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[voievod]

I am actually screaming crying throwing up on my knees gnawing at my fist kicking my feet in the air rn. Whispering what the heck with great affection as I am typing this. This is just so beautiful and majestic, like this is one of the works that make you feel like you have actually been granted the privilege to see our beloved spawn of terror Vlad in his full glory, as he was. The beads of sweat on his forehead, the gritted teeth, the sheer concentration on his face, the mane flying so beautifully behind him— And finally, finally someone takes into consideration that he was young and strong and full of life and energy (instead of that grandpa other artists tend to drift towards) and I thank you endlessly for it! ❤️

An actual live footage of me looking at the art:

You have also given us a detailed commentary on it and, being the annoying Dracula nerd I am, here I come with... commentary on commentary. Bear with me! ❤️

I actually think in his life Vlad might've taken part in knight tournaments.

Yes, he probably did, though not in the setting one might expect.

When it comes to Wallachian society, they did not have any kind of knight tournaments as seen in Western (particularly those famous in places like France and England) or Central Europe. The chivalric tournaments of jousting, melee combat, and pageantry were a hallmark of Western European knightly culture. The need for knightly culture evolved because these states developed more independent, relatively stable territorial boundaries. Compared to regions such as Wallachia, wars were not as common and frequent, and so the leisure or ceremonial aspects that defined the chivalric traditions of Western knights were needed to boost the spirit and excitement, and maintain the kind of battle-like physicality.

Wallachia (and Moldavia) had a different structure of warfare and social organisation which was influenced by its geographical location and political realities. Wallachia was a buffer zone, so that meant that the priorities of Wallachian society were more focused on survival and military readiness. There was little room for the luxury of tournaments or knightly display because Wallachians had to be constantly prepared for war and defence. The nobility and military elite in Wallachia (but generally in Eastern Europe) more likely engaged in regular practical combat training or ritualistic military displays, so training exercises, hunting expeditions, or mock battles designed to prepare for the harsh realities of war (even in Eastern European period movies, you can usually see scenes of mock battles and duels rather than tournaments). Knighthood in the Western sense was just not a central part of worldview in the Balkans because these men had to be practical, pragmatic, efficient, and seasoned. Besides, Wallachia was an Eastern Orthodox country with cultural ties to the Byzantine Empire and neighbouring Slavic states.

Also, Wallachia was in a constant state of war. Just during Vlad's six-year reign, he showed his military talents and skills here:

invasion of Wallachia, summer 1456

military expedition into Transylvania, winter 1456

military expedition into Transylvania, spring-summer 1457

siege of Bistrița, autumn 1457

conflict with Albu cel Mare, 1458

military expedition into Transylvania, spring 1459

duel between Vlad and Dan, spring 1460

military expedition into Transylvania, summer 1460

second military expedition into Transylvania, summer 1460

conquest of Giurgiu, winter 1462

military expedition into Bulgarian territories, winter 1462

the Ottoman invasion of Wallachia, summer 1462

battle of Chilia (did not fight but organised), summer 1462

local battles between Vlad and Radu, summer-autumn 1462

The only year he did not appear anywhere on a battlefield was in 1461, but that was the year he was preparing for the war with the Ottomans. Many European leaders never faced so many battles, let alone in the relatively short period of six years.

Buuut he most definitely could have tried that at the Hungarian court. Young Vlad spent some time with Hunyadi, he was also formally introduced to King Ladislaus V by Hunyadi himself. I can easily imagine Hunyadi encouraging Vlad to show his talents in a tournament while visiting the court as it would be a good opportunity to present himself and make himself known. I also agree so much with your take on fighting in tournaments while imprisoned, especially later on. Corvinus would also probably want to show that Vlad was still in shape when deciding to make him voivode again.

(Fun fact aside, but his father was raised and spent most of his life at the Hungarian court, so little Vlad would probably hear some stories about the old adventures. He could be familiar with these tournaments. Also, there is this legend that his father received a golden buckle from a noblewoman after winning such a tournament in Nuremberg.)

Does he look too young for you? Remember that he've lead an army attack for the first time when 25 years old! And in Hungary he was through the age of 31-44! Vlad Draculea would in no case look like the withered, aged old man how he's so often depicted as!!

Thank you thank you THANK YOU millions of times, my dearest! ❤️

The teeth:

Here comes the perfect time to indulge you in...

the Ottoman oral hygiene.

He definitely did not have the straight, flashy-white Hollywood smile, but I think he could have taken care of his teeth because he was exposed to it during his hostage days. In my story in particular, I have him naturally adopt certain cultural things and ways of life he is exposed to and grows accustomed to in the Ottoman Empire, simply because he sees the benefit of it, and they become important to his life and identity. The Ottoman stance on and care for personal hygiene (oral hygiene included) is one of the adopted things that he places great importance on.

Traditional methods such as oil pulling and miswak (chewing stick) were common as oral hygiene practices. Herbal treatments such as using sage and myrrh for oral care were also commonly used. The concept of preventive dentistry was greatly emphasised, especially through teachings on the importance of maintaining good oral health through natural remedies and dietary habits. Historical texts from the Ottoman era also provide insights into medieval dental practices. The Ottoman Empire was pretty known for establishing medical schools known as darülfünun, where dentistry was taught as part of the broader medical curriculum. In the 13th and 15th centuries, the Ottoman dentistry even began focusing on issues such as various dental diseases, periodontology, and child dentistry.

Lately I've found that maybe during Vlad's reign, he changed the Wallachian eagle so it would have its wings open

I had no idea about this and I love it so much! I am immediately writing this down. ❤️ Also, the whole design on the caparison is just insanely beautiful and detailed. Let me swoon and admire some more!

So he'd make an absolute unique and rare sight, because he'd have Western armour and Eastern sword.

Yes yes yes! And I find it so cool. Also, I think it also represents him as an individual — he went through certain things in his life, he was exposed to particular cultures, and all of it has left its mark on him and defined him. And that's beautiful to see. ❤️

This is an absolutely masterful and breathtaking piece, and people can see how much love and care went into every line and curve! I might be repeating myself, but every piece of yours just pushes the bar higher and higher. A majestic work of art of a majestic man from a majestic artist. ❤️

I promised you some art, and so I keep my oath!

Here's a piece of mine I have been working on for quite some time.

Vlad as your knight on a horse with shinning armour! Behold!

You'll be surprised that this is actually not from a battle, but rather a knight tournament! (In battle the horse of a voivode would probably be armoured better)

I actually think in his life Vlad might've taken part in knight tournaments (but feel free to correct me if you have better info 😉. Sure, I'll be crying if I find out that I should throw this piece into the trash, but I wanna be historically accurate 😅). You see, I don't think the Ottomans would've trained him in fighting with plate armour. So he'd need to learn that somewhere. That's why I think he might've taken part in some tournaments when he arrived at Bogdan's court at 16 years old.

But maybe he would have a chance even later in life, when he was held by Matthias in Hungary - you see, Matthias kept him in reserve if the Ottomans would attack Hungary, so he'd absolutely want to keep Vlad in fighting condition! And that's what tournaments were actually used for, to practice your battle skills outside of war.

Vlad was a great fighter, what use would it be for Matthias if he lost all his muscles and muscle memory while rotting away in prison? Also it would allow him to get back some prestige after the horrible propaganda dragged his name through mud, which would be profitable for Corvinus too - it would enable to put him on the Wallachian throne or in the lead of an army way quicker should the need arrise.

The complimentary wall of text: Some noteworthy details:

The face:

Physical characteristics I once again based on Modrussa's description and Vlad's seal

However his expression is strained with exercise and focus

Does he look too young for you? Remember that he've lead an army attack for the first time when 25 years old! And in Hungary he was through the age of 31-44! Vlad Draculea would in no case look like the withered, aged old man how he's so often depicted as!!

The sweat:

Yes, Vlad was a warmachine, but he was still a human being, and even such a god of war would sweat when wearing plate armour in the sun and while doing exhausting moves

The teeth:

I have a bad feeling mediaeval person with no access to Collgate wouldn't have pearly white teeth. However there was no coffee, black tea nor tobacco yet, so they wouldn't be yellow either

The horse:

A favourite breed for knight battle horses were the Friesians. I am aware that they probably looked different than today, but since I have no clue HOW different, I settled on drawing the modern one

The coat of arms:

Combination of Draculea's family crest and the coat of arms of Wallachia. Lately I've found that maybe during Vlad's reign, he changed the Wallachian eagle so it would have its wings open, but I have once again no good reference to depict it realistically, so I settled with what I have

The sword:

I think Vlad would still use the Ottoman kilij, since that would always be a weapon he'd be most proficient with (since he had the most time to train with that, and when you're literally fighting for your life in a battle, you don't want to experiment with novelties). So he'd make an absolute unique and rare sight, because he'd have Western armour and Eastern sword.

The missing helmet:

Ah yes, the artistic purpose. I am guilty of that too, because drawing Vlad's face behind the millimetres-wide slit of a jousting helmet is... ehm. But wait, have you ever seen a knight tournament? I highly recommend!!!

(for those less lucky ones - if interested - I might be able to make a short compilation of a tournament I saw of Traken on Karlštejn, they're amazing, I actually started drawing this when I saw them there on the grape harvest festival in September - that's a great historical event as well, with historically accurate costumes 🥰. I recommend!).

If not, then you'd be surprised that it's not full time clashing only! There are many tasks to test your agility, dexterity, and also proficiency in riding a horse - like shooting from a bow, spear throwing, cutting wooden logs with a sword, picking sword from the ground, catching a bracelet with a sword, etc. - and all of that on a horseback in speed! 😳 Fun 😁! And also for these you wouldn't need to wear a helmet.

Disclaimer: this is made on a digital tablet, but it's still painted nonetheless. No photoshop. I did use a photo reference (not for the face, though, that's from imagination only), but I still painted everything from scrap. At the beginning there was a blank canvas.

I know this is probably a totally useless and pointless disclaimer, but it had actually happened to me that I showed people a piece I was sooo effing proud of - another one with armour, I think the best piece I've ever made tbh - and people were like "eh, nice that you drew the face". And I was like "asdfghshdjd@# I also drew the effing armour, it took me weeks!! Why doesn't anyone appreciate that, have you ever tried painting a suit made of metal?!! It took SO MUCH WORK to make it look realistic and not one single person comments on it??!! 😭😭😭

...only to later find out that people didn't think that the armour was painted and not photoshopped 😅😆)

[yeoldontknow]

Kilig

Author’s Note: happy birthday @imdifferentshadesofpurple <33 i love you so much. i know weve been talking about this fic since christmas and ive not been able to work on it. but its the mark of your dreams and i love you! mork <3 ↳ Kilig (n. Tagalog): the unstoppable sensation of joy or elation experienced when intensely, madly falling in love; the sudden feeling of inexplicable joy when something romantic occurs Pairing: Mark Tuan x Reader (oc; female) Summary: You’ve weathered so much in your relationship with Mark, and still he makes you twitterpatted. But when you’re moving in together, and choosing the right home to start your life, you start wondering if things will ever feel the same again. Genre: fluff; romance; domestic au Rating: PG-13 Warning: implied sex Word Count: 2,554

For as long as you’ve known him, Mark has told you he loves you with all of him.

The ways have been endless and numerous, sometimes imperceptible to the untrained eye, but for you, they have always been obvious.

It started with this eyes, the way they would find you in a crowded room, seeking you and your shape as a comfort. Without looking, you could feel them on you, a sensuous sort of touch that called you to him and made your skin hurt wherever he was not felt. And when you did dare to meet his gaze, let yourself fall with him, it was the way they were open wide and swimming. Too many colours seemed to pool and gather in his irises, bewildered by you as he was and taking on all the light in the world just to see you in perfect focus.

Then, it was his lips. This is when the ways became both simple and complex, a paradox of sentiment that took you weeks to untangle. His tongue seemed to handle the word differently, gave shape to love as though he were sculpting a monument meant to outlast humankind. To him, the word was delicate, though it was only a fragile thing when it was given to you, asking you to hold it with him, and to cherish it. He spoke the word like it were feathers, but he kissed it on you like wildfire, reckless and with abandon, and demanding that you burn with him.

On you, there was not a single place his lips did touch or taste, greedy in the way he consumed you and unforgiving in the way he weathered you down.

Lastly, came his hands. The holiness of his hands washed over with delay, slowly and overtime, and without the dedication of your thought. Only when you realized he touched you as though you were something sacred, gentle but with the whole of his hand, did you think back on all the ways he had handled the totality of you. In the early days, he clutched your hand as a cross, fingers to your knuckles and unwilling to be parted from you. The flat of his palms rested against your cheeks as he kissed you, holding your head and holding you to him, fending off the oncoming separation with prayers against your skin.

But these were nothing to the way his fingers traversed your spine, your thighs, your breasts, tracing scripture into your pores and hoping they etched into the bone. Nightly, he carved commandments into you, let his love spread until his name and his essence was a mark upon your ribs. It was the same for him, you knew, the way your hands gripped his shoulders and slithered down his back as he moved in you - your touch had been sweared into his spine, a permanent reminder at the base of his cerebellum that dictated his choices, his thoughts, his speech.

You called this unity. He called you his soulmate. Together, you knew it was love.

For as long as you’ve known him, Mark as told you he loves you with all of him.

But now, searching for a home in which you will start your life, the love he gives seems only to be directed towards you and not your future, and you don’t know whether to be offended or exhausted.

Choice was never his strong suit, backing away from options with raised hands and a cock of his eyebrow. It is not that he didn’t have opinions, it’s just that his were never as loud as others, and so he never learned to argue. In choosing you, he is vocal, adamant and determined, and his perpetual choice of you, he felt, absolved him of all the rest.

You thought, perhaps, this would change after four failed house showings and one apartment, each more special than the last. But with each, he seemed only to withdraw further, shrugging at things you felt were important and being vocal about insignificant things, unremarkable things that could be changed.

Today, on your fifth house showing, he stands in the living room admiring the design on the ceiling with a scowl. Arms crossed, he furrows his brow and pouts his lips, aloof and somewhat bored.

‘Mark.’ You say his name in the hopes of bringing him back to you and receiving his focus, but instead his gaze remains fixed. ‘What do you think of the mantle?’

Unmoved, he sighs before speaking. ‘Do you think the circles were what they wanted?’

Thrown by his question, you blink at him before raising your gaze. ‘Probably? It’s in the final design, so I’m sure it was approved.’

‘It just looks so unfinished,’ he muses, turning to assess the design behind him. ‘Like wouldn’t they have wanted squiggles...for a ribbon.’

‘We can ask the development manager…’ Your statement fades as you search the pamphlet handed to you at the door, seeking a name. On each page, housing designs and templates greet you, all modern and extravagant, and with customizable kitchens. It says nothing about the ceiling.

‘I’m not saying we have to change it,’ he says, turning to look at you with a small, half smile. ‘Just would be hard to change if we wanted to.’

Briefly, you glance between Mark and the ceiling as you chew the inside of your cheek. Handling Mark when he’s like this is delicate, not because he is tempestuous nor volatile, simply because matching his aloofness will lead him to believe you are not serious - about this home, or any. One, poorly timed comment will send you back on another search and, while it is not that you are serious about this home, it’s merely that any home with him would suffice. And thus, this search has been overwhelmingly tiring.

Every home you have seen has been beautiful, modern, and delightfully within budget. This is a rarity, a magical experience in which choices are abundant and all are wonderful, and so you would be happy with any if he were happy at all. Instead, he’s placid, unmoved by any one house, liking things in one and hating the same in the other, difficult only because he maneuvers around choice.

But this is the first time he’s used the word “we,” implying an us in the space and a future existence. And so you are careful, clutching this word to your chest and hoping it does not sprout wings of hope.

‘Is this,’ you begin slowly, taking a step towards him, ‘something you would want to change?’

Shaking his head, Mark keeps his expression even and placid. ‘No,’ he says, simply. ‘Just saying, it’s hard to change.’

With a sigh, you close your eyes and count to ten.

Staring at the door to the master bedroom, rather than viewing the room’s size and scope, Mark hums. ‘These doorknobs are brass.’

From your position in the entry to the en-suite, you turn your head and regard him. Hands shoved in his pockets, he looks a little lost, and you hate that it makes you smile. ‘Yes,’ you offer, keeping your voice neutral, ‘but that’s much easier to change than a ceiling pattern.’

Mark glances up at you, somewhat aghast.. ‘Why would I want to change these?’

Once again, you find yourself dumbfounded. ‘Brass tarnishes easily.’ Pressing your finger into the knob, you pull it back after a moment to reveal the very clear impression of your print. Satisfied, you regard him patiently, as though this should be enough - the clear display of finger oils eating away at the smooth texture.

‘It gives the house character,’ he says, finally, still studying your fingerprint.

And this is what does it, what sends frustration and irritation to the center of your throat like bile. ‘These give it character?’ There’s a sharpness in your voice you know you will soon come to regret, but the way it feels on your tongue is a release you did not know you wanted to caress. ‘Not the mantle and the enormous fireplace?’

His head snaps up to meet your gaze, eyes searching your expression. ‘When have you ever seen brass knobs in a modern house?’ he tries, tone playful in the efforts of keeping you calm.

But still, you do not give in. He’s had so much of you, you think, and it is unfair he keeps this stage of your life at an arm’s length. ‘These give it character?’ you snap, fully rooted in your anger. ‘Not the mirror over the kitchen sink that faces the picture window to the yard.’

Taking a step back to fully appraise you, he regards you with a soft, worried expression. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Not the crown molding or the built in bookcases?’ you continue, unable to stop now that the flood has been unpinned from your lips. ‘But these, the ugly brass doorknobs, give it character.’

Several seconds pass in which you savor the silence, so unlike the quiet that usually falls between you. This is not the calm silence of knowing your lover enough to know their thoughts, the comfortable silence of partners in which words fail and somehow seem insufficient. This is the silence of realization and understanding, the silence of awareness that this may be your first real fight, and while it would never be enough to break you, it is enough to remind you that love takes commitment, even when commitment is hard.

‘Hey, what’s -’

Mark’s words are cut off as you spin on your heels and walk briskly out of the house.

Immediately, you know it will not be this one, and as you push through the front door a spiteful laugh rises from your throat. At least one choice has been removed, though it is not because there was any particular flaw. Sadness constricts your chest, and you are unsure if it is because you did really like this home or if it is because you have liked all the others, too, and you are unsure you will ever find a home with Mark or if he is just coming with you for the ride.

‘Baby.’

The deep intonation of his voice makes you release a heavy sigh, eyes wide as you cock your head back to stare at the sky.

‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

At once, you feel him behind you. His eyes, and now the heat from his existence, attuned to it as you are, as though he were magnetic.

‘No,’ you shake your head, keeping your back to him. ‘I’m mad at you.’

At this, he laughs, the sound rich and full, the chocolate you always find yourself craving, and it takes work not to turn to face him, and to see his skin in the sun of high noon.

‘You can be mad at me, but I’d like to know what you’re mad about.’ He takes a few steps towards you, his head radiating into your back. ‘I think that’s only fair.’

Keeping your gaze straight ahead, unwilling to turn or see him because it means you will cave, you sigh. Crossing your arms, you scowl, pretending he can see you. ‘It was your idea to move in together.’

‘I know.’

Digging your heels into the earth your purse your lips. ‘So why don’t you want to?’

‘What?’ he asks, sounding alarmed.

The worry in his voice is real, surprised, and you know you have been unfair. He doesn’t know he’s being difficult, almost never does - so self-aware in every instance except for this - and it’s cruel of you to let him panic.

Turning to face him, you see the way his hands clench at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you. Still, you hold your ground. ‘You fight every house and find random things wrong with it, or pick the most bizarre things just because you don’t want to be involved in the choice.’

‘You think that’s what I’m doing?’ he asks, cocking his head to the side in concern.

‘Isn’t it?’ you laugh in disbelief. ‘You do that with dinner. You shrug every time I offer a choice and you tell me to pick. You let me pick what we watch on Netflix -’

‘But I like what you pick!’ he exclaims.

‘Okay,’ you shrug, shaking your head, ‘but I don’t want to choose anymore.’

‘That’s fine!’ Mark’s laugh is airy, unlike its usual texture. ‘I can pick the next show we watch.’

‘No, it’s not Netflix!’ You don’t mean to shout, but you’re tired. Tired of feeling like you don’t have a partner, and sick with the feeling that, somehow, you don’t have him. ‘It’s everything. I don’t want to be alone in choosing our home.’

At your words, he blanches, the colour fading from his skin even in the sun. ‘You think I don’t want to pick a house?’ he whispers, delicate in the way he handles his words.

‘Clearly, you don’t.’

‘I can see how it would come off that way, and I’m sorry.’ At once, he reaches for you, unable to hold back the need to touch you. He gathers you into his arms, burying his nose into your neck to take the smell of you in, deep into his lungs. ‘Really, I am. I thought you knew.’

‘What are you talking about,’ you murmur, immediately letting your guard down at the feel of his muscles beneath your hands.

Pulling back just enough to see you, he cradles your cheek with his palm. ‘Picking the house is so...not a concern of mine.’

In protest, you open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off.  

‘Listen!’ he laughs, eyes wide and imploring you to be calm and to be patient. ‘Picking the house is not a concern because you are my home. As long as I’m with you, I am home. We could be in a hotel or a shed or a mansion, I don’t care. Okay, maybe I care about the mansion because that’s a crazy electric bill, but I don’t care where it is as long as I’m with you. I found home a long time ago, so when I bring up random things on house showings it’s because I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Your heart is my home, and it’s the only place I want to be.’

Once more, silence falls between you, but this is the silence in which he tells you he loves you with all of him. The penetrative way he holds your stare moves you, makes you feel him once more taking root in your heart, holding it with his palm instead of your cheek. Silently, his lips shape the words “I love you” over and over, until he stops to smile, knowing that your soul has heard him where your ears could not. And last, he keeps you in his hold, hands burning with the knowledge that being separate from you is painful, terrible, and like this you know he is right.

Neither of you are truly at peace without the other, and so it should not matter what roof shelters you, for you will always shelter each other.

‘Goddammit, Mark,’ you laugh, pressing your face into his shoulder.

‘What now?’

‘You got me so emotional, I’m considering the brass knobs.’