#stonemason mark

[1five1two]

[mioritic]

Stonemason's mark at St. Michael's Church (Szent Mihály-templom/Biserica Sf. Mihail) in Kolozsvár/Cluj-Napoca, Transylvania, built between 1316–1487.

This mark is located at the entrance of the side chapel at the left (north) transept.

According to a study published by Edit Grandpierre in 1936, there exist at least 49 other mason's marks in the church, although this paticular mark was not documented in the study (see: Grandpierre Edit, "A kolozsvári Szent Mihály-templom története és építészete 1349-től napjainkig", Erdélyi Múzeum 7, vol. 41, issues 1-3: 19-60).

Photographed on 24 December 2024

[mariacallous]

Picture this, if you will: hundreds of grey-haired grannies ganging up to face down a group of neo-Nazi skinheads. Some of the skinheads have beer bottles in their hands. The grannies are armed with nothing more than umbrellas and hand-knitted woolly hats. It sounds like a corny sketch for a TV comedy show. But no. It’s election time in Germany’s eastern Länder (federal regions), and the grannies are out on the streets.

There’s no Granny Party. The movement, called in German Omas gegen Rechts (Grannies against the right), has grown into a national and international force since it was founded in 2017 by an Austrian psychotherapist and evangelical priest, Monika Salzer.

It is widely assumed here that apathy and low voter turnout will result in a far-right victory. But election posters showing a cartoon granny with a rainbow flag carry a simple message: “Granny says – go out and vote!” Apart from the rainbow, a symbol of tolerance, sexual liberation and diversity, there is no instruction on how to vote.

In between elections, the Grannies are busy knitting and babysitting. But they also raise funds, for example by baking and selling cakes, to finance the poster campaign and a set of beer mats that make up a pub quiz.

In Leipzig, my new home town, the Grannies have raised enough money to install three new Stumblestones (Stolpersteine). These are little brass plaques inscribed with the names of people whom the Nazis deported and murdered in the 1930s and 40s. The new plaques commemorate the Wesly family – Hermann, a Jewish publisher of music and books, his wife, Berta, and their daughter, Margot. Berta and Hermann were taken to Auschwitz and murdered in the gas chambers. Margot escaped to England – but the British authorities put her in a concentration camp too, as an enemy alien.

A violin and an accordion were played during the installation of the little plaques where the Weslys’ house once stood. The stonemason’s hammer punctuated the music with a slow beat. Then Granny Gisela read out a short account of how the family was persecuted and how we must never forget. Many spectators were in tears. The memorial is on the doorstep of the new building that now stands on the site – a kindergarten. Its head teacher joined the ceremony and promised to find a way of explaining the story to the kids “without scaring them too much”. I remarked that it was a very special moment. Granny Sylvia put me right.

“Sadly, it’s not so special. This brings the number of Stolpersteine in Leipzig to almost 800. There is one on almost every street,” she said, before inviting us all to join her for coffee and cake.

Later she shared a link to the Stolpersteine app in the Google Play store (also on Apple). It’s true – there are hundreds of Stumblestones. Many are not for Jewish victims, but for brave souls like William Zipperer who tried to stop the Nazis and save their neighbours. He was executed in January 1945 for plotting against the state. 

As a mark of respect, the Grannies regularly go out to polish the small memorials set into the pavements, to light candles and lay flowers.

There is another side to the movement. They are part of the Antifa, Germany’s radical ultra-left. Not quite as radical as Lina Engel, the antifascist activist who is serving jail time in Dresden for plotting physical attacks on neo-Nazi pubs and meetings. Nor have any Grannies been caught setting fire to building sites where executive homes are replacing the old affordable blocks of flats – a typical Antifa action. 

They upload videos to TikTok. And they are taking their campaign out of the city and into villages and suburbs where right wing parties recruit people who feel neglected or “left behind” by the Berlin government.

“Solidarity without borders instead of right wing propaganda,” says the Radical Grannies’ poster, urging supporters to join them in a mass demonstration. These are Grannies who don’t knit. 

[minijenn]

Speaking of those random UFF ideas I was coming up with last night, here area few chapter ideas I had in mind:

-Crushed: a rather bolsterous new gem arrives at Little Homeworld and falls for Stan and Ford (not realizing they're different people) almost immediately, and she refuses to take no for an answer. Hijinks ensue.

-Fashion Maven: Sphene (one of the Gems involved in the HBO) comes to Little Homeworld, wanting a new start by making her mark on the gem fashion scene. She quickly finds a surprising source of inspiration when she meets Maven, who inspires her to be a bit more... unique with her style than Homeworld ever let her be before. Hijinks ensue.

Sunshine Gem: Amber moves to Little Homeworld full time and meets other healed Ambers for the first time but struggles to fit in with them. So Dipper and Steven try to help bridge the gap between them (though they don't exactly see eye to eye on how).

-Stepping Stone: This one's a little more complicated. So Stonemason (who rememember, will be his own person seperate from Dipper at this point), sees Steven and Dipper form Stepper and is just a lil jealous because he remembers fusing with Steven and lowkey misses it and also kinda lowkey misses sharing the same headspace with Dipper. So Stepper brings him into the fusion. Angst ensues.

-Night Shift: Slow corruption Steven angst, would probably involve this drabble I wrote forever ago bc this scene will not leave my head for UFF

-Pines Productions: I think I mentioned before about how in UFF Dipper would be starting up a docuseries about all of the oddities of Gravity Falls, this chapter would be about him getting it off the ground with help from the other MK (well, help and hinderance lol)

-The Stan with a Plan: Stan notices Steven is Going Through It, so he tries to help him out his own unique way (which involves letting it all out through some... less than legal activities, (basically they go on a Revenge Trip but don't take Amethyst (don't worry, she'd show up to bail them out in the end when they inevitably get in trouble)

[aegor-bamfsteel]

ppl give jaehaerys shit for the way he treats his daughters but imo he's overrated in general. He built roads which is good but that was it for his legacy.

Well, when the legacy of the other kings consists of:

Conquering most of a continent; building a Smelly City; causing mass destruction resulting in loss of a dragon because you couldn’t stand having other rulers in Westeros (Aegon I)

Being so bad at ruling that 4 rebellions broke out against you in the span of a season (Aenys)

Building an Evil Castle, then killing everybody involved in its construction; basically killing everybody who didn’t bend over backwards to appease you; getting shanked on your own throne (Maegor)

Inheriting the most prosperous realm ever, then leaving it on the brink of the bloodiest civil war due to crap family planning (Viserys I)

Being such a tyrannical ruler the people of the Smelly City chased you out in 6 months (Rhaenyra)

Being such a tyrannical ruler you allegedly got poisoned by your own men in 6 months (Aegon II)

Idk…being traumatized because you saw your mother eaten by a dragon, and also the dragons died (Aegon III)

Starting a bloody conquest war that ended in 60000 of your own men dead, that didn’t even stick (Daeron I)

Building a Women’s Prison in the Evil Castle so you can lock your sisters up for no good reason; building a Great Sept in the Smelly City named after yourself and moving your Rubber Stamp Popes (including an 8 year old and an illiterate stonemason) there (Baelor)

Idk…getting poisoned after a year? (Viserys II)

Raping women; trying to start unprovoked wars; unjust executions and land theft (Aegon IV)

Building a pleasure palace in a notorious war zone for your family; probably completing the Great Sept; being so bad at negotiating and family planning half the realm turned against you; harshly punishing even the children of those who turned against you (Daeron II)

Being so bad at ruling you’d rather read about prophecies, leaving a tyrant to preside over the worst humanitarian crises (drought and Great Spring Sickness) and yet more rebellions, thus creating an authoritarian police state (Aerys I)

Idk…keeping said tyrant as Hand despite him proving to be an incompetent ruler; also getting killed by a falling rock (Maekar)

Letting your kids marry “for love” causing rebellions; being unable to get your reforms for the peasants passed peacefully; resorting to trying to bring back dragons and getting yourself and half your family blown up at Pleasure Palace (Aegon V)

Idk…ordering the invasion of a sellsword kingdom on another continent due to generational paranoia; ruling for three years; demanding your kids wed because of a prophecy (Jaehaerys II)

Unjustly executing noblemen by burning them alive; calling for the executions of their families just for their blood relation, causing most of the realm to turn against you; planning to blow up the Smelly City before your teenage body guard shanked you, thus finally bringing your failure dynasty’s rulership to an end (Aerys II)

…measured against the other Targ kings, Jaehaerys’ legacy of building a six-kingdoms long road looks pretty good, considering most of the Targs’ own building projects were for themselves (Summerhall, Maegor’s Holdfast, the f—king Maidenvault) or localized in the Smelly City (Great Sept). Then Septon Barth and Alysanne had some good ideas about cleaning up the city water supply, helping fund the Night’s Watch, some laws allegedly protecting women, and then Florence Fossoway kept the kingdoms financially profitable, which I guess adds to J1’s prestige. Tbh I consider J1’s 2 wars against Dorne to also be a mark against him, and I’m annoyed that F&B added the detail that the Dornish allegedly mourned the guy who along with his sons burned hundreds of them alive on dragon back. Same with the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, and basically turning the High Septon into a rubber stamp when before the Faith had been a reliable anti-Targ faction that demonstrated some care for the smallfolk. In addition to mistreating his daughters, in a way that goes beyond politics and escalates into spite (though he’s hardly alone in that, with how Alysanne treated Viserra).

Really, I don’t see why GRRM can call Robert Baratheon “a terrible king”, when compared to the Targs he’s above average, and actually better than some of their best kings in some regards (when he pardoned those who rebelled against him with few exceptions).

[fluentisonus]

Graffiti by journeyman stonemasons, Pont du Gard

From the museum:

"As of the 17th century, the journeymen of the Tour de France* considered the Pont du Gard a marvel of stone architecture. They paid homage to this great "Antiquity" by leaving their marks and their tool's form engraved in the stone ... A total of 320 [jouneymen's] marks have been identified on the Pont du Gard, from the lower piers up to the third- story canal paving stones. Workers engraved these marks after they had worked on the edifice or simply to indicate that they had been to the site. The oldest mark dates to 1611, and the most recent dates to 1989. Half of these are the signatures of journeymen stonecutters and can be explained by the fact that this is an architectural monument entirely dedicated to stone ... These graffiti contribute in some way to the history of the monument."

If you look closely at all of these you can identify the tools of the trade carved in along with the names: all of these images depict hammers & many depict a level and a compass crossed to form a sort of diamond or X shape

*a jouneyman's fraternity of medieval origin. unrelated to the bicycle race

[scotianostra]

7th April 1767 saw the birth in Torphichen of Henry Bell.

Not a well known name to many but Bell would make his name by building the the paddle steamer PS Comet and, in 1812, using it to run Europe’s first commercially viable passenger steamboat service on the River Clyde.

Bell was educated in the local Parish school at Torphichen his family were well known at the time as millwrights, builders and engineers.

After schooling he spent time learning trades as a stonemason, Millwright and Model ship modeler, he was something of a visionary and a jack of all trades, it was another trade, engineering that he ended up excelling.

He became fascinated by the then experimental technology and potential of steam propelled ships. He corresponded with and may have assisted the American steamship pioneer Robert Fulton who, in 1807, introduced a steamboat service in New York. However, Bell failed to persuade the Admiralty to take any interest in his ideas about steam propulsion. While continuing to experiment and speculate, he and his wife moved in 1807 to Helensburgh where they ran an inn and superintended the public baths.

He must have been bored for as well as doing the two jobs in Helensburgh Henry was still tinkering with his steam engines, and he commissioned a Port Glasgow shipbuilder to build a 30-ton wooden paddle steamer with a 3hp engine. He named her Comet after a spectacular comet that had appeared the previous year. In August 1812, after a trial voyage from Port Glasgow to the Broomielaw and then back down to Greenock, during which the boat made 5 knots against a headwind and dramatically cut the usual journey time, Bell inaugurated a regular passenger service between Glasgow, Greenock and Helensburgh. No longer did ferries need to be so dependent upon wind and tide. This was the first commercial steam passenger service in Europe.

Lengthened and improved, the Comet then ran a service to Oban and Fort William via the Crinan Canal, but in 1820 she was shipwrecked off Oban. A successor Comet sank after a collision with considerable loss of life. Bell’s pioneering venture was soon superseded technically and eclipsed by rivals but he had shown the way.

Bell was not a successful businessman and ended his days in poverty, dependent upon a public subscription on his behalf, supported by Thomas Telford among others, and an annual stipend from the trustees of the Clyde Navigation.

He died in aged 62 and is buried in Rhu Kirkyard at Gare Loch, Argyll and Bute, a grand statue of him marks his tomb, there is also a monument to Henry Bell on the Clyde at Helensburgh.

[axilarycobra]

[Wings of Fire] MudWing Headcanons

Me when I finally use Tumblr for something 🤯. I'm working on tribe headcanons and am going to start posting them here. I have lists for all of the tribes but we'll start with MudWings (they're in tribe guide order).

MudWings have the most complex structures and they are very skilled at construction, especially masonry.

MudWings are the largest tribe in population due to having the largest egg clutches. These clutches range from 5-9 dragonets per laying.

When the tribes started adapting to their environments and evolving into the tribes that exist today, the MudWings were the last to be formed.

Blood-red eggs occur about once for every 8 clutches. It is most common for the bigwings to hatch from a blood-red egg.

MudWings have a stronger immune system due to living in a swamp environment their whole lives and being exposed to these diseases, gaining immunity to them over time. If a MudWing, such as Clay, is hatched out of the swamp, they lack this immunity.

MudWings are the only tribe where mating for life is rarely seen. Higher-class MudWings are the only MudWings known to sometimes stay with their mates.

The MudWing social structure is shown by how the kingdom is arranged. The lower-class MudWings live on the outer edges of the kingdom while the higher-class MudWings live around the palace which is in the center of the kingdom.

MudWings are commonly aromantic or demiromantic. It's rare to find an actual relationship between two MudWings.

The Royal MudWing Family is the only family well-known for keeping track of their biological dragonets.

The MudWing Royal Family is represented by rubies.

Despite MudWings being hungry is always seen as a joke, it is extremely important that MudWings eat enough food because of how much energy they need due to their larger bodies.

Common MudWing professions include farmer, stonemason, medic, hunter, shopkeeper, and rancher.

Traditional MudWing music is played with banjos, fiddles, harmonicas, jugs, kazoos, washboards, and rhythmic clapping, stomping, or thudding. The music is similar to that of stereotypical hoedown music from old-time eastern America.

MudWings have large horns that they use for ramming. These horns either twist outward and upward (bull), or downward (ram).

MudWings often have patterns similar to that of swamp animals. This can include speckles, spots, feathery markings, and zig-zags.

[meadowlarkx]

Hi!! For the kiss asks, Maemags and 'out of love' pls?

Maedhros’ eyes were on him—he could feel them even when he turned upstage. As the last swelling chords rang out to the shiver of the timbrels, Maglor arranged himself in a languid pose, his hair falling riverine over his shoulders.

He had wanted Ossë’s role—it had seemed to him more dramatic and dynamic. Yet Uinen had the better arias, long pieces persuading her beloved to forsake Melkor’s service and return to her side, and so her role was given to him.

Ossë’s actor, a sturdy nís of a stonemason’s family, rushed to him. Maglor threw his bangled arm about her shoulders. Applause burst out, and around them, the silk-simulated seas quieted to stillness. The crystal lamps brightened: the spell was broken.

Turning fractionally, he sought out Maedhros’ gaze and found it at once. His brother’s handsome face stood out in the crowd just as the brightest stars arrested attention amid the firmament. He was still watching. Maglor fought not to smile as he slipped away through a cunning opening in the fabric.

When he stepped out into a Mingling full of iridescent damselflies, Maedhros was waiting for him with an armful of flowers even before he reached the festival’s dressing rooms.

Maglor grinned and ducked inside, knowing Maedhros would follow, and then the flowers—lovely though they were, and fragrant—were forgotten. When they parted, Maedhros’ mouth was smeared reef-turquoise and he bore a hint of Maglor’s amethyst blush upon his high cheekbone.

“Thou wert radiant.”

“Nothing thou hast not heard before,” Maglor demurred. He liked, when he could, to steal away Maedhros to mark the paces of scenes with him. All in the name of practice, of course. “Besides, I still think the harpist should have been replaced in the orchestra. He lagged on each trill.”

Maedhros smiled a small secret smile, the sort that was only for Maglor. Maglor’s heart glowed.

How could what they shared be wrong—if it made him feel thus? He had heard others speak of the joyful instinct that lighted their own fëar, urging their feet towards the path that was right for them. That was Maglor’s only religion, and it guided him in circles ever around and beside and back to the nér he craved.

“Very well,” Maedhros was saying, entertained, “I will tell thee again that thou art beautiful, and a better harper besides.” And he kissed Maglor again, returning the turquoise paint.

Maglor caught at breath, as he often did after Maedhros kissed him. He had blushed at Maedhros’ archness, but Maedhros had kissed even more color into his cheeks. He managed, though, to flutter his lashes. “Oh? Thou wouldst yield to my pleas?”

“Thou knowest me, Káno,” Maedhros said, crowding him against the vanity. “Can I ever deny thee anything?”

[nordleuchten]

The marks they left behind

I had the chance to tour the steeple of the St. Sebalduskirche and on the way I noticed two interesting inscriptions. The first is from a stonemason that worked the stones in 1678 and left his mark:

The second one is probably from a bellringer or tower-keeper in the 1870s:

I thought this might interest you especially @benjhawkins.

[hezzabeth]

One of the hardest bits when writing this part involved translating everything Isabeau said into fake medieval talk.

"Is she going to keep talking like that?" Revati whispered to Aurora.

"Yes, and it's adorable," Aurora whispered back.

"Ask her about the naked people and my tent," whispered Brigadeiro.

"You should probably ask her yourself," Aurora whispered, and Bridgadeiro let go of the cart to chase after Isabeau.

"Are you going to help me or not?" Revati asked Dityaa, who was busy singing to the bees.

"I suppose so, although I feel a little conflicted about burning it," Dityaa admitted.

"It's just a glorified storage container, Didi," Revati reminded her as Dityaa helped her push the back of the cart.

"A storage container I grew in for nine months! And isn't it strange that it walked all this way to find me? Why would it do that if it was really empty?" Dityaa asked.

"Because you're probably a heroine with an extraordinary destiny," Revati replied sarcastically.

"Do you really think so? You know this does explain how close our ages are," Dityaa remarked.

"Does it?" Revati grunted as they finished walking through the archway.

Beyond the archway was a cramped market filled with hundreds of people.

Hundreds of people.

They hung off the balconies above, spilling out of the open shops.

"How…" Revati trailed off.

Whistleton only had around eighty residents.

Shakespeare lane had less than fifty.

Revati never remembered such intense crowds from her childhood.

"Sister Morganna, a firm believer in the redemption of the lost and the mending of the broken. Our noble knights venture into the wastelands once a fortnight in quest of such souls," Isabeau explained.

"Sister Morganna? I thought she was some sort of duchess," Dityaa asked.

"Sister Morganna, in the wake of the tempest's fury, discovered a divine calling, and in her unwavering devotion, she cast aside the reign of kings and queens," Isabeau replied, gesturing vaguely to a tapestry hanging from one of the balconies.

The tapestry depicted a woman wearing a crimson headdress.

Her hands were clasped together, and she was surrounded by a golden circle.

She seemed to stare at the crowd with judgmental devotion.

"Really? When the tornado killed my father, Amma said God is probably dead, and Nanni slapped her," Revati recalled as they moved the cart between two stalls.

"The blacksmith is down yonder lane. I shall take my leave of thee," Isabeau said before kissing Aurora on the cheek.

"Will you come? The lad wishes to procure his tent," she asked, nodding at Aurora and Bridgadeiro.

"Yes, we'll be back in this spot in an hour," Aurora said firmly to Revati.

The two sisters watched as Bridgadeiro, Aurora, and Isabeau melted into the crowd.

"Well, she seems very nice, not sure what she was saying most of the time... but very nice," Dityaa remarked as they headed down the alleyway.

"Oh, she's awful, she must be an amazing kisser," Revati replied as they walked down the alley.

Revati realized that Isabeau had led them to what was once the "demonstration" area.

Back before the invasion, it was the quietest, dullest part of the park.

People only ever went there to escape the thrumming crowds or buy very specific souvenirs.

Now, however, it was bustling with activity.

People were walking out of the stonemason shop holding tiny marble dragons.

Through a window, Revati spied other shoppers in the candle shop.

Ladies were gossiping outside the weaver's, some holding rolls of fabric.

In the center of it all lay the blacksmith forge.

A faded white sign reading "Emberforge" marked the entrance.

Revati pushed open the heavy doors, and a wave of coal-scented heat assaulted them.

"No more orders today, come back next week," the blacksmith remarked.

"Afternoon, Camilo," Revati said, and the blacksmith spun around.

The last time Revati saw the blacksmith, his hair had been a smooth inky black.

Now, however, it was specked with grey, and lines had blossomed around his dark eyes.

"Dear God, is that you? Is that my little Revati Sheikh?" He cried, clapping his hands over his mouth.

"Yes, it's me, Uncle," Revati said with a small smile.

"And Dityaa! Our princess!" Camilo gasped, and Dityaa smiled.

Camilo stared at them both again, completely astonished, before grabbing Revati in a tight hug.

Suddenly, Revati was seven years old again.

After trading in the pub, father would head to the Blacksmiths.

Jay and Camilo would then play around of chess together while Revati read next to the fire.

Sometimes Dityaa came as well, although she complained about the soot getting on her dress.

When Revati turned seven, Camilo had presented her with a lump of coal.

"How did you get in here? Sister Morganna's men keep a tight lid on things," Camilo said, releasing Revati only to move on to hug Dityaa.

"We snuck in! But why did Morganna cut us all off? She obviously lets other people in from the wastelands," Dityaa asked, and Camilo shrugged.

"No idea! Probably has something to do with her crazy love of a fictional deity! She also makes everyone speak like they have plums in their mouths," Camilo replied before noticing the cart.

"Is that something for me? I'm assuming you wouldn't risk your lives just to visit an old man?" Camilo asked.

"We need you to melt this down," Revati said, nodding at Bridgadeiro, who pushed off the old fabric holding the android.

Camilo's eyes widened with shock, and his lips quivered.

"I see," he whispered before rushing to the forge's door to lock them with a massive bar.

"So can you do it? Nanni is worried about what Amma will do when she sees it," Revati asked, and Camilo shook his head.

"No, the forge wouldn't be hot enough! It's built to withstand the extreme temperatures of Mars! You would have to throw it into a volcano," Camilo replied, stopping down to examine the android's broken legs.

"Great, the nearest volcano is at least a three-day walk away," sighed Revati.

Camilo looked up.

"I can repair it," he finally said.

"Oh, I don't think Mother would want that," Dityaa giggled nervously.

"I could easily turn it into autopilot mode, fix its legs, and give it a polish!" Camilo smiled eagerly.

"And it wouldn't be connected to any artificial intelligence signal clouds?" Revati asked suspiciously.

"An old model like this? Highly unlikely," Camilo said before, in a deft movement, he picked the android up, throwing it on the stone workbench.

"It was doing incredibly things before it broke down, blathering cryptic rhymes," Revati admitted.

Camilo bustled over to the android's face, pressing down on its eyes with his fingers. With a hiss, the faceplate opened, revealing a mass of dead wires and a small glass screen.

"See, this is the problem, the receiver model hasn't been locked," he said, gesturing to a small green chip with a tiny glass red center.

Revati exchanged a completely confused look with her sister.

"How do you know this? You're a blacksmith," Revati pointed out, and Camilo chuckled.

"Before the invasion, I was a Robophysician; when the appliances invaded, I was up on the roof healing the clockwork dragon's bolt rot," Camilo replied, gesturing to the chip.

"The receiver modules are designed to receive signals from the baby's parents," he said, pointing at the chip, and then he pointed at several scorched wires.

"The only problem is when the android is left unlocked, it can receive signals from everywhere! You were probably hearing a distant signal from the..." Camilo paused and looked at his phone.

The android did nothing.

"Of course, that always ends up frying the robot's processors," Camilo admitted, gesturing to the blackened wires.

Revati peered down at the mess and tangle. Revati knew that her sister was born near Mangalrajya. This robot, this thing would have had to walk for months to reach Olde Landon. No wonder its legs were glowing stumps.

"Can you fix it?" Revati asked.

"Yes, I have some wires I cannibalized from the dragon… but it will take at least a day," Camilo replied.

"Sissy! Nanny said we should melt it," Dityaa protested.

"Nanni is obviously lying to us, the appliances tried to assassinate you twice! You have this weird supernatural power! This android could have answers," Revati pointed out.

"I don't really care about answers," Dityaa replied.

"Well, I do! If something weird is going on, I need to know so I can protect our people," Revati said firmly, and Dityaa sighed.

"Fine! Fix it then," Dityaa waved, and Camilo smiled.

"Fantastic! How will you be paying?" He asked.

"Paying? You want me to pay?" Revati asked, and Camilo nodded.

"This is going to take a lot of work," he replied.

"We have a large supply of strawberries; Aurora will drop them off next time she visits," Revati said, and Camilo clapped his hands with delight.

"Let's get to work! I want to give her anti-gravity floating boots to replace the broken legs!" Camilo smiled.

Outside the forge, the air was growing damp and cold. Night was inching closer, and Dityaa shivered, running her bare arms.

"You should have brought a jacket, that dress barely reaches past your elbows," Revati pointed out, and Dityaa scowled.

"Where did everyone go?" Dityaa asked instead.

Dityaa was right; the bustling lane was almost completely empty.

"I don't know, church? They did say Lady Morganna has gone all religious," Revati guessed.

Revati's understanding of medieval London religion was spotty at best. Revati's father was a Shakta Hindu who had brought his family's idol right across Mars. It was a small idol depicting the goddess Shakta dressed in gold. Every morning, Jay would carefully wash the idol before anointing it with lemon juice. When Jay died, Amma had shoved the idol under a chair. Dityaa was the only one who pulled it out and began bathing it again.

"It seems too quiet for church, no one's yelling over the loudspeaker," Dityaa pointed out as they stepped back into the castle's main square.

The entire crowd had grown eerily quiet, standing still, facing an elevated platform.

An elevated platform Aurora and Bridgadeiro were standing on with nooses around their necks.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Revati whispered under her breath.

“Why is everyone so obsessed with murder today? Did someone taint the water supply with mushrooms again?” Devati whispered, and suddenly, the courtyard filled with the terrible blast of out-of-tune trumpets.

[bi-buckrights]

Top 9 Books

Tagged by @hippolotamus ✨

1. East of Eden by John Steinbeck

GOD this book changed me. A classic good vs evil written so so beautifully.

2. Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

I have read this books several times now and it never fails to make me bawl my eyes out.

3. House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski

IF YOU HAVE T READ THIS BOOK WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? GO READ IT NOW!! Stories within stories and you will feel like you’re losing your mind as the characters spiral and lose their grip on reality it’s SO COOL

4. The Princess Bride by William Goldman

Like many others, I grew up watching this movie. However, I did not discover the book until fairly recently. Filled with just as much humor, adventure, and love as the movie, plus a unique and humorous narration that will have you scouring the internet for the original unabridged version of the book by S. Morgenstern

5. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas

Holy shit this book is long and gets so fucking boring but when all the pieces start to fall into place it is absolutely mind blowing and so worth it

6. A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway

“And you’ll always love me, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And the rain won’t make any difference?”

“No.”

One of my favorite love stories. I cried. Buddie au with a happy ending will happen one day

7. Eragon by Christopher Paolini

Can’t have a book list without the book that ignited my love for reading. It will always have a special place in my heart 💕

8. Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

Ha remember when I read this the first time in high school and was like “I relate to these guys even though I’m totally completely straight.” Ha who was I kidding

9. The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett

Man, stonemasons don’t travel from town to town asking if anyone needs a cathedral to be built like they used to 😔 no but this book has such beautiful imagery weaving through history. Another book about good vs. evil. Hmm.

Tagging if any one else wants to share some books ✨ @monsterrae1 @loserdiaz @rogerzsteven @spotsandsocks @eddiebabygirldiaz @heartshapedvows @cowboy-buddie

[spacemonkeysalsa]

God of Ambivalence

A tiefling Artificer splits a large stone on a beach to discover a one handed-wizard inside.

Pairing - OC/Gale & Shadowheart/Lae'zel but there will be more as it goes on.

Read Chapter One on Ao3

Read Chapter Two on Ao3

Read Chapter Three on Ao3

Read Chapter Four on Ao3

Read Chapter Five on Ao3

Read Chapter Six on Ao3

Read Chapter Seven on Ao3

Read Chapter Eight on Ao3

or read Chapter Eight, below

The sanctum’s courtyard was where most of the restoration work had been done so far. Perhaps because it was more a matter of gardening than stonework. However, there was some fine stonecraft to show off, now that the walls had all been patched. And the bridge across the ravine was repaired and reinforced. The portcullis had been removed entirely, melted down and used to create a fence for the vegetable garden. This was where Shadowheart’s dire wolf lay fast asleep in the sun, enjoying his protective duties.

The other side of the courtyard was a small makeshift forge that the local blacksmith used sometimes, and a mason’s workshop. The plan was to keep them there until the bulk of the work was done, and then turn it back into the pretty prayer garden intended. Elion spied Master Faydor, not really working, just arranging his tools mindlessly, brow furrowed. The heat from the sun made his bald head sweat and his eyes squint.

Elion didn’t dare take a seat, some part of him sure that Faydor would simply dismiss him on sight again, rather than hear him out. He faced him expectantly, experience telling him that the stonemason was ready to excoriate him again.

“Well. What do you have to say for yourself?” Master Faydor acknowledged him without looking at him. “You haven’t taken your duties seriously. You don’t have a love for the work. Why did you waste my time?”

The hollow disappointment stung. The truth of it stung. “I suppose I was rebelling against my parents?”

“You’re a little old for that.”

“Agreed.”

“I do have an interest,” Elion started to defend himself in earnest, “and talent—you’ve seen what I can do. I can do the work. I think I hoped I’d come to love it. I still hope that.” 

“I can’t actually afford to send you away,” Master Faydor admitted. “I can’t rebuild this place on my own. But, I have a feeling it won’t matter much, in the wake of…” He motioned to the sanctum, indicating everything inside of it, Elion thought. “Mark my word, this will take a cleric far away. She’ll be looking to put together a band of adventurers to lead into foolishness. Once she gets her way, she���ll apologize and want to leave with the wizard. Take on the burden of some quest,” He sniffed. “Maybe she’ll come back, maybe she won’t. Not sure how motivated the people will be to carry on with the project, once their special acolyte is gone.”

Elion wasn’t sure he agreed. “They aren’t doing it for her. Moonhaven Anew wants this place in use again.”

“Selune isn’t real to them, the way that she is,” Master Faydor shrugged. “They were happy to leave this place a ruin for decades. Nothing’s changed.”

“You’re here now. That makes a difference.”

“I was here forty years ago—” Master Faydor started to argue, but Elion shut him up by motioning to the shining white, fresh stones of the lookout tower, and then moved his arm to indicate the bridge beyond the gate.

“And you single-handedly rebuilt an impressive portion of the sanctum, all by yourself,” Elion pointed out. “It’s just a bad day for long term projects. Give yourself credit.”

Master Faydor had stopped wallowing, but he’d also stopped talking entirely. He was looking past Elion at the bridge.

Elion followed his gaze and found a stranger approaching them. The stranger was still a ways off, but he stopped as he noticed them, and waved.

Waving back, Elion looked to Master Faydor. It would be another minute or so before he was in earshot. “I understand if I’m simply not the right apprentice to help you rebuild this sanctum, but you’ve already proven a few times over that you’re up to the task. Everyone sees it. They want it. They’ll not abandon you again. You’re a hope spot for them.”

The stranger was human, well-built and tall, he had a kind of lurching walk, like maybe his legs were especially tired from days on the road. His skin was warm in hue, but free of the typical scars and freckles that the sun burned onto outdoorsy human faces. His clothing fit him poorly, stretched and ripped in places. He definitely looked like he’d had a hard road at his back. He had a pack hanging over one shoulder, but no weapon in sight, not even a bow. Long black hair, thick with curl, was pulled back off his face, tied in a way that suggested he didn’t have a mirror. “Well met,” he greeted, clearing his throat. “I was hoping to cover more ground today, but find myself in need of respite. I don’t suppose a temple of Selûne would welcome a traveler, just for a night? I need not enter the temple proper, but I’d set up camp nearby if I’m welcome.”

“Most welcome,” Master Faydor inclined his head in greeting. “We can certainly spare the space—might even have some food for poor lost refugees. Elion, would you check our larder?” 

Dismissed again, Elion gave them a curt nod, suspicious that Master Faydor was still trying to put off this conversation. They needed to have it. He didn’t much relish the thought either, for he felt sure it would end with him making arrangements to return to Baldur’s Gate where he’d have to explain—apologize—to his parents and probably take up the same station he’d abandoned six months ago.

It was a dim prospect, but foreseeable. He should have put more into this shift, should have recognized that a life change at this point was something that needed to work, or he’d end off significantly worse than before, and humbled before those who already saw him as lesser.

He didn’t go straight to the kitchens this time, deciding instead that he would check in on the wizard and the monk.

The spot where he and Xan had passed the time together was on the way, so he checked and found that Xan had disappeared, leaving his bedroll and several dozing cats. 

He’d set the bath up for Gale in his own room, unsure where else in the sanctum there was decent drainage. It used to be a torture chamber. Shadowheart had told him that once. Somehow, that didn’t surprise him. It was the part of the sanctum still largely decimated by Sharran bombardment, and neglect. There was no longer a doorway of any kind, so he’d fixed a long stretch of burlap cloth as a curtain, and put together a makeshift bedroll and a library that was really just a stack of books he’d found around the temple.

Gale was exactly where Elion had left him; in a wooden tub, behind a paper screen, in no small amount of distress. Elion heard a familiar kind of chime in the air and smelled the acrid dispersion of the weave. Probably dismissed his cantrip; Mage Hand wasn’t quite making up for what he lacked.

“Need some help?” it couldn’t be easy, learning to do everything that had come so naturally for so long, all over again with only one hand to rely on.

“I don’t—it’s fine. I just need a little additional time… compared to my usual routine.”

“It’s alright to need a little help. Especially this early on.”

“A hundred years ago and it’s still early days,” sighed Gale through the screen, the way he released his breath and the splash of water that followed suggested to Elion that he’d leaned back in the tub and sloshed water everywhere. “What have I missed?” he sounded genuinely crushed for a moment, but recovered with a, “I don’t suppose you have a mirror? I could use a mirror.”

“I think the only mirror in the sanctum is a bit on the grand side,” Elion admitted, apologetic. “But, I am at your disposal, if that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Wash that fine head of hair for you?” Once he said it aloud it sounded a bit bold. But it was too late to take the words back.

Gale laughed shortly. “You’re the only person I’ve spoken to who likes it.”

“You must not socialize much.”

“Not since it’s gotten this long, no…” Gale was quiet a moment, then he cleared his throat. “So intimate a thing,” he sighed, “but I suppose—I do need help,” he finished the thought in a quiet voice, fearful, almost.

Elion waited a moment on one side of the paper screen. He couldn’t hear anything, not even the wizard’s breathing. “Shall I come around?”

“...Please.”

Gale sat hunched in the tub, already moved forward enough that Elion had easy access to his back and his bowed head. He resisted the urge to comment as the first thing he noticed was just how badly his services were needed. The encasing black gunk that had somehow protected him had left a dust, stinky sort of residue all matted through the back of his head and down his spine. Elion used his tail to whip a stool within reach and sat down gathering the water in his hands and pouring it at first. Gale flinched.

“It’s cooling fast,” Elion said apologetically, laying his hands flat a moment against Gale’s shoulders. He wasn’t shivering, but the water couldn’t be comfortable like this.

“Well. You’re quite warm,” Gale cleared his throat, from the sliver of his face that he could see, Elion thought he wasn’t imagining a blush.

“A featured trait of us hellspawn.”

“Oh Gods, that’s not still the rhetoric is it? Tieflings in my day had a rough go of it. A hundred years and we haven’t learned much?”

“The Infernal Wars have gone on for the century you’ve been away. If progress was ever to be made for tiefling acceptance, it was not going to happen during the last hundred years,” Elion tried not to sound too embittered.

“Shame,” Gale seemed to relax a little under his hands, he actually leaned back, just a few inches, as Elion started to work his fingers into his scalp, massaging the water into the roots of his hair. “I’m sorry to hear it. Truly.”

“I suppose there’s some good things to report.” Elion dipped his hands into the water, and watched the black come away in smokey swirls in the water. “We’ve had a few spots of positive press, if nothing else. Where I grew up—Baldur’s Gate, there’s a rather well known tiefling wizard, master of Ramazith Tower. Rolan. He’s been around a long while now though, I don’t suppose—?”

“After my time,” Gale answered the question before Elion could finish it, but then added, “but, that’s promising to hear, actually. I had hoped to consult elder wizards on my… predicament. If this Archduke Raphael is interested in my orb, perhaps a wizard who’s experienced in the weave and the infernal is the right call.”

“That certainly describes Rolan. At least—what I’ve heard of him.” Elion poured a little water into the worst of the clumped hair and used his long nails to break up the locks.

“I think it’s warmer for being in your hands,” Gale said after a moment, Elion thought he’d been holding his breath. “The water, I mean,” he added.

“You’re nearly starting to look presentable, sir.” Elion was surprised by how much it lifted him to hear Gale sounding less hopeless than before.

“That’s all I can ask,” Gale exhaled another captive breath.

[mrbexwrites]

Writing Whispers

Accepting @sarahlizziewrites open tag for this, as an excuse to dive into the archives and see how far I've come.

Rules: find a few paragraphs of writing from as long ago as you can. Re-write them how you would now.

Gently tagging @words-after-midnight @queen-tashie @deanwax @cee-grice and offering up an open invite to balance out the one I took! ;)

I actually have a good comparison project from my very first attempt at writing (and finishing) a novel!) It's from an old high fantasy project that I never did quite get round to finishing, but did attempt to re-write one NaNo a few years back.

2003

From where she crouched on her vantage point, Ylarae could survey the entire grounds of the townhouse she now perched upon. Hidden in the shadows of the stone gargoyles that stood as silent protectors against evil, she watched the Numen Warriors make their rounds as guests at the party stepped outside and mingled with one another, quickly heading back indoors when the colder weather forced them back.  Gaining entry to the townhouse had been surprising easy, despite the many guards that patrolled the perimeter. She had, with ease, scaled the wall that lead into a voluptuous rose garden, a skeletal twining of branches in the dead of winter. Keeping to the shadows, she had slipped silently past two of the Numen guards who stood shivering in their boots, trying to pull their thick woolen cloaks tighter about them. Once past the guards, she grabbed hold of the iron cast gutters and used them to scale the thick grey stone walls of the house.  Inside the house, she could hear the soft cadence of the music intermingled with laughter as it filtered through the open windows. The lady of the house was holding a party and Ylarae was using the distraction of the multitude of guests as a disguise to hide her presence within the grounds. Her footprints in the snow were lost within the steps of the partygoers as some sought nightly congress with masked strangers. The suspicion of who stole the necklace would fall on one of the guests, rather than looking outside.  Ylarae smiled despite herself; this was easier than she thought. All she had to do was break in, steal the necklace and then leave it in the hollow of the Hanging Tree in Byre’s Wood where she would find her fee. Ylarae disliked being used in such a menial task and had asked why Gristle could not do it himself. Each time, he merely laughed, a sound almost akin to a bear’s, and told her that she was the one to retrieve it. Despite her loathing of being used as a common thief, Ylarae found it impossible to refuse Gristle’s orders. Just thinking of the necklace caused her to shift with impatience, longing to get her hands on it, and have this menial task completed.   Shifting her weight to ease the cramp on her legs, Ylarae’s crossbow dug into her back. This once again ignited her ire at being used as a mere burglar. She was a highly skilled assassin, one of the best. She was trained in the shadow arts and the secrets of covert killing. But her most valuable abilities she had inherited from her mother.

2021

Her fingers tingled as she knelt atop one of the stone gargoyles that protected the perimeter wall. Carved out of granite, the stonemasons had imbued the stone with magic to ward off evil and protect those who lived inside.  It was an old magic, and ironic that these sentinels were being used to guard the very people who had scorched the earth and were trying to wipe magic from it.  Ylarae ran a gloved hand over the glyph-marks that had been etched into the creature’s head, rendering it nothing more than stone; the magic dissipated.  “What a shame,” she whispered to herself. “You would have stopped me, there is no doubt.”  She slid to a crouch beside the stone beast, hidden in its shadow as she watched the guards make another loop of the skeletal rose garden. In the summer, it would be a sight to behold; a manicured lawn with knee-height hedge mazes, flower beds and the roses that climbed to reach one another across the gravel path, forming an arch.  Light spilled out of the manor house, casting long shadows across the garden. Laughter, music and the sounds of glasses clinking filled the night air.  Gristle had told her to expect a heavily fortified home, given who lived here, but the party had been unexpected. Normally, she would have slunk back into the shadows, and returned later, but an urge, a need, pushed her onwards.  She surveyed the garden once more; she could balance her way along the wall and climb up into the house, but risk being seen by one of the guards. Or she could loop round the garden, which appeared to be the safer option, despite losing her vantage point.  A few guests would come out of the manor to mingle, have a quick stroll or to seek a quiet corner for congress in the shadows. But they never stayed out long, the cold pulling them back inside the house. A light dusting of snow covered the garden, but with wandering couples and the patrolling guards, any footsteps she left behind would be quickly lost amongst others.  As the guards passed once more, she tried to still her heart that was racing in her chest. Her hands trembled at the urgency to get going. Normally on a night like this, when she would be hunting, a placid calm fell upon her, but not tonight; tonight she was filled with electricity and need.  She dropped from the wall, landing silently on the lawn, only a few snowflakes drifting down behind her. On cat-like reflexes, she ran in a low crouch along the perimeter wall, staying to the shadows.  The shutters that hung from the wall, along with the iron-cast gutters made a simple ladder she used to scale the building.  Balancing on a third floor window ledge, she drew one of her twin blades that she kept in her sleeves, and popped the latch open. Her fingertips burned as she wriggled them under the window frame and slid it open enough for her to climb inside.  The third floor of the manor  was dark, and most likely off limits to the guests downstairs.  She stepped hastily away from the window, pressing her back against the wall; the last thing she wanted was to be outlined in the moonlight and easily visible. She knelt behind a dresser and waited for her eyes to adjust. She slipped off her gloves, feeling her heart pound. A cold sweat formed on her brow, which she wiped away, frowning at the perspiration.  The burning sensation in her fingers traveled further up towards her hands, and she balled them into fists trying to stop the feeling. 

[unofficialadamtaurus]

FINALLY HAVE TIME TO READ AGAIN LETS FUCKING GO EPILOGUE!!

holy SHIT you weren’t kidding when you said this one was all about the vibes! Which is like my absolute FAVORITE thing about your work. legit the first paragraph already had me like 🫨 and I AM FUCKING LIVING for all the details that just add more to Adam. it is EVERYTHING!!

the whole description of mine #9 is amazing!! the sounds, the lighting, the weather, the state it’s in??? for real you just have this way with presenting a scene and setting that is 😩 SO GOOD.

His palms twinged and he gingerly tugged off his gloves. On his palms, up his fingers, and even across the backs of his hands lingered silvery bands of scar tissue from that foolish attempt to escape. He couldn't even remember the reason for the argument with his parents that had prompted him to run; he only remembered the pain in his hands and his father yanking him down to cover moments before a spotlight swept over where he had been. He remembered, too, his mother cleaning and wrapping his wounds with tears shining in her eyes.

GODDAMN first memory in and I’m already emotional. that memory is so fucking poignant

“Come," he told the wolves, and though his voice shook his will did not.

THAT IS FUCKING HYPE

And seriously I gotta it again because holy SHIT I LIVE for how everything is presented

THIS PART ESPECIALLY

He turned from the main path onto the smaller one splitting between the faunus dorms. He paused at the second building on the left. Its back half had collapsed, but the doorway remained—though the door itself hung crooked on its hinges and had gotten stuck in the ground.

If he looked, and he could not bring himself to do so, he'd find a series of scratches in the metal frame, each one labeled with initials. His height, the heights of other children who had grown up and died here.

He closed his eyes. Beneath the wind, there were echoes: conversations too distant to remember more than the hum of voices, sharp peals of laughter, and encouragement for the weary.

When all of that resolved into a sharp shout to get back to work, Adam opened his eyes. His gaze dropped automatically to the scratches and for the first time he saw that three of the height markings formed a distinct symbol, disguised amid the rest.

JFC LEGIT one of my favorite moments in HP right there. oh my god it is constant gut punches reading this part, and the mix of describing his memories and the scenery is v well done!

The woman hadn't realized Adam was listening. She probably would have regretted putting the idea in his head if she had. Gods knew she would regret what he became.

GOD MY FUCKING CHEST HURTS

"I'd ask forgiveness," he told the roses, "but I think I've done the unforgiveable."

UGHH god that line but also THEY’RE ROSES. THE FLOWERS SHE GREW WERE FUCKING ROSES I-😭

These roses were only out of control because he, in his cowardice, had refused to return. The least he could do was bleed as he made his apology.

STOOOPPPPP IT GUY. HE IS SOOOOO IWBZSUWBVSUBWBWKB

He traced those names with his fingers. The stonemason he'd commissioned had looked at him with such pity when he made his request. The first names without last names, the blank spaces, the names he knew he hadn't recalled correctly, every single one a story cut short.

This was a flawed memorial. It was also the only one he had. His attempts to track down records, personnel lists, company documentation—all had ended in failure. No one had bothered keeping a record of the faunus who had lived and died here. Their ghosts were his and his alone.

GODDD. Like I just know he carried that the whole time. How he went searching for info. In every mission, every win or loss in the WF ughh 🤧

His sorrow and nostalgia here are so heart wrenching. Just how and what he lost is really put into detail and it fucking HURTS. and he still wants to do good, and he now fully believes he CAN now 😭😭

My guy I fuckin' salute you for making it all the way through to the end and giving me these top-tier reactions the whole time. The fact that the vibes in the epilogue came through crystal-clear to you puts a huge smile on my face.

It was very satisfying for me to have one chapter at the end of Hollow People to actually give Adam a backstory and - even if it's belated - kind of bring things full circle for him. His history's alluded to throughout the story, you get a pretty good idea of it from the way he acts and thinks, but he's actually kind of a black box...right up until the epilogue. And that's when you can look back and see his perspective so much more clearly (at least when he's not sleep deprived and trying to murder his ex).

It's an ending that I hope leaves you feeling as bittersweet as hopeful.

[lboogie1906]

Zoë Dusanne was born Zola Graves (March 24, 1884 - March 6, 1972) in Kansas to Letitia Denny and John Henry Graves, a stonemason. She was an art dealer and collector who opened Seattle’s first professional modern-art gallery, the Zoë Dusanne Gallery in 1950 She was self-taught concerning modern art, and her interest was nourished early in life by her parents. In 1903 she spent one year at Oberlin College followed by a semester at the University of Illinois, Urbana. She married George Young (1904-1912). The union produced a daughter. She married Dr. Frederick Boston (1919-?). In 1928 she left Seattle for New York. Her passion for collecting modern art began. At the height of the Great Depression, she found that artists were the first to feel the impact of hard times, and often sold their works at a fraction of their value. She amassed a collection of modern art which she brought back to Seattle in 1942. In 1947, she built a home overlooking Lake Union that was designed to double as an art gallery, she opened her collection to the public. She sold and donated her works to the Seattle Art Museum and facilitated the donation of many others. She lent works to the Henry Art Gallery and SAM for exhibition. At her urging, Life magazine featured the four artists who would become known as the “mystical” painters of the “Northwest School”—Mark Tobey, Kenneth Callahan, Guy Anderson, and Morris Graves—in its September 28, 1953 issue. She traveled to Europe, persuading Peggy Guggenheim to donate a Jackson Pollock to SAM. She could not stop the 1958 demolition of her home and gallery necessitated by the building of the Seattle Freeway. In 1959 she reopened in a new location but was unable to recapture the luster and glory of her original gallery. In 1977, SAM honored her with an exhibition of contemporary art that included works by many of the artists whom she had promoted. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence #womenhistorymonth https://www.instagram.com/p/CqKqLJCO1M1/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=