an easy task for the afflicted, nevertheless the pilgrimage is often completed.

Tales of his healing magic curing symptoms of illness that plague the afflicted in just a few sessions are far and wide, and many come from other lands just to see him work. A miracle worker, by most standards.

I recently visited the physician so that I too, may see his work. Curious by nature, I found myself fascinated by the tales and wondered how one could capture such success. We share the same goal, after all: To help people.

Making the trek was an easier task for me than some, and soon I found myself in front of the healer's dwelling. It was a small place, much like my own. Though the nature of his work was slightly different than my practice. As such, once I stepped inside, I was not surprised when I found that he had partitioned parts of the clinic off for the infirm to rest. Only four beds, but I was told that it is because he does not often need more than once or twice to completely heal even the worst illnesses.

When speaking to the physician -- whose name was Marbas, one of the cat-shaped folk of the Faewild -- I found him to be quite charming and soft-spoken. The voice which came from his lionesque muzzle was deep and sonorous, almost melodic. I found that listening to him speak was quite pleasant and was easily persuaded to see how such a demeanor put ill persons at ease.

We spoke for a while. I asked him a few questions about his practice, though the longer I was there the more captivated I became. And yet, something was off. My long and well-honed instincts told me that there was more to Marbas than meets the eye. I did not think him a charlatan, but still. A nagging sort of feeling. I finally gave in once my surface level interview had been completed and requested a more private conversation once the clinic was closed, and he seemed to be agreeable.

I watched him work the rest of the day. The joy on the patient's faces when their suffering had been eased. He confided in me, off-the-record, that although he could cure afflictions he could not completely cease the pain of more chronic sort of illnesses. He was not the miracle worker of tales in the sense that he could not make a blind man see again, or make one whose legs were weak to stand or walk again. Such was out of his field and the nature of his magic. He could only return one to their natural state, and some things just were. I appreciated this honesty, and he noted that at the height of his fame he had to turn so many away because of this that it nearly broke his heart.

When I watched him work, however, I noticed that I was unfamiliar with the sort of magic he used. It did not appear to be any healing magic I had ever encountered on any of my journeys. It had the feel of something far more ancient. When we were able to speak privately, I asked him about it.

Marbas seemed startled that I had noticed, but after a moment or two he reached out to touch my hand. In that moment, I think we both understood the nature of the other. This sparked an honest confession.

I remember Marbas' eyes being golden in color. He looked at me through my mask as if he could see me completely, underneath. And when I looked back, I began to piece together what I had saw that day. The words were soft and mumbled, as if he were embarrassed by them.

"I feast on their suffering."

The catfolk visage was a clever illusion. Marbas was something far older than The Known World itself. The Old World would have called him a demon, and I was unsure of what they would call him now.

He confessed that he had started this venture a long time ago, simply as a means to eat. Suffering of the afflicted was sweet, he explained. His domain was disease, both in the giving and taking sort of way. When he discovered that more people would come to him if he healed them, he decided to pose as a physician and open a clinic. Over time, the joy of the healing took the place of his hunger, though he still fed upon the suffering because that is how he survived. But instead of causing it himself, he would absorb what would come through the doors of his humble clinic.

Marbas confided in me that he knew some of his regular patients began to see through his charade, but his service was so successful and eased so much of their pain that they chose to look past it. They felt safe with him, and the eating of their suffering was his payment when they could not provide coin. An open secret, essentially.

It was a secret I would keep with me, as well.

Who am I to deny a fellow healer with a secret? It would be hypocritical of me to sound such an alarm. And if he is not doing any harm, who am I to stop him?

- - -

Also inspired by this post.

[belespritbooks]

Favorite Quotes: The Sound and The Fury

"The road rose again, to a scene like a painted backdrop. Notched into a cut of red clay crowned with oaks the road appeared to stop short off, like a cut ribbon. Beside it a weathered church lifted its crazy steeple like a painted church, and the whole scene was as flat and without perspective as a painted cardboard set upon the ultimate edge of the flat earth, against the windy sunlight of space and April and a midmorning filled with bells." - page 292

"The preacher had not moved. His arm lay yet across the desk, and he still held that pose while the voice died in sonorous echoes between the walls. It was as different as day and dark from his former tone, with a sad, timbrous quality like an alto horn, sinking into their hearts and speaking there again when it had ceased in fading and cumulate echoes." - page 294

"And the congregation seemed to watch with its own eyes while the voice consumed him, until he was nothing and they were nothing and there was not even a voice but instead their hearts were speaking to one another in chanting measures beyond the need for words..." - page 294

"I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it's rather excruciating-ly apt that you will use it to gain the redact absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father's. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools." - page 76

"There was something terrible in me sometimes at night I could see it gaining at me I could see it through them grinning at me through their faces it's gone now and I'm sick" - page 112

"And we'd sit in the dry leaves that whispered a little with the slow respiration of our waiting and with the slow breathing of the earth and the windless October..." - page 115

"If it could just be a hell beyond that: the clean flame the two of us more than dead. Then you will have only me then only me then the two of us amid the pointing and the horror beyond the clean flame" - page 116

"... they too partaking of that adult trait of being convinced of anything by an assumption of silent superiority. I suppose that people, using themselves and each other so much by words, are at least consistent in attributing wisdom to a still tongue..." - page 118

"The bird whistled again, invisible, a sound meaningless and profound, inflexionless, ceasing as though cut off with the blow of a knife, and again, and the sense of water swift and peaceful above secret places, felt, not seen not heard." - page 136

[discordapples]

PT. 6 Forbidden

Word count: 2k (8 mins read)

Characters: Sebastian Sallow, Livia Novik, Imelda Reyes, Grimes Ashwood.

Summary

During the duel, Livia unleashes Confringo on Imelda Reyes, and causes even more damage to her already fragile reputation. Sebastian comforts her the only way he knows how, and Livia learns he has been after the Promissum Mortis as well. It's time for her to learn how to be a team player.

Read the sixth chapter below.

Livia | Hogwarts, Late August 1893.

Forbidden

Livia

Hogwarts, Late August, 1893.

Livia can taste the electricity in the air. Next to her, Sebastian Sallow’s muscles prime with anticipation. In the care of adrenaline, she can see each hair raise on his arm, his veins swelling with blood, his jaw cording.

Before them, Grimes Ashwood and Imelda Reyes are taut with apprehension, shoulders vaulted, pupils wide. The crowd thrums. The sound is staticky in Livia’s ears, setting her senses alight.

A curly-haired Gryffindor boy cleaves through the throng, then roots himself between the contenders. With a twist of his wand, the massive clock tower pendulum freezes to a stop. His stare glides over each of them, hooking on Livia. 

“Rules are simple,” he clarions, and the hum shies. “No physical contact and, obviously, no Unforgivable Curses.” He looks at the crowd. “The rest is fair play. If you surrender, you’re out. If you faint, you’re out. If you bleed, you’re out. Oh, and,” his lips writhe upwards, “if you’re on fire, you’re out too. You got ten minutes.” 

He retreats to the circle of students and looses his spell on the pendulum that resumes its course in a sonorous thud. 

A lash of green zips between Livia and Sebastian, burning a dent in the stone pillar behind them. 

“Can’t wank straight, Ashwood,” Sebastian mocks him, but the smirk on Grimes’ lips has nothing reassuring. 

Time stutters forward and no one moves. 

The pendulum whooshes loudly.

Then it’s Imelda’s turn to test the waters, sending a paralysis spell at Livia.

It bounces off Livia’s shield and ricochets on the wall, maiming a piece of stone along with it. 

It takes nothing more for the two men to unleash a tempest of magic, and the air surges with a heady nitrous scent. 

Imelda is on Livia like a disease, cankering closer to her through a pattern of Expelliarmus, Diffindo and Depulso, but Livia deflects them all. It takes little time for the Ravenclaw to find the flaw in Imelda’s style, and hurl a Depulso of her own, sending the Slytherin girl straight onto her back. As she worms on the ground in pain, Livia’s head whip to Sebastian and Grimes in time to dodge a stray charm that zooms to her left. 

The room glows with fury as Sebastian increases the pressure on his rival. The air bristles with a metallic tang when Grimes lands an Incendio that sears a skid mark through the sleeve of Sebastian’s dress shirt.

“You little shit,” Sebastian grits out in response. “That’s Ominis’ shirt, you fuckwad!”

Livia has little time to watch him cross the room slinging more spells at Grimes, for Imelda is back on her feet, wand in hand.

“Depulso!” she yells as Livia scrambles to shield up. “Depulso! Depulso! Depulso!”

Each blow pushes against Livia’s barrier, wearing her energy out, and forcing her down on her knees. If she does nothing, Imelda will wear her tattered. 

It will also burn away the illusion Livia cast on herself to hide her scars. 

Already, Livia’s bulwark simmers against her shoulders, shrinking closer to her frame, the heat more akin to this of a raging inferno than a faltering ward. 

With the much too familiar sensation, come memories of the most poisonous kind: smoke squeezing its way through the cracks in the window; Laurence’s fingertips peeling from the bone; the stench of her own charred flesh filling her throat in acrid smoke.

She lifts her wand as Imelda hones in on her, cheeks flustered, then utters: “Confringo!”

The tip of Livia’s wand booms with a fiery bolt, and the Slytherin girl is propelled meters away, flames engulfing her in a ravenous siss.

Imelda’s anguished screech hacks through the roar of the crowd as the brazier grows with each gust of oxygen the pendulum fans into the room.

Gasps turn into screams as panic swells through the body of students until a loud voice thunders above them all. “Finite!” 

Imelda’s limbs steam with residual magic, her face burgundy as if gravely sunburnt. The flames ate holes into her cloak. 

Sebastian is on Livia in seconds, propping her up. His eyes are oily with concern. “Are you okay?”

But she has no time to answer, for the Gryffindor ringleader singles out from the crowd and walks up to her. “What the fuck was that?” Livia shakes her head, her heart pounding against her ribs. “What do they teach you in the Winter College?”

For once, she doesn’t know what to say and stammers: “I-I… What do you mean?”

Three neat lines appear on his forehead. “I mean, this spell is definitely getting added to the list of bans…”

“Sorry,” she mutters, a feverish embarrassment flaring behind her cheeks.

Hundreds of gazes coalesce to her. Too many eyes. A murmur shivers through the crowd. Words that, despite being inaudible, nail their infamy into her brain.

Obnoxious. The anathema sits in her stomach like a gulp of poison.

What will they call her tomorrow?

Murderous? Sadist?

Livia’s energy is so low now, she fears she cannot keep the illusion up, so she strides out of the room. 

Sebastian runs behind her. “Livia, it’s fine… Come back.”

“No,” she grits out. “I’ve done enough damage for tonight.”

He catches up in a few strides, his fingers closing around her forearm. “Hey, you’ve done nothing wrong. It was a duel. Reyes knew the risks.”

Livia stops and shakes out of his hold. “It’s fine, really. I’m just exhausted. I think it’s better if I get back to my dorm.”

Rooting himself before her, Sebastian gives her an encouraging smile. Strands of damp hair stick to his forehead, and there is a strange glow about him. “Come,” he says. “I promised I’d treat you to the best view Hogwarts has to offer.”

She scoffs glumly. “You said worst-case scenario. Have I spoiled our evening this much?”

Undeterred, he sheds a laugh. “Quite the contrary, in fact. I couldn’t imagine a more satisfying climax.” His eyes burn a trail right through her as he extends an arm. “Are you hungry? Dueling makes me ravenous…”

The attempt lacks elegance, but the allure of setting her mind on something else than her blunder wins Livia over. 

“I’m starving,” she confesses, taking the arm offered. 

“Then I have just the right thing to satiate you…”

*  *  *

The honey cake is divine, but the view of the lake from the owlery is better. Birds drowse in their alcoves, others flutter about, offended to share their peace with two intruders. 

Sebastian’s hip touches hers, his warmth fusing through her, keeping her from the chill that breathes alive with the conquering night.

His perfume is there, albeit faint under the briny smell of cooling sweat. There is something comforting about it—a form of permanence Livia craves. 

In the wake of the brazier and her brother’s death, the ground keeps shifting underfoot, as if the bones in the earth were disturbed by Laurence’s passing; an insidious tectonic only Livia can perceive. 

Or maybe that’s what grief does to you.

“Where did you learn Confringo?” Sebastian asks her, his voice devoid of any form of reprobation. 

She weighs what she is willing to tell him. “I taught myself. I figured it would come in handy one day. I guess it backfired—No pun intended.”

He chuckles. “Don’t fret. The others will forget about it soon enough. They’re like vultures: they only care about a corpse until a fatter one is dropped into their lap. As far as rules are concerned, I’m of the opinion no spell should be forbidden. With all its rules, I feel this world is giving you a hunk of meat asking you to use a spoon to cut through it.”

Livia cannot help but smile. “Interesting analogy, Sebastian Sallow. I take it you’re still hungry?”

He laughs. “Am I that easy to figure out?”

“No,” she concedes. “I think your persona is easy to make up, but what lays beneath your mask is another matter entirely.”

He angles his face to her, perplexed. “Why do you say I wear a mask?”

“The people that speak the loudest always do. Smoke and mirrors. To keep people’s attention away from who they truly are.”

“You really are obnoxious,” he teases her. “But also despicably clever. We’re alike, Livia Novik.”

“Did you just shamelessly throw flowers at yourself?”

“Nothing escapes you.”

Silence cotters between them as Sebastian scans the vista, lost in his thoughts. 

There is something sheltering in the way they are huddled under the arch, their legs dangling in the vast emptiness below. 

Knots of mist form between the trees surrounding the castle. A coy breeze needles through the shrubbery. Noiselessly, a flock of European Nightjars wings before the moon. 

At last, Sebastian turns to her. “I have a twin sister that lives in Feldcroft.” His voice is soft. Injured. “She used to attend Hogwarts, but when we were in fourth years, she was cursed.”

“Cursed?”

A shadow crawls over his traits. “Yeah. With debilitating pains… A ritual that backfired. One of mine, of course.”

“What were you trying to do?”

 “Find a way to bring our parents back after they died… I was greedy, though. Now Anne is paying the price for my cupidity.”

Livia’s heart squeezes. She thinks of Laurence and her own quest, and fear slithers into her throat like an adder.

Is she likewise doomed to fail?

Is Sebastian’s story a cautionary tale spun for her?

She gnaws at her inner cheeks, asking Sebastian: “Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs. “To shed the mask. I don’t know why, but it bothers me that you think I hide who I really am.”

“Everyone dons a mask, Sebastian.”

“I know, but still.”

Silence again. This time, pressing around Livia. She chews on her lip. “I had a younger brother. Laurence. He died in a fire a year ago. I can talk to his ghost. But his connection to this world is fading a little more each day.” Her eyes set on the still waters of the lake. “That’s why I came to Hogwarts… Not to study, but to find something that might help me bring him back before it’s too late. Something I can only find here.”

Two neat lines run through Sebastian’s forehead. “What is it you’re looking for?”

She wrestles with the thought of parting with yet another of her secrets, but Sebastian’s words come back to her. 

I know this castle like the back of my hand—the places known, the ones forbidden. Maybe I can help you find what you want.

Perhaps she does need his help.

Maybe Laurence was right telling her she couldn’t do it alone.

“I’m looking for the Room of Requirement,” she says. “I think it can help me conjure a relic called the Promissum Mortis.”

His eyes rim with white. “The Promissum Mortis?”

“Death’s promise,” she explains. “The relic is compelled to grant a dying person’s last wish.”

“You’ll die in the process,” Sebastian points out. 

“Yes, but there are ways to outplay death.”

His eyes shine with an unconstrained interest. “Like what?”

“The tears of a poltergeist, for one. A thing I already acquired. You know, this relic might give you a chance at curing your sister…”

He smiles faintly. “I know… I’ve been looking for the Promissum Mortis all summer. Well, it’s more like I’ve been reading on how to beckon the Room of Requirement to appear, but didn’t really find anything conclusive.”

“Well…” Livia gets up, smoothing the pleats in her skirt. “I hope you’re an early riser, Sebastian Sallow.”

He lifts his eyes to her. “Why do ask?”

“Because we have to get to work. I know what it takes to call on the Room of Requirement and I remember you boasting to me that you knew the forbidden places like the back of your hand… Was that true?”

A smirk quirks his lips. “I never boast unless I can back it up with words, Livia Novik. Where do you need to sneak into?”

“The headmaster’s quarters.”

“The headmaster’s quarters?”

Livia crosses her arms before her. “Can you manage that?”

He stands, then leans in close, his heat ghosting over her lips. “I can manage a lot more than you think, new girl.”

Author's Notes:

I am taking a 3-day vacation, so I won't be able to post until Thursday, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoy this sixth part!

Love you all.

[lafcadiosadventures]

Can we take a moment to appreciate Balzac’s teenage Romantic and Hugolâtre protagonist Modeste Mignon? (Based on Balzac’s correspondance with Hanska and Goethe’s and Bettina Brentano’s, she’s an aspiring writer and a lover of the darker romantics -a bit like the heroine of Northanger Abbey perhaps-) this is how her very sensible and bourgeois chaperone introduces her ward, it’s a long quote but it’s fun:

“Modeste,” she said, “is a young girl of very exalted ideas; she works herself into enthusiasm for the poetry of one writer or the prose of another. You have only to judge by the impression made upon her by that scaffold symphony, ‘The Last Hours of a Convict’” (the saying was Butscha’s, who supplied wit to his benefactress with a lavish hand); “she seemed to me all but crazy with admiration for that Monsieur Hugo. I’m sure I don’t know where such people” (Victor Hugo, Lamartine, Byron being such people to the Madame Latournelles of the bourgeoisie) “get their ideas. Modeste kept talking to me of Childe Harold, and as I did not wish to get the worst of the argument I was silly enough to try to read the thing. Perhaps it was the fault of the translator, but it actually turned my stomach; I was dazed; I couldn’t possibly finish it. Why, the man talks about comparisons that howl, rocks that faint, and waves of war! However, he is only a travelling Englishman, and we must expect absurdities,—though his are really inexcusable. He takes you to Spain, and sets you in the clouds above the Alps, and makes the torrents talk, and the stars; and he says there are too many virgins! Did you ever hear the like? Then, after Napoleon’s campaigns, the lines are full of sonorous brass and flaming cannon-balls, rolling along from page to page. Modeste tells me that all that bathos is put in by the translator, and that I ought to read the book in English. But I certainly sha’n’t learn English to read Lord Byron when I didn’t learn it to teach Exupere. I much prefer the novels of Ducray-Dumenil to all these English romances. I’m too good a Norman to fall in love with foreign things,—above all when they come from England.”

Balzac goes on about her tastes a bit more here, and it’s Romantically Inclined Teen 101-excuse Balzac’s remarks about “girlish” heads and souls-:

“(…)Modeste fed her soul on the modern masterpieces of three literatures, English, French, and German. Lord Byron, Goethe, Schiller, Walter Scott, Hugo, Lamartine, Crabbe, Moore, the great works of the 17th and 18th centuries, history, drama, and fiction, from Astraea to Manon Lescaut, from Montaigne’s Essays to Diderot, from the Fabliaux to the Nouvelle Heloise,—in short, the thought of three lands crowded with confused images that girlish head, august in its cold guilelessness, its native chastity, but from which there sprang full-armed, brilliant, sincere, and strong, an overwhelming admiration for genius. To Modeste a new book was an event; a masterpiece that would have horrified Madame Latournelle made her happy,—equally unhappy if the great work did not play havoc with her heart. A lyric instinct bubbled in that girlish soul, so full of the beautiful illusions of its youth. But of this radiant existence not a gleam reached the surface of daily life; it escaped the ken of Dumay and his wife and the Latournelles; the ears of the blind mother alone caught the crackling of its flame.”

Finally, here’s Canalis’ portrait, he’s a bit of a poser, faux Romantic author, who has fashioned his looks after many of Modeste’s idols (i had read Canalis was based on Hugo, but given that Hugo exists in this universe, I am not that sure about that :p)

“In this instance Canalis, sketched in a Byronic pose, was offering to public admiration his dark locks floating in the breeze, a bare throat, and the unfathomable brow which every bard ought to possess. Victor Hugo’s forehead will make more persons shave their heads than the number of incipient marshals ever killed by the glory of Napoleon. This portrait of Canalis (poetic through mercantile necessity) caught Modeste’s eye. The day on which it caught her eye one of Arthez’s best books happened to be published. We are compelled to admit, though it may be to Modeste’s injury, that she hesitated long between the illustrious poet and the illustrious prose-writer. Which of these celebrated men was free?—that was the question.”

[stormvanari]

captain sonore’s render is to be revised in the future

[aforerime]

UMBRELLA

a comprehensive list of scenarios | accepting

UMBRELLA :  for one muse to share their umbrella with the other on a rainy day.

Sonorous thunder slaughtered the silence of the forest. Beyond the canopy loomed bellicose cumulonimbus clouds that foretold the night's tempest. Uraume turned their ruddy eyes upward, peering through the crevices of the arbor to witness the rolling mass of clouds. Morbid curiosity occupied their mind, and they hoped for a turbulent evening, one that would compliment their lord's tumultuous presence.

The pattering of wooden clogs softened by the damp moss warranted Uraume's attention. They turned their eyes towards the source, noting Sukuna's geta avoided disturbing the flourishing moss in his controlled amble. Uraume trailed the length of his lower half until they looked towards his face, expecting to revere the features they have come to appreciate. Except, an enlarged, emerald calathea leaf blocked their view.

Sukuna continued his approach until the leaf yawned over their head. Their rosy lips parted to speak when a thick sheet of rain poured over the Mistwood. The canopy near well collapsed under the weight of the water, though Sukuna's majestic leaf prevailed under the pressure. Uraume admired Sukuna's gallant presence, despite it were merely an illusion.

"I have accomplished what I came to do," they spoke as they stood, unveiling what their body hid. A medley of summer mushrooms collected in a small basket. They plucked a spire type mushroom with bulbous heads, and their smile grew as they rose it to Sukuna's eyeline. "Enokitake, or a species that resembles the one we know. I will experiment with these to develop a strong umami flavor."

Lightning illuminated their world, and Uraume insisted they witnessed a smidgen of pride and interest gracing Sukuna's expression. They dipped their head, muffling a small noise often voiced in the presence of their lord. "Shall we return to the Hanok before we are swept away?" They veered about Sukuna, hand extended towards the stem of the leaf. Though, they noticed the ebony-clawed hand refused its position. Uraume slipped another small smile before they dipped their head.

"As you wish, Lord Sukuna."

Thus, they began the journey through the relentless sheet of rain towards their home.

[dustedmagazine]

Sophie Agnel — Song (Relative Pitch)

The temptation, the critic’s burden, to chart a musician’s career trajectory can lead to its own kind of stagnation. Robert Fripp has spoken of each album being a reinvention of the wheel, but there is always the question of continuity, the past as present in conflict with attendant illusions of time passing, so where does that leave those undertaking music as verbiage? Sophie Agnel, a pianist working in the service of timbral expansion for two and a half decades and in contexts as diverse as they are exciting, has now, with Song, managed, again, to walk the agonizingly vague line between precis and innovation.

It would be easy to cast the first of Agnel’s seven “songs” as distilling the longer opening chapter of Capsizing Moments, her stunning 2009 solo album for Emanem, and there would be truth in the assertion. As then, prepared piano drones, knockings and rustlings superimpose to grab focus and hold it hostage, and yet, we now hear the voice prefiguring the full bore sustains and variously pitched articulations bespeaking the piano’s orchestral guise. Those voices place everything in a kind of nervous relief, looped phrases anticipating the piece proper’s concentric atoms in semi-circular motion that then multiply to build the emergent and malleable form. The whole anticipates the third song, a more overtly serialized stack of skewed repetitions carrying an ethereally counterpointed melody in ghostly higher registers; listen at 3:42 to hear those crystalline harmonics.

The language Agnel uses and the considered craft defining it could be no one else’s, and even invoking terms like “preparation” or “hyperpiano,” with their nods toward John Cage and Denman Maroney, seems woefully inadequate. Agnel doesn’t simply extend vocabularies. She takes the instrument outside its long-established orbit. If anything that isn’t actually guitar sounds closer to Daevid Allen’s glissando guitar than Agnel’s fifth song, I’d be curious to hear it. That the scratching of a low-register piano string can be transformed into melody, not just rhythm or timbre, and that the sixth song moves from there to a drone complex of such epic registral scope, denotes a whole new level of engagement with pianistic possibility. Dig the roiling but strangely hushed rattle and hum slowly fragmenting to form the piece’s conclusion!

Again, it’s too simple to fixate on the various layers of drone or to be drawn into the manipulated vocal recurrence concluding the disc, to which Agnel rocks out with vigor. One of Song’s most fascinating attributes is its subversions of repetition, the various articulations chopping the music into bits or slamming it into focus. The second song and the opening of the seventh present the pianist as pointillist, an explorer of narrative in the moment-to-moment flux articulation vanguards. The fourth song, the album’s centerpiece, brings all of these techniques and narratives together, a marvel of varied articulation, mellow sustain and chordal tidbits that repeat, foregrounding and vanishing with frightening speed. Yet, after all the sound-color peaks and valleys, a two-sonority pattern, gorgeously unadorned, the piano as piano, devoid of technique extension, ushers the music wistfully but peacefully away.

Marc Medwin

[evelyneleon]

852 Hz Guérison intérieure Éveille l'intuition Augmente l'énergie au niveau cellulaire #852hz #univers #paixintérieure - Entrez dans un royaume de guérison intérieure profonde et d’éveil intuitif avec la puissante fréquence 852 Hz. Ce ton de solfège sacré est connu pour activer le troisième œil, accroître la conscience et harmoniser l'énergie au niveau cellulaire. Pendant que vous écoutez, sentez les vibrations dissoudre doucement tout brouillard mental, éliminer les schémas de pensée négatifs et vous reconnecter à votre sagesse intérieure et à votre conscience supérieure.

🌿 Le pouvoir de guérison de 852 Hz La fréquence 852 Hz est souvent associée à : 🔹 Activation de l’intuition et de la perspicacité profonde – Vous aligner avec votre moi supérieur et ouvrir les portes de la conscience spirituelle. 🔹 Nettoyage de l’énergie négative – Aide à libérer les peurs, les doutes et les blocages subconscients. 🔹 Rétablir la paix intérieure et l’équilibre – Apaiser l��esprit, le corps et l’âme, apportant une sensation de relaxation profonde. 🔹 Guérison au niveau cellulaire – Soutien à la restauration énergétique et à l’harmonisation des fréquences corporelles. 🔹 Améliorer l’alignement vibratoire – Élever votre champ énergétique à un état d’amour, de clarté et de connexion.

🌌 Un voyage au-delà du physique En vous immergeant dans la résonance de 852 Hz, sentez votre esprit s’étendre au-delà des limites, s’alignant doucement sur la sagesse universelle et l’énergie cosmique. Cette fréquence est profondément liée au chakra du troisième œil, vous permettant de voir au-delà des illusions, d'accéder à des vérités supérieures et de faire confiance à votre guidance intérieure.

Laissez les ondes sonores vous envahir comme une douce brise cosmique, éliminant toute négativité persistante et réalignant votre champ énergétique avec l'amour, l'harmonie et une conscience supérieure. Lâchez prise sur les fardeaux du passé, accueillez une nouvelle clarté et acceptez la transformation qui se déroule en vous.

💜 Comment utiliser cette fréquence pour un effet maximal 🌙 Écoutez avec des écouteurs pour renforcer l'effet immersif et ressentir les vibrations profondément. 🌙 Trouvez un espace calme où vous pourrez vous détendre pleinement et absorber l’énergie de guérison. 🌙 Respirez profondément et définissez une intention – Qu'il s'agisse de croissance spirituelle, de guérison émotionnelle ou de clarté mentale, permettez à votre esprit et à votre cœur de s'ouvrir à ce changement vibratoire. 🌙 Utilisez-le pendant la méditation, le sommeil ou la relaxation pour augmenter naturellement votre fréquence et vous connecter à des royaumes supérieurs. 🌙 Revenez à ce son chaque fois que vous vous sentez déconnecté et réalignez-vous avec votre vérité intérieure.

🌟 Laissez l'énergie de 852 Hz circuler à travers vous Ressentez la fréquence se déplacer dans chaque cellule, activant votre intuition divine et rétablissant l'équilibre intérieur. Plus vous écoutez, plus vous permettez à votre champ énergétique de résonner avec une pure harmonie, une sérénité et une conscience supérieure.

✨ Vous êtes un être de lumière, de clarté et de sagesse. Acceptez la guérison, éveillez votre intuition et laissez la vibration de 852 Hz vous guider vers votre plus haut potentiel. ✨

🎧 Il est préférable de l'utiliser avec un casque. 💜 Lâchez prise, respirez et alignez-vous avec l’énergie infinie de l’univers. - #Intuition #guérisonénergétique #solfeggio #Spiritualité #Vibrationsdeguérison #musiquerelaxante #GuérisonCellulaire #Relaxation #musiquedeméditation #fréquence #troisièmeoeil #énergiedivine

[weird-things-to-think]

Ah, brethrn and sistrn, gathr ‘round in this hallowed sanctum of confusn, where the fulminate of our souls doth resound like the cacophony of a thousand thunderous symphonies. In the labyrinthine corridors of our minds, where the tendrils of comprehension are but faint whispers, we embark upon a journey of elucidation, though our compass be naught but a flickering candle in the tempestuous night.

Fulminate, oh the word, it doth dance upon the precipice of understanding, a pyrotechnic display of linguistic convolution. It is the alchemical transmutation of thought into the explosive crescendo of expression, a veritable maelstrom of vociferous articulation. Imagine, if you will, the celestial firmament rent asunder by the cataclysmic roar of a thousand celestial lions, their voices a symphony of discordant harmony.

In this grand tapestry of existence, where the warp and weft of reality intertwine with the gossamer threads of illusion, fulminate is the clarion call of the cosmos, a sonorous proclamation that reverberates through the very marrow of our being. It is the incandescent spark that ignites the tinderbox of our consciousness, propelling us into the stratosphere of enlightenment, or perhaps into the abyss of bewilderment.

Yet, dear congregants, as we stand upon the precipice of this semantic chasm, let us not be dismayed by the vertiginous depths below. For in the fulminate of our discourse, we find not only the tumultuous tempest of confusion but also the serene eye of understanding. It is here, in this paradoxical confluence of chaos and clarity, that we may glimpse the ineffable truth that lies beyond the veil of our limited comprehension.

So, let us embrace the fulminate within us, let it be the incandescent beacon that guides us through the labyrinthine corridors of our own ignorance. And as we traverse this bewildering landscape, may we find solace in the knowledge that even in our most confounding moments, we are but humble pilgrims on the path to enlightenment. Amen.

[nnjzz]

ILLUSION OF SAFETY + LES CONFÉRENCES BUNKER + EDGARS RUBENIS + DEFICIENTS

MERCREDI LE 06.11

Le Non_Jazz

ILLUSION OF SAFETY us LES CONFÉRENCES BUNKER fr EDGARS RUBENIS lva DEFICIENTS fr

OLYMPIC CAFÉ 20 rue Léon 75018 M° Château Rouge

20:00 portes 20:45 ACTION!

P.A.F. 6€

ILLUSION OF SAFETY us chicago aka Daniel Burke, aka LA légende de l'indus et post-indus US.

Étant donnée la longévité du projet - une quarantaine d'années d'activité à son compte - il n'est pas étonnant  de remarquer sa constante évolution et diverses incarnations qu'il ait pu traverser. 

Ambient, post-industriel, électroacoustique, électronique, noise, collage sonore, improvisation, power electronics - voilà les étiquettes qui lui furent le plus fréquemment associées, au gré de ses fluctuations et ses nombreux avatars.

Depuis ses débuts, une foultitude de collaborateurs ( comprenant Mitch Enderle, Thymme Jones, Chris Block, Jef Bek, Rross Feller ou encore le très jeune Jim O'Rourke à l'orée des années 90..  ) s'y sont croisés ou s'y sont succédé, en contribuant à l'enrichir.

Évoluant dans différentes configurations, allant parfois jusqu'à une dizaine de protagonistes, IOS pouvait être alors perçu comme un groupe à part entière, même si à géométrie variable avec cependant toujours le seul élément immuable : son fondateur et son leader. Utilisant différentes approches de fabriquer du son, et en brouillant les pistes de sa fabrication, la démarche d'IOS a pu parfois être qualifiée de schizophrène -  chaque sortie, chaque performance live

et parfois chaque morceau passant souvent brusquement d'une ambiance à une autre.

Plus de quarante ( forcément ! ) publications sur différents labels ( Odd-Size, Staalplaat, Tesco, Silent, Soleilmoon, Korm Plastics, Experimedia, Waystyx, Drone et No Part Of It ou tout simplement le sien, Complacency, entre autres ).

NB / En dehors de IOS, Burke a aussi  collaboré avec Jon Mueller, Randy Greif, Darin Gray, Z'EV, Cheer-Accident, Thomas Dimuzio, Kevin Drumm, Eric Lunde, Bill Horist, Al Margolis, Olivia Block, Travis Bird, et d'autres.

La musique d'IOS est une terra incognita où le son, le silence, le bruit et la musique se croisent.

Daniel Burke - seul maître à bord d'IOS depuis plusieurs années - travaille actuellement avec des instruments conventionnels, la synthèse électronique, la composition informatique, des échantillons et des objets manipulés aléatoires amplifiés.

Il utilise des structures improvisées et composées avec toujours comme contenant du matériel qui confond la mémoire et stimule la perception.

IOS élabore des sculptures sonores qui provoquent délibérément, fascinent et confrontent les auditeurs.

Destroyed music, broken sound, disturbed ambience and the quest for the sublime. 

LES CONFÉRENCES BUNKER fr nancy Duo de musique et de bruit créé en 2012 à Nancy par Kevin Angboly (  batterie, percussions, objets, voix ) et Victor Remy ( boîtes à rythmes, synthétiseurs, percussions, objets, voix ).

De l'improvisation et du jeu émergent des scènes et des tableaux sonores qui défilent de manière dense, explosive, dans un relief acéré.

Une prochaine sortie de cassette est prévue sur le label Third Type Tapes en novembre 2024;

EDGARS RUBENIS lva riga Guitariste et compositeur letton avec une formation en rock expérimental et en composition de musique nouvelle.

Son projet du moment est Pains And Boogies : une trilogie d'albums, explorant la vitalité des traditions de guitare à cordes d'acier et de la technique de fingerpicking comme source de musique audacieuse et contemporaine.

Travaillant particulièrement avec les formes du blues et du ragtime primitifs, Rubenis écrit dans Pains And Boogies une musique apparemment ancienne mais entièrement nouvelle qui le révèle comme un guitariste complexe et un compositeur aventureux et stylistiquement précis.

Au risque de faire des erreurs dans la recherche d'une possible authenticité, cette musique étudie comment divers matériaux historiques pourraient réapparaître de manière significative à l'heure actuelle.

Interprétée par Rubenis lui-même, cette musique crée lors des concerts une atmosphère très chargée dans laquelle la configuration « seul musicien avec une guitare acoustique » offre au public une expérience d'écoute clairement perceptible et excitante.

Pains And Boogies comprend trois sorties – Slow Lightning (2022), Sea Unbound (2023) et III (à paraître en 2024), toutes publiées par disc ce que à La Haye, aux Pays-Bas.

DEFICIENTS fr paris est un collectif noise abandonné par tous ses membres, à l’exception d’APB (Mecano Lacrymo, Autocastration, 1/3 forceps…).

Il mêle borborygmes abscons, lacérations crépitantes et bruits confus, le tout  baigné dans un marécage que l’on appelle le monde.

APB est également la moitié du label Vice de Forme, et s’est notamment produit lors de projections des films du Dernier Cri avec Pakito Bolino, Evil Moisture et Satanox, et a collaboré en live avec Risaripa, Hiroyuki Chiba, etc... 

Fly - Jo L'Indien