#tales from the embassy

[enchantress-emily]

Happy Webcomic Day!

I'm not actively posting a comic at the moment, but you can read my completed webcomic, The Shifting City, HERE. It's a fantasy adventure about a group of friends (scholarly, single-minded Rosana; street-smart, mischievous Sage; gentle, levelheaded Corbin; and curious, stubborn Elidor) assigned to map a city where the streets constantly shift position.

(Left to right: Sage, Rosana, Corbin, Elidor)

The theme of this year's Webcomic Day is sharing your creation process. This post got more rambly than anticipated, so details about my process, as well as a sneak peek at the new comic I'm planning, can be found under the cut!

I work traditionally, using a Pentel .05mm mechanical pencil and Prismacolor Premier fine line markers in various widths. This handout I made for a talk about making comics is a good illustration of the steps that go into drawing one of my pages:

Before the actual drawing happens, the script and thumbnail sketches need to be worked out. For The Shifting City I wrote the script on notebook paper, then made rough thumbnails for each page. Here's a comparison of the script, the thumbnails, and the finished page for the first page of chapter 2.

For the comic I'm working on now, Tales from the Embassy, I decided to combine the scripting and thumbnailing process, as seen below. I'm a visual thinker, so having a sense of what the overall page is going to look like helps me with figuring out what happens on that page.

Tales from the Embassy focuses on the people who work behind the scenes of a huge complex where members of various magical races meet up to do business. Each chapter will be a self-contained story starring a different set of characters, although since they all live and work in the same place, readers will see familiar faces popping up here and there in later chapters.

Chapter 1, The Clerk's Tale, follows Elsiné as she finds her feet in her new job as a clerk in one of the Embassy's offices; navigates her complicated relationship with the birth mother she only recently met (who also happens to be the head of the Embassy); and discovers a different kind of family with Galen, a bubbly mural painter, and Feneree, a kindly aide to the Elven ambassador.

(Left to right: Elsiné, Galen, Feneree)

I'm hoping to finish the script for The Clerk's Tale and start drawing pages by the end of the year. Watch this space for more news!

[enchantress-emily]

This is extremely useful! Thank you!

I love your Derkholm art! Do you have any tips on drawing griffins? I’m planning a webcomic that includes some griffin characters, and I don’t have any experience with A) drawing them in the first place and B) making them look like individuals. Thanks!

Thanks for being so patient for this reply - had a pretty busy couple of weeks preparing stuff for artist conventions. Anyway, was a lot of fun to ruminate on - here are a bunch of things I've thought about (and am still thinking about) when drawing the griffin kids! Heads up that I'm still practicing myself, and there are definitely a lot of aspects of creature design I could work on (the wiiiiiings gah), but hopefully this helps give you some direction on designing your own bird-lion-cats.

[finelythreadedsky]

i'm fundamentally opposed to book titles in translations of ancient epics ('beguilement on mount ida,' 'a hero's son awakens,' 'the olive tree bed,' 'camilla's finest hour,' 'juno served by a fury') bc it just seems like too much to me to presume you know what single thing the book is really about, but christopher logue is allowed to do it

[sugurugetos]

And thereupon the middle door of the Black Gate was thrown open with a great clang, and out of it there came an embassy from the Dark Tower.

At its head there rode a tall and evil shape, mounted upon a black horse, if horse it was; for it was huge and hideous..., and in the sockets of its eyes and in its nostrils there burned a flame. The rider was robed all in black, and black was his lofty helm; yet this was no Ringwraith but a living man. The Lieutenant of the Tower of Barad-dûr he was, and his name is remembered in no tale; for he himself had forgotten it, and he said: 'I am the Mouth of Sauron.' But it is told that he was a renegade, who came of the race of those that are named the Black Númenóreans.... And he entered the service of the Dark Tower when it first rose again, and because of his cunning he grew ever higher in the Lord's favour; and he learned great sorcery, and knew much of the mind of Sauron; and he was more cruel than any orc.

ARAGORN II & The Mouth of Sauron RETURN OF THE KING — 2003

[dontforgetukraine]

Samchykivsky painting (or samchykivka) is a form of decorative and applied art that originated in the late 19th – early 20th centuries in the village of Samchyky, Khmelnytskyi Region. It spread to southeastern Volyn, on the border with Podillya. Talented craftswomen painted houses with unique patterns, creating talismans with fantastic floral ornaments. One of the most beloved and widespread ornaments is a painting of a flowerpot symbolizing the universe and the “tree of life,” as understood by our ancestors. This fairy-tale tree can be based on the pysanka, symbolizing the beginning of the genus, or acorns from which the tree sprouts. The trunk represents the continuation of life and family, often depicted with birds, integral companions of life, near or within the crown of the tree. This is how the painting organically intertwines floral ornamentation with elements of the animal world, celebrating the rich heritage and artistic tradition of Samchyky. —Embassy of Ukraine in Malaysia

[enchantress-emily]

Thank you! This is giving me some really interesting things to think about, especially the bit about idioms.

Linguistics worldbuilding question for you!

I'm planning a webcomic set in an embassy where various magical races meet up to do business. The races I've planned so far are humans, fae, dwarves, goblins, sea-people, dragon-people, and gryphons.

Do you have any thoughts on ways to distinguish the speech patterns of the different races so they don't all end up sounding alike, especially the non-humanoid ones like the gryphons? I think some of them have nonverbal elements to their languages as well, which the visual webcomic format will help with.

By the way, there's going to be a translation spell either on the building itself or on some sort of amulet that everyone carries with them, so they can communicate with reasonable ease (and yes, I know about some of the problems with the universal translator trope).

Hello enchantress-emily!

This sounds like a fun idea for a webcomic 🙂 Speech patterns can be interesting to play with, and I think you can utilize the magic universal translator to help you with that.

The first thing you can do is figure out what types of metaphors and proverbs and idioms each of these species would have. What’s important in their culture? What would common touch-points be for the sea-people – what would their equivalent proverb be for, say, “we have bigger fish to fry” (there are bigger problems)? (Because frying doesn’t work well under water, right??)

Another thing you can think about is sentence structure. For example, German sentence structure is different from English, and nearly half of German sentences don’t start with the verb. German also allows you to construct massively long nested sentences that REALLY don’t work in English unless you separate them into 2 or more sentences. So maybe one of the species will have more complex sentence structure (even translated) because that’s how their language works, and maybe one of them will be more like English. (Not all languages in the world allow you to have dependent clauses (your which or who ones)! You can’t say I saw the man who lives next door at the supermarket; you have to break it down into I saw the man at the supermarket. He lives next door to me. (Or just I saw my neighbor, of course.))

There’s also formality. Maybe the fae have Court Language that’s more formal, and this formality gets carried over in translation. (But how? You decide if you want them all to sound like Jane Austen characters or like Aragorn son of Arathorn or whatever 😉)

Since you’re using magical translation, you can have the sea-people’s idiom for “we have bigger problems” come out as a literal translation of whatever they actually say. Think about The Little Mermaid a second – Sebastian sings to Ariel, “The seaweed is always greener in somebody else’s lake.” This is obviously a nod to “the grass is greener on the other side of the fence,” but grass doesn’t exist under the sea, and lawns and fences don’t either. So they use seaweed (like grass but in the sea) and lake.

You could do fun things like have the translation spell get hung up on a nested sentence (maybe the fae like to go on like the Germans), then everything comes screeching to a halt and the speaker has to start over but speak straightforwardly.

Speaking of straightforwardly… how does the spell handle lies, falsehoods, half-truths, white lies, and other forms of obfuscation? Is it impossible to lie because of some part of the magic that detects speaker’s intent? Are some species better at lying than others because they can say (for example) “I didn’t hate it” (a true statement, but omits “but I didn’t like it either”)? This would be a TON of fun to play around with, especially for people who like writing twisty political stories.

You mentioned body language and other nonverbal communication, so I want to touch on that briefly. Nonverbal communication varies around the real world, and you can have different species with different NVC (and maybe it gets mis-read! Maybe a normal gesture in one culture is offensive in another! Maybe the magic doesn’t cover NVC!) There are so many things you can play with here. Good luck with your project! It sounds fun.

If you think this is interesting, consider backing my Kickstarter, where I’ll be writing a book about how to use linguistics in your worldbuilding process. Or if tumblr ever sorts out tipping for my account, leave me a tip.

[seramilla]

So how would Vaggie react to learning she’s now wrapped up in an arranged marriage? And since this is before she falls…does that mean Charlie is in her emo phase still??

Vaggie is really intimidated at being betrothed to the literal princess of Hell. Of course, she knows who Charlie is -- there isn't a person in Heaven or Hell who doesn't. Some years past, however, in her late teens, Charlotte Morningstar had gained somewhat of a reputation for being a rebel. Before she graduated from Hell High School, the Heaven tabloids used to publish stories of Charlie with a lot of unflattering photos of the young demon, wearing her hair and wardrobe black, reporting that she'd been running around with some wild characters, going to raves and parties, getting in trouble, and generally causing a lot of debauchery, even by Hell's standards.

Charlie has managed to stay out of the public eye for the last few years since she's come of age. Honestly, it's anyone's guess what the princess is really like these days. Only Sera, the High Seraphim of Heaven, and the one primarily responsible for finding Charlie's betrothed, assures Vaggie that the princess is nothing like what the media says. She doesn't do anything so rebellious now, and a lot of those tales were highly exaggerated anyway. Charlie is a perfectly delightful, upstanding citizen, and she assures Vaggie she will love her to pieces!

They ultimately meet at a party. One of those swanky, posh soirées that the nobility of both realms like to hold at the Heaven embassy in Hell. Sera is in attendance with her own wife, Carmilla, and they are off doing their own thing. Vaggie stands there in her white gown and fancy shoes that Sera bought her for the occasion, with her hair tied up in an elaborate bun. She stands next to some other highbrow angels, feeling completely awkward and out of her element. No one is talking to her.

She stays near the punch bowl and snack table, nibbling on things throughout the night to curb her own anxiety. She feels so out of place. She hasn't even been introduced to anyone, let alone Charlie! She's starting to wonder why she's even here at all.

It's not until a very beautiful, very coquettish woman in a red gown comes up to stand beside her, holding out her hand to be shaken. Vaggie looks down at her hand, and then up at her. She's tall. Very tall. Maybe around Carmilla's height, or a little less. The woman looks nervous, and she's blushing slightly, unable to meet Vaggie's gaze directly. Her other hand moves up to push stray locks of hair from falling in her face.

"H-hi!" the woman says, with a genuine smile. "I'm Charlie! You must be Vaggie! Carmilla has told me so much about you. I wanted to come say hello earlier, but I don't get to meet many angels. And you're just so... so pretty. Oh, shit, did I say that out loud? Forgive me! I admit, I was a little intimidated at meeting you. But I didn't want to be rude."

Vaggie looks at Charlie again. The princess is still holding out her hand, now biting her bottom lip in anticipation of Vaggie shaking it. Vaggie does. Charlie's fingers grip hers tightly, manicured red nails grazing lightly against Vaggie's hand. Vaggie maybe shakes Charlie's hand a little too hard, and takes a little too long to pull away.

"Va-vaggie. Yes, my name is Vaggie. Please! The pleasure is all mine, princess, I assure you."

That gets a laugh out of Charlie. She's beaming brightly now, like a light illuminating the otherwise dull illumination of the room. Like a morning star. Now Vaggie is the one blushing, as she listens to her talk about nothing in particular.

Oh, this! This...Vaggie thinks she could get used to this. She could get used to this very well!

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Chapter 11 - Blue Christmas

Summary: It's a Christmas miracle.

Word count: ~4,800

If you like, you can also read here at A03.

Graceland in December was a sight that stopped traffic. Literally. Cars lined up just to see the lights - thousands of blue bulbs transforming the mansion into something from a fairy tale. Even the famous gates sparkled, wreaths bigger than truck tires hanging from each side.

But inside, the magic felt hollow.

The garland felt heavy in my hands as I wound it around the banister, scratchy against my skin like all the questions I wasn't asking. Through the ceiling, I could hear him pacing. He'd been at it for hours, wearing a path in the carpet upstairs like he was trying to escape something. Or maybe someone. These days, it was getting harder to tell the difference.

"He won't come down," Vernon told me quietly as I helped him sort through boxes of ornaments. Elvis's mother's favorites were wrapped in tissue paper, delicate glass bells and angels she'd collected over the years. They felt fragile in my hands, like all the promises that had started to wear thin. "Been up there since yesterday. Won't eat. Won't talk to nobody."

Great. One of those moods. The kind that usually ended with broken furniture and the Memphis Mafia scrambling to replace whatever Elvis had decided needed redecorating via karate chop.

The Christmas special he was meant to record next week hung over everything like a storm cloud. I tried not to think about how many times we'd been here before, how many promises had faded into Memphis air. Six months in this town, and what did I have to show for it? A man who wouldn't file his divorce papers and a growing suspicion that I was the biggest fool this side of the Mississippi.

The kitchen sounded like a henhouse with stage fright - all clucking tongues and whispered judgments barely disguised as holiday cheer. Patsy Lacker was at the counter rolling out sugar cookie dough like she had a personal vendetta against flour, while Joan Esposito perched on a stool nearby, watching everything with those sharp little eyes that never missed a chance to draw blood.

It was funny, really, how differently the men and women of Elvis's world treated me. The Memphis Mafia had adopted me like a kid sister - teaching me their secret handshakes, including me in their pranks, making sure I always had someone watching my back. But their wives? That was another story entirely. They lived in a careful hierarchy, like church pews arranged by seniority, and my presence had disrupted their whole order. After all, being Elvis's girl put you right at the top, whether you wanted it or not. Only Patsy seemed immune to the politics of it all. The others maintained a careful distance, their loyalty to Priscilla like a wall I couldn't scale. Joan was the worst - her devotion to "poor Cilla" practically a religion. Even Pat West, Red's wife, kept things cordially arctic, like we were diplomats from opposing countries forced to share the same embassy.

"The decorations look lovely," Joan said, her voice dripping sweet as artificial honey. "Almost like a real family Christmas."

And there it was. The knife, sliding in smooth between my ribs. Because that's what I wasn't, wasn't it? Real family. I was just the Chicago girl who'd wandered into Elvis Presley's orbit and forgotten how gravity worked.

"Thanks," I managed, focusing on hanging a silver bell that probably cost more than my first car. "Vernon picked out most of it."

"Oh, I'm sure he did." Joan's smile could have curdled milk. "Though I hear we'll have help with the rest of the decorating soon enough."

I turned, something cold settling in my stomach. "What do you mean?"

"You haven't heard?" Her eyes went wide with practiced innocence. "Oh dear, I thought surely someone would have told you. Priscilla's flying in for Christmas. She called this morning to discuss the arrangements."

The bell slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor with a sound like breaking promises. I watched it roll under the cabinet, unable to move, unable to breathe. The room tilted sideways, gravity doing funny things again. Around me, the kitchen seemed to shrink, the air going thick as molasses. Even Patsy's steady rolling pin fell silent.

"Joan." Patsy's voice cut through the fog, sharp as a slap. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

But I was already moving, my feet carrying me away from Joan's satisfied smirk, away from Patsy's concerned eyes, away from the truth I should have seen coming. The storeroom door closed behind me with a soft click, and then I was sliding down the wall, my knees finally giving up the fight with reality.

You ever have one of those moments when your whole world rearranges itself, like someone just flipped the record over and now everything's playing backward? That's what this felt like. All those nights Elvis had spent talking about 'someday' and 'soon' and 'when things settle down' - they crumbled like winter frost in the Tennessee sun.

The first sob caught me by surprise, tearing out of my throat like it had been waiting there all along. The second brought friends. By the third, I was full-on ugly crying, the kind that would have my mascara looking like it had tried to escape down my face.

"Oh, honey." The voice belonged to Sophie, though I hadn't heard her come in. She knelt beside me, not touching, just being there. Sometimes that's all you need - someone to witness your world falling apart.

"I'm such an idiot," I managed between hiccups. "All those promises, and I actually believed..."

"You're not an idiot," Sophie said firmly. "Men got a way of making you believe in fairy tales. Trust me, we've all been there."

"Not like this." I wiped my eyes, probably making the mascara situation worse. "I actually thought... God, I don't even know what I thought. That he'd leave her? File for divorce? Pick me?"

Sophie didn't answer right away. Above us, Elvis' footsteps continued their restless dance, like he was trying to walk away from something he couldn't escape. I knew the feeling.

"You wanna know the truth?" Sophie's voice was gentle but firm. "He probably loves you. Lord knows I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. But Mr. Elvis... he's like one of those fancy antique music boxes. Beautiful to look at, makes the prettiest sounds, but something inside is broken. Has been for a long time."

I laughed, but it came out more like a sob. "Great. So I'm in love with a broken music box who's about to play happy family with his wife for Christmas. Think Woolworth's sells cards for that?"

Sophie helped me fix my face before heading back out - a lost cause if there ever was one, but at least now I looked less like a raccoon that had lost a fistfight with its mascara. The kitchen had cleared out, thank God and all His angels. Even Joan had found somewhere else to spread her particular brand of Christmas cheer.

But the calm didn't last long. Around six, the storm hit wearing Chanel No. 5 and a fur coat that probably cost more than my yearly salary back in Chicago.

"Oh!" Ann Beaulieu's voice carried from the foyer like a perfectly pitched arrow. "Vernon, the decorations are simply lovely. Almost like old times."

Almost like old times. There was that word again - almost. Story of my life lately. Almost good enough, almost family, almost the one he'd choose.

I tried to make myself scarce, I really did. But at Graceland, there's no such thing as invisible. Not when you're the other woman. Not when every step you take echoes with whispers about whose bed you warm at night. Not when Elvis Presley's mother-in-law can smell her daughter's side of the bed on your skin.

Ann's smile could have frozen hell over. "How... enterprising of you to help with the decorations." Her eyes swept over me like she was calculating exactly how many Hail Marys it would take to cleanse the house of my presence. "Though I'm sure my Cilla will want to make some changes when she arrives. She never did like so much tinsel."

The thing about being hit by a truck is that at least it's quick. This? This was like death by a thousand perfectly manicured paper cuts.

"Mrs. Beaulieu." I managed what I hoped passed for a smile. "I was just finishing up."

"Oh, don't leave on my account." Her voice dripped false sweetness. "It’s nice having… everyone here.”

Above us, the pacing stopped. In the sudden silence, you could almost hear the sound of my heart cracking. Or maybe that was just another Christmas ornament hitting the floor - I'd lost count of how many I'd dropped since Joan's little bombshell.

That's when Red appeared, looking like he'd rather face down an angry mob than be stuck in this particular moment. "Boss wants to see you," he told me quietly. "Says it's important."

Ann's stare burned into my back as I headed for the stairs, each step feeling like a walk of shame. The word "whore" might as well have been painted on my forehead in neon. These were the stairs I climbed every night to his bed - our secret mapped out in carpet fibers and creaking wood. Now, with Ann's eyes following my ascent, I could barely keep my lunch down. The taste of bile mixed with the lingering sweetness of the candy cane I'd been nervously sucking on earlier, making my stomach roll.

My hands trembled as I reached his door. When I wasn't around the wives, when it was just Elvis and me, everything felt right. Natural. Like breathing. But under Ann's gaze, every step felt dirty. Every touch we'd shared seemed tainted. And still, God help me, I wanted him. Even now, even with shame burning my cheeks and judgment following my footsteps, my body hummed with anticipation of seeing him.

"Get in here," he said when I knocked, his voice rough around the edges. Whatever he took was wearing off, then. Perfect timing, as always.

Elvis stood by the window, still wearing yesterday's clothes, tension rolling off him in waves. The room smelled like cologne and something sharper - whatever Dr. Nick had last prescribed to keep the demons at bay. Even disheveled, even strung out, he was beautiful enough to stop my heart. That was the real curse of loving Elvis Presley - he could look like heaven while leading you straight to hell.

"Your mother-in-law's here," I said, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "Really spreading holiday cheer, that one."

He didn't laugh. Didn't even turn around. Just kept staring out at all those blue lights like they held answers to questions he wasn't ready to ask.

"When were you gonna tell me?" The words came out steadier than I felt. "About her coming home for Christmas. Or was I supposed to find out from Joan's helpful little announcement in front of God and everybody?"

His shoulders tensed, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "It ain't what you think."

"No?" I laughed, but it came out all wrong. "Then please, Elvis, tell me what it is. Because from where I'm standing, it looks an awful lot like you're playing both sides of the record."

"The Colonel thinks–"

"Oh, the Colonel thinks?" Now the laugh was real, but it had edges sharp enough to cut. "Well, that makes everything better. Tell me, does the Colonel think about how it feels to help decorate a Christmas tree for another woman's homecoming? Does he think about how it feels to be the fool who believed all those pretty lies about 'soon' and 'just a little longer'?"

He turned then, those blue eyes darker than usual. Even angry - especially angry - he was devastating. His silk shirt was half-unbuttoned, revealing that triangle of chest hair that never failed to make my mouth go dry. Six months, and still the sight of him could knock the air from my lungs.

"They weren't lies," he said, voice dropping to that dangerous register that always made heat pool low in my belly.

"Really? Because those divorce papers are still sitting in your drawer, gathering dust like all your other broken promises."

Something flickered across his face - guilt maybe, or just annoyance at being called out. He moved closer, and Lord help me, my body responded like it always did. That's the thing about desire - it doesn't care about broken hearts or wounded pride. It just wants what it wants.

"C'mere," he said, his voice pure velvet now. When I didn't move, he reached for my arm. "Valley, baby, let me explain–"

I jerked away. "Don't 'Valley baby' me. Not now. Not when your wife is flying in to act like I'm not even here while I've been doing everything around here, thinking–"

His hands caught me then, spinning me toward the bathroom. The door slammed behind us, and suddenly we were face to face in front of that damned mirror - the one that had witnessed too many of his mood swings, too many of Dr. Nick's "solutions," too many moments when Elvis Presley tried to recognize himself behind his own eyes.

"Look," he growled, his hands gripping my shoulders. His chest pressed against my back, solid and warm, and I could feel his heart hammering through both our clothes. "Look at us."

I did. God help me, I did. He loomed over me like some beautiful avenging angel, all wild eyes and barely contained energy. His height made me feel small, delicate - exactly the kind of woman I'd never wanted to be. But my body had other ideas. Every point of contact between us felt electric. His hands on my shoulders. His breath on my neck. The solid weight of him pressed against me, making promises I knew he wouldn't keep.

"You see that?" His voice was rough, desperate. One hand slid down my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "You see how right this is? How right we are?"

My own reflection looked like a stranger - cheeks flushed, eyes too bright, lipstick smeared from where I'd been biting my lip. My chest rose and fell too quickly, betraying how much I wanted this, wanted him, even now. We looked like what we were: a disaster waiting to happen. A tragedy dressed up in silk and perfume.

"All I see," I said, my voice shaking, "is a man who won't choose. Who keeps one foot in the past while promising me a future that'll never happen."

His hands tightened on my shoulders. "You don't understand–"

"Then make me understand!" I tried to turn but he held me firm, keeping me facing our reflection. "Make me understand why you signed those papers but won't file them. Why you tell me you love me but won't let her go. Why you're letting your wife come home for Christmas while I skulk around like a–like some common whore!"

"God damn it, woman," he growled, his lips brushing my ear. His chest hair tickled my neck where my sweater had slipped, and I couldn't help the small sound that escaped me. One of his hands slid lower, spanning my waist, pulling me tighter against him. "Tell me this isn't worth fighting for."

We did look right together, that was the hell of it. His dark beauty a perfect contrast to my softer features. Even our clothes seemed to complement each other - his green silk shirt against my red sweater, like some Christmas card from hell. But it was more than that. It was the way we fit, like two pieces of a puzzle nobody else could solve. His height made me feel delicate without making me feel weak. My curves softened his sharp edges. Even our breathing had synchronized, like our bodies knew something our hearts were too scared to admit.

"Stop it," I whispered, but my resolve was crumbling like sugar in rain. His hands were everywhere now, possessive, demanding, making promises his heart never seemed to keep. One slipped beneath my sweater, his rings cold against my overheated skin, and I arched into his touch despite myself.

The kiss, when it came, was violent. All teeth and tongues and months of complications. I bit his lip hard enough to hurt, tasting copper, and he growled - actually growled - spinning me around to press me against the sink. His hips pinned me in place, and Lord help me, I could feel exactly what I did to him. What he did to me.

His hands tangled in my hair, tugging my head back to expose my throat. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice rough as gravel. "Fighting this like you don't want it just as bad as I do."

For one heated moment, I let myself forget everything. Joan's smirk, Ann's contempt, the pile of unsigned divorce papers that represented every broken promise between us. I let myself get lost in the feeling of his mouth on my neck, his hands possessive on my hips, the solid weight of him pressing me into the counter. My fingers found the buttons of his shirt, needing to touch, to claim, to prove something I couldn't quite name.

But then I caught our reflection again - me, disheveled and wanting, him, beautiful and impossibly distant even in this intimate moment. Reality crashed back like a bucket of ice water.

"No." This time when I pushed him away, I meant it. "I’m not gonna be your dirty secret anymore."

I fled the bathroom on shaking legs, my lipstick smeared across my mouth like evidence of a crime. In the bedroom, I grabbed my purse, needing to be anywhere but here. My skin still tingled where he'd touched me, and I hated myself for wanting more. For always wanting more.

"Valerie, wait–"

"For what?" I whirled to face him. The sight of him nearly undid my resolve - shirt half-unbuttoned, hair mussed from my hands, that look in his eyes that always made me weak. "For her to come home? For you to finally make up your mind? For hell to freeze over?"

His face twisted with something that might have been pain, but I was done trying to read the emotions behind those beautiful eyes. Done trying to decode every expression, every gesture, every cotton candy promise.

"I'm going home," I said, my voice steady despite everything. "To Chicago. Where I belong."

My hands shook as I threw clothes into my suitcase, not caring what got wrinkled or crushed. A pair of boots tumbled from the top shelf of the closet - the ones Elvis had bought me last month, soft brown leather that probably cost more than three months' rent back home. They landed at my feet like an accusation, and the memory hit me like a physical blow: his face lighting up as I tried them on, the way he'd knelt to help me with the buckles, how he'd kissed his way up my leg afterward until I forgot about everything but him.

I kicked them aside, ignoring the sting of tears.

"Going somewhere?"

I spun around to find Jerry in the doorway, his face a mask of carefully controlled concern. Asking me that question would get him in trouble with the boss, I knew, but Jerry always did have a soft spot for me. Behind him, I could hear the sounds of Graceland settling into evening - distant Christmas carols, the clatter of dishes, Ann Beaulieu's voice carrying up from below like smoke.

"Chicago," I said, shoving another sweater into the already overstuffed bag. "Before I completely lose what's left of my dignity."

"Val..." He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. His eyes took in my smeared makeup, my trembling hands, the chaos I was making of my packing. "At least wait until morning. Weather's turning bad, and–"

"If I stay until morning, I'll never leave." I yanked the zipper closed with enough force to break it. "And we both know I gotta leave."

Jerry was quiet for a moment, watching me try to lift the suitcase with shaking hands. Finally, he sighed. "Let me drive you to the airport."

"I can manage."

"Wasn't asking." He took the suitcase from me with gentle firmness. "Plus, someone's gotta make sure you don't turn that Mustang into a Christmas wreck. You're shaking worse than Elvis after three cups of coffee."

He really was risking his hide. I had to let him.

The drive to the airport was silent except for the rhythmic swish of windshield wipers battling the freezing rain. Memphis looked different somehow - all those gaudy Christmas lights blurred by weather and tears I refused to let fall. Each mile put more distance between me and Graceland, but I could still feel Elvis's hands on my skin, still taste him on my lips. Still see his reflection behind mine in that damned mirror.

"He's gonna come after you, you know," Jerry said finally, as we pulled up to the departure terminal.

"No," I said, staring at the airport's glowing signs through the rain-streaked windshield. "He won't. He's got what he really wants coming home for Christmas."

Jerry helped me with my bags, then surprised me by pulling me into a bear hug. "You're good people, Val. Don't let this place make you forget that."

Two hours later, I was on a plane bound for Chicago, watching Memphis disappear beneath the clouds. Somewhere down there, in a mansion wrapped in blue lights, Elvis Presley was probably still staring out his window, waiting for his wife to come home.

*

Deena's Christmas party was in full swing by the time I arrived, her little apartment strung with multicolored lights that made it look like a carnival had thrown up all over her living room. Back home less than six hours, and already Memphis felt like some fever dream I'd finally woken up from. Like maybe I'd imagined it all - the mansion, the music, the way Elvis had looked at me in that bathroom mirror just hours ago.

"Val!" She squealed, pulling me into a hug that smelled like sugar cookies and cheap wine. "You made it! Though you look like hell warmed over."

"Thanks." I managed a weak smile. "Just what every girl wants to hear."

"Oh honey." She steered me toward the kitchen, where a punch bowl full of something violently red held court. "Here. This'll help. It's mostly rum, which seems like what you need right now."

The party spun around me in a blur of familiar faces and questions I wasn't ready to answer. Our old crowd from the jazz clubs, college friends, some neighbors, a few of Deena's cousins - all of them trying very hard not to stare at the woman who'd run away with Elvis Presley and lived to tell.

"So..." Deena's cousin Marie sidled up, eyes bright with curiosity. "Is it true? About you and... you know..."

"Marie!" Deena shot her a warning look, but the damage was done. The floodgates opened.

"What's he really like?"

"Is Graceland really as big as they say?"

"Does he actually eat those peanut butter and banana sandwiches?"

"Is his hair really that black?"

"How many Cadillacs are there really?"

"Did you meet Priscilla?"

That last one, from someone in the back, hit like a slap. The room got quiet fast, everyone suddenly very interested in their drinks.

"He's nice," I said finally, the words tasting like ash. "And he's just a man. Just a man who..." I couldn't finish. Couldn't find the words to explain how someone could be both everything you ever wanted and everything that could destroy you.

The party lurched on like a record with a skip in it - moments of almost-normal interrupted by sudden, jarring reminders. Every time someone mentioned Vegas or Memphis or music, the room would get quiet, everyone stealing glances my way like I might shatter.

"But what about–" Marie started again, but Tommy from the jazz circuit cut her off.

"Remember that time at the Blue Note?" Deena jumped in, grateful for the change of subject. She looked ot be about three glasses of punch in and determined to drag me out of my funk. "When that guy kept hitting on you and you told him you only dated men who could sing better than you?"

"And then he tried to sing 'My Way' and sounded like a cat in a blender," Tommy added, grinning.

Despite myself, I laughed. The punch was starting to help, or maybe it was just being home, surrounded by people who knew me before I became 'Elvis's girl.' People who remembered when I was just Val from the jazz clubs. Val the weekend music teacher to underprivileged kids.

Tommy had brought his guitar, and somehow we'd ended up having an impromptu sing-along. Christmas songs morphed into old standards, and for a while, I could almost pretend the last six months had been some elaborate dream. My voice felt rusty but real - no Vegas glitter required.

"Do 'Blue Christmas!" someone called out.

"No Elvis songs!" Deena shouted back, but I was already shaking my head.

"It's fine." I took another swig of punch. "I can handle a little Christmas music without falling apart."

"Atta girl," Tommy said, starting the opening chords.

It felt good, singing without all that weight. No Colonel watching from the wings, no pressure to be perfect, no eyes following my every move. Just friends and music and enough rum to make the edges soft. I was hamming it up, perching on Tommy's knee while he played, making everyone laugh with my exaggerated wiggle.

"See?" Deena nudged me after we finished. "You still got it. Chicago's been missing you something fierce. Those Memphis folks can sit on it and rotate…”

"Speaking of Memphis," Marie started, but this time it was my turn to cut her off.

"Yes, his hair really is that nice. Yes, he has more cars than God. Yes, the peanut butter and banana sandwiches are real. Yes, I’ve met Priscilla.” I winced at that one. “And yes–" I took another drink, feeling reckless, "he's exactly as pretty as everyone says he is. Probably prettier."

The room erupted in laughter and whistles. Someone called out, "Details! We need details!"

"Oh no," Deena waggled her finger. "No kiss and tell in my house. Besides--"

"Shhh!" Marie suddenly shouted from the couch. "Everyone shut up! Look who's on TV!"

The room went quiet as death. There he was - my Elvis, standing in front of Graceland's gates. He looked tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that even TV makeup couldn't hide. Behind him, those damn Christmas lights made everything look underwater.

"Turn it up!" someone called.

The music cut out, replaced by a breaking news bulletin. The room went quiet as the announcer's voice filled the space:

"In entertainment news tonight, sources confirm that Elvis Presley has officially filed for divorce from wife Priscilla. The papers, filed earlier this week in Memphis, cite irreconcilable differences. This comes as a surprise to many, especially given reports that Mrs. Presley was expected to return to Graceland for the holidays..."

The punch cup slipped from my numb fingers, shattering on Deena's linoleum floor in a splash of red that looked like blood. Someone gasped. Someone else whispered "Holy shit."

"Val?" Deena's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Honey, you okay?"

But I couldn't answer. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. On the TV screen, photos of Elvis and Priscilla flashed by - their wedding, public appearances, that last photo from Vegas. And there, in the corner, a smaller headline scrolling: "Sources suggest new relationship with Chicago singer may have precipitated split."

"Oh my God," Marie whispered. "Val, did you know?"

No. No, I hadn't known. I'd run away thinking... but he'd already... and Priscilla was coming home to...

"I need some air," I managed, pushing through the crowd of stunned faces. Behind me, I could hear Deena trying to maintain order, but the room had erupted into chaos.

"Give her space!" "Did you see his face when-" "The papers said earlier this week-" "That's why he let her go today-"

On her tiny balcony, the Chicago winter bit at my face, but I barely felt it. All I could think about was Elvis, alone in that blood-warm Memphis night, watching me drive away. All I could hear was his voice: "You don't understand-"

And I hadn't understood. Not at all.

The worst part? He'd finally done the right thing, and I hadn't trusted him enough to wait and see. I'd run away just when he was finally ready to choose me.

Inside, I could hear the TV still going, dissecting the biggest entertainment story of the year. But all I could think about was a Christmas tree in Graceland, wrapped in blue lights that probably looked a lot like tears right about now.

Taglist: @whositmcwhatsit  @ellie-24  @arrolyn1114 @missmaywemeetagain  @be-my-ally  @vintageshanny  @prompted-wordsmith @peskybedtime @lookingforrainbows @austinbutlersgirl67@lala1267 @thatbanditqueen @dontcrydaddy @lovingdilfs @elvispresleygf @plasticfantasticl0ver @ab4eva @presleysweetheart @chasingwildflowers @elvispresleywife @uh-all-shook-up @xxquinnxx @edgeofrealitys-blog@velvetprvsley @woundmetender @avengen @richardslady121 @presleyhearted @kendralavon7 @18lkpeters@lookingforrainbows @elvisalltheway101 @sissylittlefeather  @atleastpleasetelephone @eliseinmemphis@tacozebra051 @thetaoofzoe @peskybedtime @shakerattlescroll @crash-and-cure @ccab @i-r-i-n-a-a @devilsflowerr@dirtyelvisfant4sy @elvislittleone @foreverdolly @therealslimshakespeare @getyourpresleyfix@gayforelvis @headfullofpresley @h0unds-of-h3ll @hipshakingkingcreole @p0lksaladannie @doll-elvis @tacozebra051 @richardslady121 @jaqueline19997 @myradiaz@livelaughelvis @deke-rivers-1957 @jhoneybees @atleastpleasetelephone @eapep @elvispresleywife @that-hotdog @landlockedmermaid77 @sissylittlefeather @kawaiiwitchy @eapep @iloveelvisss @argangelbornxoxo

[claireverlasting]

One thing in the Iliad I haven’t seen a lot of people talk about is the story Phoenix told at the embassy in book 9. Basically once upon a time, the Calydonians and the Curetes were at war, and on one side there was this guy called Meleager, who was a really good warrior but refused to fight for his people because he was pissed. (totally do not sound familiar) Nothing could change his mind, not even when people promised him riches and his relatives and closest comrades begging him to help. It wasn’t until the enemy had set fire to the city and his wife, Cleopatra, begged for him to fight that he took up arms.

Sounds like a classic cautionary tale from Phoenix right? Yeah.

The thing is, “Cleopatra” means “glory of the father”. Kléos (glory) + patḗr (father).

You know who else’s name also means “glory of the father”? Patroclus, patḗr + kléos. It’s the same fucking name.

Hey Phoenix. Do you have something else to share with the class. Hello. Hi.

[sesamenom]

I wonder what part of Rivendell's protection is Turgon/Gondolin-inspired, on top of the Bruinen basically acting as a proto-Girdle?

looking at the map, the actual valley is mostly enclosed by the Bruinen, with the Trollshaws on one side and the Misty Mountains on the other.

the Map of Wilderland gives a bit more detail in the region, particularly around Mirkwood/Beorn's house. from here, it looks like the Eyries were somewhere around the Misty Mountains a bit north of Rivendell:

for comparison, here's Gondolin and Doriath:

the FA-era eyries seem to mostly have been around the Crissaegrim/Cristhorn area enclosing Gondolin, while the Girdle followed the approximate shape of the rivers around Neldoreth and Region, and Lorien's Girdle seems to kick in at around the Nimrodel:

so it makes sense for a potential Girdle of Rivendell to lie around the Bruinen, especially given Elrond's apparent control over the river (despite having Vilya and not Nenya - maybe it's an Ulmo/Earendil's Star derived thing?)

I don't think we've explicitly seen anybody trying to get into Rivendell and just getting lost at the Ford, so it's probably more of a manual Girdle: it doesn't actually stop people from finding the river itself, but Elrond gets a mental notification or something and can flood the river to wash intruders away.

Beyond the Ford, it does definitely sound like the travel time to Rivendell varies. This (plus the varying road length/road time) can probably be attributed to the time warping effect of the Three, like a weaker but much larger version of Lorien's time related stuff.

so basically it seems like there's a combination of the Bruinen acting as both a manual Girdle, plus the time distortion between the Ford and Rivendell, as well as possibly hiding Imladris in a similar way to Ulmo hiding Gondolin?

A bit of a theory that I’ve struck on while rereading the start of FOTR. I think there’s something guarding Rivendell besides the Bruinen. I think Elrond has taken a leaf out of Melian’s book.

There are some hints that the distance to Rivendell varies depending on who you are. Frodo starts approaching the Ford in late afternoon; he is in desperate need of healing, and is brought to Rivendell midway into that same night.

In The Hobbit, in contrast, the dwarves and Bilbo cross the Ford of Bruinen in the morning, and the sun is down by the time they reach Rivendell. There’s lot of references to the journey being longer than Bilbo would expect:

They came on unexpected valleys, narrow with steep sides, that opened suddenly at their feet, and then looked down surprised to see trees below them and running water at the bottom. There were gullies that they could almost leap over, but very deep with waterfalls in them. There were dark ravines that one could neither jump over or climb into. There were bogs, some of them green pleasant places to look at, with flowers growing bright and tall; but a pony that walked there with a pack on its back would never have come out again. It was indeed a mich wider land from the ford to the mountains than you would ever have guessed. Bilbo was astonished.

Then there’s Aragorn’s line when Merry asks him how far it is to Rivendell:

“I don’t know if the Road has ever been measured in miles beyond The Forsaken Inn, a day’s journey east of Bree. Some say it is far, and others say otherwise. It is a strange road, and folk are glad to meet their journey’s end, whether the time is long or short. But I know how long it would take me on my own feet, with fair weather and no ill fortune: twelve days from here to the Ford of Bruinen.”

(By the way, it always amazes me, now I’ve noticed it, that the hobbits manage this journey - which Aragorn says would take him 12 days on the Road, with “fair weather and no ill fortune,” in only 14 days with Frodo severely injured, travelling mainly off the Road, and with some bad weather and wrong directions. Some of that’s due to the extremely fast pace Glorfindel sets for the last twoand a half days, but it’s incredibly impressive.)

If anyone should know the distance from Bree to Rivendell, it should be Aragorn, a Ranger of the North fostered in Rivendell, who has probably covered that journey dozens to hundreds of times. And the Road is fairly straight; it shouldn’t be hard for travellers to keep track of the general distance. And also, Aragorn only gives the distance to the Ford, not to Rivendell itself. What if the distance and difficulty of the Road from the Ford to Rivendell varies, based on how well a guest is known. Frodo is the Ring-bearer, in desperate need; he makes it there fast. Thorin & Company are vouched for by Gandalf, but are largely an unknown quantity; it takes them the better part of a day. Someone with hostile intentions might never find Rivendell at all, even after days of wanderings.

[dominadespina]

THE FORTUNE OF THREE  

The life of Maria Gomez de Sotomayor: The Ottoman slave who had suffered great dispair in both Ottoman lands and outdoor lands. 

Early Life 

The date of birth nor origin of Maria is certain. Unlike Catalina, who has a fitted name for a Hungarian-origin woman, same for Angelina with her Greek/Byzantine influenced name, Maria’s name is too relatively common in both Hungarian and Greek areas to be certain of her origin, though it is possibly more likely that she is of Hungarian origin. 

Maria is often regarded by some historians as the sister of Angelina of Greece, both regarded as Hungarian ladies who were captured by Ottoman raiders. While some historians suggest they could be siblings, others argue that they may have been referred to as "lady sisters" in a more metaphorical sense rather than literally.

Their differing names, Maria being called “Maria de Ungría”(Maria of Hungary) and Angelina referred to as “Angelina de Grecia” (Angelina of Greece) add to the confusion surrounding their identities. Additionally, some theories propose that they might have different mothers, as in Castile, children were often identified by their mother's nationality/ethnicity. 

However, the odds that two sisters from different mothers could be captured in the same area at the same time and later reunited in an Ottoman harem is highly unlikely.

First Capture

Maria is believed to have been captured shortly after the Battle of Nicopolis in 1396. It is worth mentioning that she might have been captured at a different time and location, possibly during another raid by the Turks near their home borders.

She was likely a child when she was captured, as she would later be sent to King Henry III of Castile as a “gift” in 1402/1403, which suggests she could not have been too old (possibly in her mid-teens to early 20s by 1402).

Life in the Harem

Though captured and sent to the harem, Maria did not convert to Islam and remained a Christian throughout her enslavement.

Considering that all potential concubines of the Sultan had to be converted Muslims, it is safe to assume that Maria did not have to worry about concubinage duties.

Second Capture

Maria was either captured following the plunder of Bursa, five days after the Battle of Ankara, which took place on July 20, 1402, or sometime later in an unknown residence in Yenisehir, along with Olivera Lazarevic, her daughters, and other servants.

Payo Gomez de Sotomayor

Payo was one of the two ambassadors (the other being Hernan Sanchez de Palazuelos) sent from King Henry III of Castile to his correspondent, Timur, in 1402.

After their mission ended, Timur tasked the embassy with escorting Christian maidens from the harem of Sultan Bayezid I, which he had decided to send to Henry.

As a result, Catalina, Angelina, and Maria were given to and escorted by Payo and his partner. It is unknown when exactly they left, but they were certainly in Castile by early 1403.

The Incident In Jodar

According to a folk love tale, upon passing through Jodar, Payo, who had been traveling with Maria for some months, realized his feelings for her by a fountain in Jodar.

Argote de Molina, a Spanish historian, quoted a somewhat unknown poem which seems to be from the point of view of Payo:

“Beside that fountain at Jódar,   The maid with beauteous eyes I saw.   I died by the wound they gave me,   And not one hour could I survive.”

This is likely nothing more than Argote’s attempt at romanticizing the true story, which caused a scandal, especially considering the anger that fueled Henry upon learning this information.

Whether in a soft poem or not, a relationship with a maiden who was entrusted to you is completely inappropriate. Additionally, it is unknown what the extent of their “relationship” was, nor if it was even consensual.

Arrival In Castile

Upon their arrival at the court of Henry III, Payo had to face the wrath of the King, who highly disapproved of his inappropriate relationship with Maria.

Wishing to avoid the consequences of his actions, Payo fled to his lands in Galicia and later to France.

In the meantime, some nobles did their best to mediate some sort of reconciliation between the two, a mediation which ultimately succeeded, as Don Payo Gomez de Sotomayor was recalled to court and married Maria by order of the King.

The Death of the King

King Henry, who acted as the guardian of Maria and her companions, passed away in 1406. With the King gone, Payo planned to annul his marriage to Maria on the grounds of “forced marriage,” since the late King had ordered him to marry her to rectify his actions.

He set his sights on a relative of an archbishop, a woman named Maior de Mendoza; a marriage with her would elevate his reputation and status.

It is unknown when the annulment was finalized, but it is certain that it was from Dona Maior de Mendoza that Payo welcomed his eldest son and future heir.

Later Life

Some historians believe that after her “divorce,” Maria worked as a servant in her former husband’s household, based on a document released by Payo in 1453.

In his will, he names a certain Maria as his servant:  

“…regarding my estate, that both the legitimate heirs of my wife Dona Maior and Doctor Diego Albrea, who has received gains from Maria Gomez, my servant who has passed away…” - *Colección Diplomática De Galicia Histórica, Volumes 1-2

Considering “Maria” and “Gomez” are extremely common names in Spanish areas, and that Maria was buried in a convent a few leagues away from her former husband’s burial place, it is possible that he could be referring to a completely different Maria Gomez.

There was no true reason for Maria to end her life as his servant; upon annulment, it was his duty to return the dowry, which was likely sponsored by King Henry, allowing her to care for herself or even remarry if she wished.

It is much more plausible that upon her “divorce,” Maria’s dowry was returned to her at some point, and she might have used her resources to support herself and the convent in which she would later be buried in.

(Sources: Two Christian princesses offered as Timur’s present  for King Henry III  of Castile, the analysis of the introduction to Ruy Gonzalez de Clavijo’s narrative (1403-1406) by Lukasz Burkiewicz. Colección Diplomática De Galicia Histórica, Volumes 1-2 by Antonio Lopez Ferreiro. Revisión y estudio de la obra poética de Micer Francisco Imperial by UNIVERSITAT DE VALÈNCIA. EMBASSY TO TAMERLANE, The Broadway Travellers. Bu Mülkün Kadın Sultanları by Necdet Sakaoğlu.) 

[enchantress-emily]

Here's a little teaser for my new webcomic, Tales from the Embassy! It's going to be a series of interconnected stories about the people who work behind the scenes at the Embassy, a huge complex where representatives of various magical races meet up to do business.

These are the main characters from the first story, Elsiné (she/her), Galen (he/they), and Feneree (he/him). Elsiné is a newly arrived clerk in one of the Embassy's numerous offices; Galen maintains the decorative murals around the building; and Feneree is on the Elven ambassador's staff. Feneree and Galen are partners, and they end up folding Elsiné into their relationship, to everyone's satisfaction.

I still have a ways to go on the script for the first story, so it'll be a while till the comic launches, but I'll try to keep you posted!

[clavissionary-position]

Ikeprinces Ranked By How Well They Park

God Tier

CHEVALIER . He parks so well that it’s unfair even having him on the list. He can mentally visualize and predict where all the empty spots in any parking facility are long before ever going in. He knows local parking customs no matter where he goes. There is no style of parking he cannot flawlessly execute just from reading about it. Legend has it he never even took his driving exam; they just gave his license to him.

SARIEL . There’s never been a parking space that’s looked Sariel in the eye and lived to tell the tale. His side-parking alone makes you want to squeeze your thighs together while biting back lewd cries. As he shifts the gears to park, he looks at you out of the corner of his eye, gives you that devilish smirk and tells you he hopes you're ready to show him what you've learned.

JIN . Watching Jin park one-handed while casually sucking on a lollipop is like watching a 3-star Michelin chef prepare a world-class dinner right in front of you. You can’t help but want to thank him for the visual food. He keeps it classy and casual at the same time, and being in a car with him at all makes you feel like seat-belts and air-bags are totally unnecessary.

Valet Tier

RIO . His parking is already outstanding, but it’s the added customer service you get on top that truly makes him shine. You find yourself talking to him as if you’ve been friends for years, and it’s only once the conversation is over that you realize you’ve been sitting parked for over half-an-hour.

NOKTO . It’s almost surprising how good of a parker this Klein is. But it’s not like you can regularly show up to foreign embassies and expect to be treated with respect if you butcher their parking area. He's probably the prince you see drive/park the most because of his fondness for long, aimless late-night drives.

LICHT . He’s also a Klein that parks well. Must run in the family. His back muscles flex beautifully underneath his shirt when he reaches through the window to get parking tickets. He still does the awkward open-the-door-a-crack-to-double-check thing, but he's never, not once, had to readjust his parking.

Heart Attack Tier

ALTER-KEITH . It’s simply erotic how confidently he parks. He surprises you with unexpected maneuvers every now and then, mostly to tease you, but always so he can study your reactions. And the way he uses his free hand to entwine his fingers with yours; and then how he moves your connected hands to shift the gears instead of letting your hand go to do so... *clutches chest in pain*

LEON . Makes you feel like you’re riding along with a golden-age movie star, what with his flashy maneuvering. If High-Octane Parking were a thing, Leon would be the posterchild. Half the time your heart is all the way up your throat, but It. Is. Fun. As. Hell. You almost don’t want to get out of the car, and you can tell just how much fun he has showing off as his laughter coasts atop every rev of the engine.

SILVIO . It’s impossible to fully judge Silvio’s parking or even driving capabilities while also nursing a nosebleed (because you can’t stop staring at his sexy forearms when his hands are on the steering wheel). His wealth, connections and status give him access to the best parking spots, so it’s safe to assume he’s not burning bridges by parking like an animal. Also, he’s Silvio! Why would he be bad at parking? Unless he happens to catch you staring like that and then oh fuck oh fuck oh fu—

GILBERT . Prefers to let you drive, but he gets so unbelievably jealous when you interact with parking meters and ticket-dispensers, that he either shoots the offending device on sight or cleverly manipulates you into parking elsewhere. If that ‘elsewhere’ has an excruciating walking-distance to your destination, he’ll manipulate the situation and then somehow you’re both back home, on his bed, doing kissy-bitey things. So instead of letting him boss you around, be sure to put your foot down on the brakes and tell him he needs to suck it up (he will). If he’s driving, he’s a god-tier parker.

CLAVIS . He has made it a personal goal to invent a new type of parking every two weeks. He’s never been able to beat Chev at those silly parking mobile apps, or even Tetris, so he’s decided to one-up him in the most ridiculous, real-life way using cars. Clavis parks the way you can sometimes find two or three jigsaw puzzle pieces stuck together in unholy ways. Every sound that comes out of a car operated by Clavis Lelouch is symphonic chaos in the best and worst ways. No one has a higher monthly car-insurance premium than Clavis fucking Lelouch. Except for Yves.

IDGAF Tier

LUKE . He parks diagonally, taking up multiple parking spaces. His backseat is an amateur’s collection of unpaid parking ticket stubs. A wave of honey-scents floods out whenever he opens his car door. He unironically listens to Nickelback, so the combination of Nickelback and honey smells coming out of a parking lot can only mean one thing.

RIP Tier

KEITH . (After finally arriving at the parking location two days late) It’s not that he’s a poor-parker, he’s just one that overthinks the hell out of it. Is he going too fast? Is he going too slow? Is there enough of a gap on your side for you to get out? Is there enough of a gap that people can comfortably get into their cars on either side of his? Is his car so tall, I mean big, that it creates an eyesore when someone’s looking down the line? Should he just park directly inside that ditch?

YVES . He’s not the one bumping into cars, they’re the ones bumping into him!! Ranking him this low for something beyond his control is SLANDER!! Though this is largely only the case when he's driving by himself or with people who aren't you. If you're in the car, his Luck Stat goes through the roof, which makes it easier for him to show off just how much of a careful and dexterous parker he is. And his bangs do a cute little forward-backward swish just as he finishes (in sync with his ear ring).

[city-of-ladies]

“Women were included in the ranks of this fully mobilized society. Prokopios, aware, of course, of the legends of the Amazons whose origins he traces to the region of the Sabirs, reports that in the aftermath of "Hunnic" (i.e. Sabir) raids into Byzantine territory, the bodies of women warriors were found among the enemy dead. East Roman or Byzantine sources also knew of women rulers among the nomads. Malalas, among others, mentions the Sabir Queen Boa/Boarez/Boareks who ruled some 100,000 people and could field an army of 20,000. In 576 a Byzantine embassy to the Turks went through the territory of 'Akkayai; "which is the name of the woman who rules the Scythians there, having been appointed at that time by Anagai, chief of the tribe of the Utigurs." The involvement of women in governance (and hence in military affairs) was quite old in the steppe and was remarked on by the Classical Greek accounts of the Iranian Sarmatians. It was also much in evidence in the Cinggisid empire. 

These traditions undoubtedly stemmed from the necessities of nomadic life in which the whole of society was mobilized. Ibn al-Faqih, embellishing on tales that probably went back to the Amazons of Herodotos, says of one of the Turkic towns that their "women fight well together with them," adding that the women were very dissolute and even raped the men. Less fanciful evidence is found in the Jiu Tangshu which, s.a. 835, reports that the Uygur Qagan presented the Tang emperor with "seven women archers skillful on horseback.” Anna Komnena tells of a Byzantine soldier who was unhorsed with an iron grapple and captured by one of the women defenders as he charged the circled wagons of the Pecenegs. Women warriors were known among the already Islamized Turkmen tribes of fifteenth century Anatolia and quite possibly among the Ottoman gazfs (cf. the Bacryan-z Rum "sisters of Rum")”.

Golden Peter B., “War and warfare in the pre-cinggissid steppes of Eurasia” in: Di Cosmo Nicola (ed.), War and warfare in Inner Asian History

[daddymilker691]

A true tale of MI5 deep cover opps James arrived to the dreary MI5 building this was of course the 1950s and not of course the building we are all so well aquatinted with across Vauxhall Bridge , James was as usual spotless in a pin striped suit when his commanding officer walked in and said in that upper crust firm British accent you’ve seen so often in spy films , James your flying to the Algerian Embassy they have some highly classified documents and you need to bring them back pronto James solemnly nodded his head understood chief he replied , James darling for that was James last name I’ve managed to procure you a job in the heart of the embassy but and I’m not sure how you will take this James you will be an Embassy maid your uniform is ready and you leave from an airfield in Surrey later tonight , James baulked at the idea but this was for queen and country within an hour the girls from HQ had done his make up and he boarded the plane , and heading for a remote embassy in Tunis for two days he managed to keep his identity hidden and when he got his chance he slipped down into the basement where all the secret documents lay , just then as James was pouring through the documents an taking photos from the hidden camera in his blouse the door flew open and a strapping Arabian man walked in what are you doing he demanded James was more flustered than at any time before in his career and found himself lost for words I’m dusting came his reply Mohammad pushed him against the door a hard shove your not a woman , James gulped yes I am he replied no your a fucking spy James thought his number was up and prepared to be shot or tortured but instead he felt a large warm Arab hand caressing his red satin panties this was most undignified but Mohamed was smiling you like said Mohamed grinning James grit his teeth and said yes Mohamed continued his hand now firmly gripped around James reluctant yet throbbing cockette , James as far as we at MI5 are aware is still at the embassy

[stirringwinds]

what do you think of the canon version of China finding chibi Japan in a bamboo forest

I do enjoy a lot of the inherent weirdness and charm of hetalia canon, and I think the clear Princess Kaguya / Tale of the Bamboo Cutter reference is cute, but ngl it's one thing I do personally retcon completely because I like these old men salted and brined in the convoluted mess that is asian imperial politics: to re-situate Kiku and Yao within the reality of Chinese imperialism, the Sinosphere and also the fact that Yong-soo (whom I see as also being the older Korean kingdom of Silla) would've known of and relayed Kiku's existence to Yao first, given the history of Korean-Japanese contact and the Korean peninsular's long history as a cultural intermediary (and also point of conflict) between Japan and China.

I tentatively think Yao very likely met Kiku for the very first time when Kiku arrived as part of an early Japanese diplomatic embassy to China, and the vibes were more like this (I couldn't find a picture of a younger looking envoy and I definitely see Kiku as much younger physically—but anw, that pic is an artistic representation the shamaness-queen Himiko during the Yayoi period of Japan):

I don't see Yao 'raising' Kiku in any sense that mirrors the way I see Arthur directly claiming and exercising responsibility over Alfred; I feel that Yao and Kiku started out quite firmly as an empire-tributary dynamic (which is different from colony and empire) with a certain arms-length distance—Yao is kind of arrogant during that period too (to put it mildly) and he's like 'oh you're the boy Yong-soo referred to huh. Interesting. You can add your name to the sign-up sheet of tributaries there. Bring me gifts, will you?' There is an eventual (regicidal) mentor-protege dynamic I see forming, but Yao is very busy being an empire when he and Kiku first meet; he would consider Kiku an amusing and intriguing diversion to keep an eye on, but he is for the time-being, much more embroiled in his ambitions in continental Asia, such as his wars against other nations like Lien (Vietnam).