#vintage gothic large

[fowlershow]

Eclectic Dining Room Chicago Inspiration for a large, eclectic dining room remodel with black walls and a beige floor.

[valaaia]

Eclectic Dining Room - Enclosed An illustration of a sizable eclectic dining room with black walls and a beige floor.

[blast-door]

Chicago Eclectic Dining Room Large eclectic enclosed dining room with a light wood floor and a beige floor, with black walls.

[sacrificial1-lamb]

a study on american fields

Large format 4x5 color film

[greenacademian]

I find stained glass to be so elegant. The many colors used, all the different shapes within a single piece, and the stories that can be told. I absolutely adore them…

[lumenniveus]

Calling all wild witches and handsome devils: it's time to rock 'n roll.

Hey, you, wake up a new CC set just dropped! This time @mellosakicc joined me and threw in some very wicked cool goodies for you. Everything is Base Game Compatible and optimized for potato computers. Go and build your slightly haunted Memphis studio apartments.

But only after you downloaded our small tribute here: MERGED ZIP

Alternative DL on Google Drive🔗

Update: This set is making it into TS2! Well, kinda? I hope so. I'll update this if more gets converted. (pls, someone, I also don't have the know-how!)

@grilledcheese-aspiration did a stellar job porting the really pretty clutter over [Link] I love how the Belladonna looks nicer in the older game

Mid-Century's elegance meets Gothic Kitsch in Rituals, a 50 asset large set full of stuff for your living, dining and bedrooms. Every object was lovingly (help me) hand painted by yours truly (pain... the pain...!) and I hope you have as much fun playing with it as I had making it!

Read more and get a preview below the cut

As usual, here's the catalogue of the entire thing

And an unedited in-game screenshot

Highlights of this set include:

a very modular set of curtains

3D wall paneling

a vanity table

a canopy bed

vintage electronics

lots of references for you to find

buy and build items ( these walls and floors are included, yes)

I playtest to my absolute limit, but I'm a one-man-team so if you end up finding bugs I missed, please send me an ask or comment on this post. That way it gets fixed asap.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This incredible 1879 Victorian in Little Falls, NY would be over a $1M anywhere else. This is a bargain - 8bds, 3ba, $550K (cut $199K, b/c it hasn't sold- I posted it once before).

This entrance alone. Look at the tile on the outside, the wood on the interior. This wood is magnificent.

Original stairs and look at the etched glass in that door.

Look at the gothic feature over this fireplace. There are paintings on the side panels- incredible. The details in this home are stunning.

This sitting room is nice and light. Fancy gold ceiling detail.

The dining room is incredible- look at the walls, the fireplace, the wainscoting- is that another fireplace in the corner? Gorgeous wood ceiling, inlaid floors, this room is absolutely magnificent.

In the kitchen, they combined old and new. They made it light and cheerful, but look at the original stove. Amazing.

Beautiful original pantry. Wow.

Stained glass window and more gorgeous woodwork going up the stairs.

This large bedroom has plenty of room for 2 fireside chairs.

And, typical of Victorians, it still has the original sink in the room.

Lovely room with the typical bedroom fireplace. They usually have this exact same one in all the upstairs Victorian bedrooms.

Beautiful bedroom with an alcove.

Wonderful vintage bath. Look at the tub- definitely original.

Bath #2 was completely modernized. Love the pedestal sink and floor tiles.

Stairs to the 3rd level.

The upper bedrooms are pretty nice.

They're a little darker, but very Victorian.

Here's a cute attic sitting room.

And, the 3rd bath is up here. This is so vintage- look at the sink.

Look at that- it has a large sun room, too.

I wish that they would've shown the inside of the fabulous carriage house. This home is so worth the price.

0.37 Acre lot

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/553-Garden-St-Little-Falls-NY-13365/30515833_zpid/?

[ultravi0lence14]

GROTESQUE GARDENING

DEAN WINCHESTER X DEMON!READER

WARNINGS: gory details, descriptions of violence, bloody fluff

SUMMARY: what does his little monster do all day? that’s what dean asks himself regularly. well, he finally decided to figure it out

WC: 1.5k

LITTLE MONSTER’S CABINET OF CURIOSITIES

the haunting sound of vinyl singing through the open mouth of a gramophone rings throughout the bunker, alerting dean in his own room just a wall away from yours. your music rattled through dean’s bones like a chill, dark and deep wordless tunes that sounded as though they should be played in dracula’s castle. it was very you, and dean found a thrumming vessel inside of him that didn’t mind the noise.

his little monster, the demon who was feared by her own kind. you were unique in your own, a bone chilling waltz of macabre and bloodshed. yet dean loved you exactly how you were. yeah, some of your hobbies and interests were a little creepy and messy, but it made you happy, so why should he complain?

though as he laid in bed, the gothic noises from your room made him start to wonder; what do you do all day?

it was a fair question. when you weren’t with the brothers, killing supernatural creatures, or hanging onto dean’s side, he never really knew where you went off to. all he knew is that you usually came back covered in dirt or blood, hands a mess as you carried jars filled with various critters and insects.

his curiosity peaked further as he heard a faint hum from the other side of his wall, a melodic sound that was far too concentrated for you to be doing nothing. with a huff, dean’s sock clad feet hit the cold floor, black sweatpants swaying with his movements as he took the short walk from his room to your peculiar emporium.

the door was slightly cracked, and as dean peaked his head inside, it was like he entered a dark and eerie world. shadow boxes filled with taxidermies of insects such as spiders, butterflies, and moths filled your room, their sullen and piercing eyes staring back at dean with no emotion. your bed was harrowing in the room, a large figure of black velvet headboards and dark purple sheets. it was fit for the bride of grim, which to dean, you were.

the dark, moody gray of your walls contrasted with all the antique and barbarous trinkets on your desk and other flat surfaces. yet somehow, dean’s eyes couldn’t stray away from you.

your back was facing him as you hunched over your desk, bare feet kicking back and forth as you examined the insides of some animal. you had on a mid length black skirt, lace designs up the fabric that had dean drawn to the expanse of your legs. a black corset top resided on your upper half, your pale arms and collarbone blinding as dean allowed his greedy stare to encompass you.

your hair was twisted in two messy space buns at the nape of your neck, not allowing your ivory hair of raven cover the plethora of vintage necklaces around your throat.

the dead craved to touch you. a swirl of beauty wrapped in dead flowers that crawled with moths. dean was so hypnotized by you, so enthralled with your unique and effortless beauty, that he didn’t even notice you staring at him. a delightful smile was plastered on your face, and you shyly dropped your scalpel before fully turning to dean.

“hey, angel.” you called to him, using the nickname that was reserved to only come from your lips. the black stool scrapped out beneath you as your feet made their way over to where dean stood, wrapping your arms around his neck. “what’s up?”

the gothic revival singing through your vinyl, mixed in with the soft and quiet cadence of your voice, created a dark and beautiful melodic waltz that had dean drawing in closer to you. his lips briefly brushed your forehead, your scent of black dahlia’s wafting through his nose before he returned your question.

“wanted to be with you, little monster.” he grinned, bringing a hand up to swipe at your deep coloured lips. “want to see what you do when i’m not around.”

your face shadows like a finished eclipse, the dark confines of your face turning bright as you beam up at dean. the skeletal bones of your fingers clutched tighter to the nape of dean’s neck, pulling yourself up on your tippy toes so you could put your face right in front of his. “really? don’t you think my hobbies are gross?”

dean just chuckles, blinking as your eyelashes flutter against his. “yeah, sometimes. but i love all of you, baby. wanna show you that.”

the only indication that you were excited about the adventures the day held was the bounce in the balls of your feet, your face going closer and closer to dean’s before you pecked his eyelid and scurried over to your closet.

“i’m just gonna quickly grab my coat and then we can go!”

“don’t forget those pretty rain boots i bought you, little monster!”

the sloshy sounds of mud squelching beneath shoes was all to be heard in the solemn and barren graveyard. dean walked a little ways behind you as your head turned from side to side in eager movements, black trench coat swaying behind you as you moved.

your black rain boots were already caked in mud, and dean was glad that you listened to him and put them on. you had a tendency to go out barefoot, and dean didn’t want to have to clean your mud tracks in the bunker.

a grim fairytale made to walk through the dead and decaying; that’s what you were to dean. you looked so in your element, hands and knees stained in mud as you bent down to dig through the piles for insects. you had a little black bag slung over your shoulder, and it was filled to the brim with jars so you could bring your little findings home with you.

dean didn’t say a word, just followed you around as a dog would with their owner. he watched in awe as you worked, slowly shifting through different area’s of the burial grounds and allowing the little critters to squirm and wiggle around in your palms when you found one interesting.

you were a black swan; so pretty yet so dark in your own, enchanting ways. you owned who you were, and you didn’t really mind if anyone gave you weird stares for how you dressed or acted. you’re a demon for christ’s sake, though your reserved and shy attitude wouldn’t allude to that at all.

skies above dropped little pellets of rain down on you and dean, drizzling around you two while the groggy and fog filled atmosphere added to the macabre feeling in the air. this was your element, and dean could easily see that as your hands and clothes grew more and more muddy.

dean watched as you got down on your knees, mud smearing across your skirt as your hunched over frame dug and dug through the soupy material. “you making potions over there, baby?” dean joked, legs moving him closer towards you so he could loom over your shoulder.

you just scoffed, hands still rapidly clawing through the mud that started caking beneath your fingernails. “i’m trying to find a certain type of spider dean. they usually can be found around area’s like this.”

the man in question just laughed, head leaning down so he could press a chaste kiss on the crown of yours. he watched for a couple more minutes as your skeletal fingers dug through the earth, quiet hums of gothic songs and low grunts when you didn’t find what you were looking for.

like a ravened crow in a medieval jack in the box, you sprung up from your kneeled position, leaving the dirt piles behind and high tailing it to the closest mausoleum. dean’s brows furrowed as he slowly followed behind you, listening to the ancient creak of metal squealing open when you entered the decrepit tomb. his head peaked in behind you, the damp and stale air hitting his nostrils as he watched you flounce around like a deathly woman on an even deadlier mission.

“whatcha doin’ baby?” dean singsonged, listening to your rain boots scuttle around the floor as you looked for something specific.

a frazzled expression grew in your hellfire eyes, and dean was worried your head was going to explode. “spiders dean! i need to find spiders!” your words were so jumbled, dean didn’t even know if this was his raven queen talking back to him. “this specific specie of spider rests around graveyards, but i know they also dwell in dark spaces.”

dean just laughed, shaking his head at his bloody girl running around a mausoleum, trying to find spiders.

“what’s so important about these spiders?” he questioned, watching intently as you stopped and turned to look at him with wide eyes. “what’s so important?” you reflected, hair swaying above your neck as your head shook at the movement of your surprise. “i need them to finish my collection dean! if i don’t, what am i going to put over my bed?”

you were such an enigma; a dark and beautiful living dead. no one would expect you and dean to work together, but you did. and even now, as he stood at the doorway of an old mausoleum, watching as his girl ran around trying to collect spiders, he knew that his life would never be the same if he hadn’t met his little monster.

TAGS: @starzify @floralscented @deansbeer @bluemerakis @figthoughts @foolinthera1n @haunteres @vaiieydoii

NAT BABBLES: didn’t want to make this one too long but here’s @titsout4jackles & i’s little monster again!! we’ve come up with so many scenarios for her it isn’t even funny!!

DIVIDER CREDS TO BREE!!

[darkccfinds]

⸸ Stranglethorn Manor by Syren [the13thsim] ⸸ Resurrected Link ⸸

[…]

Stranglethorn Manor, the first piece in the "Why wait for Halloween?" theme. As with every residence in this theme, this lot comes complete with those special, mostly-see-through occupants to make everything a bit more fun and lively. list of all CC used in this creation. Please note that this is one of the primary lots in this theme so the CC list is rather large. Sorry Outdoor: Ghastly Graves by Cyclonesue Coffin by Sugar-Baby Cat Sculpture by Sugar-Baby Barrel by MK Sims Stuff Happy Halloween Pumpkin Garden by Apple Zombie conversion by Infusorian Stuff Halloween Set by SimsLulamai Silent Hill Conversions Fallout 3 Conversions Club Crimsyn Scarecrow Club Crimsyn Jack-o-Lantern by Vita Sims 3 Dead Tree by Sim_man123 TSR Magic Item Conversions by Nukael Water Pump by Cyclonesue Old Mower by Cyclonesue Ancient Fountain by silverfox Ancient Transport Urn Sculpture conversion by TheJim07 Indoor: Old Sea Chest by Cazarupt Lucca Kitchen Island by Angela Cast Away Military Office Bookcase Club Crimsyn MK Romance Room Books Nottingham Living by AnoeskaB Single Rose conversion by Purplepaws Poor and Happy Set by Cemre Lovely Clutter by Babayaga Liams Corner Dining Table by Angela ATS Gardening Crates (table) Gothic Lighting by SimsDesignAvenue Crystal Ball, Corner Curtain, & Tarot Cards by Lit Sims Stuff Violin Clutter Club Crimsyn Dexter the Bear by Ani_ Concinnity: Fireplace by Sasilia Resurrect-o-Nomitron by EsmeraldaF Pictures and Books by Elenka Balda from SimsTrastos Medieval Dining Chair conversion by EsmeraldaF Arcan Endtable by SimsDesignAvenue Treasure Box by treeag Awesims Mid/Mod Bath Shower, Sink, & Shower Curtain Farming Bucket by AnoeskaB Bordeaux bathroom towel Bordeaux bathroom mirror Bordeaux bathroom accessories Bathroom hamper by MangoSims Latis Hallway Coatrack by Angela Mistral curtains by Mutske Grunge Mirrors by Cyclonesue Nola Bathroom Towelrack by Angela Tradewinds Whicker Box by RicciNumbers Broken World objects by Skeletal Screams Grungy Object meshes by DaveyDaVinci 1959 Remastered Walls Tilsia Diningtable by Mutske Industrial Sink by eryt96 Bannerobjects Shelf with paintings by Sasilia Stove (Cocina) by SimsLulamai Herritage Kitchen Refridgerator by RicciNumbers Crooked Outhouse Door (1 tile) by Cyclonesue bbb Colonial Loveseat Elevated Train Shelf: Derailed with 3 Slots by cmomoney Locked Chest by lemoncandy PBLiving Frames by Shino&KCR Alice Wall Decor (Club and Heart) by Cyclonesue Regatta Bedroom set Desk, Endtable, & Wall Mirror by VitaSims MK Romance room pen & paper Broken old dining chair by Cyclonesue Urban Kitchen Herb by RicciNumbers Weapon's System Pistol by desecrate Guitar Case by Martine MK Stuff Tavern Goblet Romance dining set mirror by VitaSims Nuelle Towel & Paper by desdren BASIKA Bathroom decorative towels by SimsDesignAvenue Gaby Bedroom Console by SimsDesignAvenue MONTECITO Double bed by VitaSims Boah Floor Pillow by nanu MK Stuff Tailoring Dummy Sculpture Romantic Teenroom Armoire by Angela VENETIANS BEDROOM round stool by VitaSims BV Endless Suitcases GoS Vintage Books by Aikea Guinea

[heylittleriotact]

To Die as Lovers May - Chapter 2

A year after the defeat of the Elvhen gods and the salvation of Thedas, Emmrich and Amina are engaged and living happily in the Necropolis, serving the Watch and planning their upcoming wedding. All is well in their respective worlds until they stumble upon an ancient monster deep in the Necropolis, and Amina begins to feel unwell. Thus begins their adventure to find a cure for vampirism - all while juggling the new day-to-day reality of Amina's condition, and Emmrich's own struggle with the fact that his beloved has been unwittingly granted the immortality he has longed for his entire life - and she wants nothing more than to relinquish it.

Let's lean hard into gothic romance, shall we? We're talking dark, sexy, moody, and beautiful. These two were made for it.

“Are you quite certain you’re feeling all right, darling? You’ve barely touched your dinner.” 

Amina nudged a chunk of roasted sweet potato on her plate with her fork. “Hm? Oh, yes I’m fine, Emmrich. Just a little tired. I feel much better though now, thanks to you.” 

Emmrich wasted no time ordering Amina out of her armour and onto their bed when they returned to their apartment. As much as the idea of being told to strip down and get into bed by Emmrich was traditionally one that made her stomach flutter, in this case she rather sulkily obeyed, pouting the entire time she peeled off her armour and Emmrich fetched his kit of medical supplies. 

The gash on her head posed no trouble to him, nor did the large bruise that had begun darkening the left side of her face. The bite wound on her neck, however, turned out to be curiously resistant to healing. Emmrich had said he’d never seen a wound like it before, and was only able to heal it halfway before he needed to rest for a time. 

Amina knew he was trying to appear studiously unperturbed by the mysterious nature of the injury in an attempt to save her from worrying, but she knew Emmrich - knew that furrowed gaze and the way his mouth quirked to the right when he was completely tangled up in something. He’d insisted on checking on it no fewer than three times as they prepared dinner together, lifting the square of dressing he’d placed over it to keep the open wound clean and surveying it for any signs of improvement - or deterioration. 

He posited that it was possible the teeth or saliva of creature they’d fought in the catacombs possessed venomous qualities designed to inhibit the healing process, and once again asked Amina if he could please just take her to the infirmary and have a matron look her over to put his mind at ease. 

The rest under the cut or on ao3

‘I’m not hauling my sore bones all the way to the infirmary to be told to strip down, wait in a cramped room for an hour in my smalls, and then told that I’m having a slight reaction but I’ll be fine with a good night’s sleep and plenty of fluids,’ she’d argued. ’If it gets worse overnight, I’ll stop in and see someone on our way back from our chat with Myrna and Vorgoth tomorrow.’

She didn’t like saying no to him, especially after the nearly disastrous outcome of their venture to the lower levels, but she wanted to take the evening to lick her wounds in private before facing the surely embarrassing quantity of questions Myrna would have, and the inevitably astute suggestion from Vorgoth that their close call could have been avoided had proper protocol been followed in the first place. You know… like she wasn’t Amina Ingellvar, the Watcher that was temporarily exiled from the order that other time for refusing to follow the strictly enforced procedures of the Mourn Watch.

He agreed - grudgingly - but only on the condition that Amina alert him if she felt anything out of the norm. 

She swirled her glass of wine and took a sip of the garnet vintage, wrinkling her nose as it washed over her tongue, a biting, vinegary taste lingering and then morphing into something eggy and sulfurous after she swallowed. “I think this wine is corked, does it taste off to you?” 

Emmrich frowned at his own glass and took a sip, let the wine play over his tongue, swallowed, and said, “It tastes fine to me, dear.” 

“Really? Perhaps I’m just not in the mood for wine after today.” She slid the glass away from herself, unable to get the bitter scent of it out of her nose: it smelled as bad as it tasted - how was Emmrich enjoying this?

They finished dinner in lethargic silence - it wasn’t tense or awkward: sometimes they just didn’t have anything to talk about and no call to fill the emptiness with forced conversation. It spoke to the ease of their partnership: the ability to just exist in the same space together without feeling compelled to fill the space for the sake of filling it. 

She excused herself from the table to draw a bath. “I’ll clear away the dishes later, love. I just need a hot soak to ward off the chill of being so deep today.” 

It was widely accepted that the Necropolis had a tendency to steal the warmth from your very bones the further you plunged into its incalculable levels - nothing about the cold that dogged her since they returned home was particularly out of place, but she longed for the comforting heat of water scented with relaxing oils, and the soothing caress of steam curling around her face as she inhaled the warm humid air that would thaw her from the inside out. She’d cleaned the gore from her face and hair earlier, but the horror of what they’d encountered still clung to her, hanging around her head like a miasma. 

“Would you care for company, dear?” It wasn’t that he wasn’t genuinely interested in joining her, she knew that - but he was almost certainly asking in this case because he wanted to keep his eyes on her.

“No, no - just make yourself comfortable, love. I’m sure Manfred would like to tell you all about his day. Why don’t you go check in on him?” He was currently in his room, studying, but Amina knew their skeletal ward was chomping at the bit to tell Emmrich everything he’d learned that day - he had been so worried about Amina that he hadn’t had his regular end-of-day chat with Manfred, and she would hate for the lad to feel neglected.

Her fingers tightened on the back of her chair when her vision went hazy and she felt strangely disconnected from herself. 

“Darling?” Emmrich’s voice was distant, as though he was speaking to her through a wall.

“I’m fine.” Her vision cleared and feeling returned to her, but she felt colder still than she had moments earlier: she could feel her skin prickling with goose flesh. “Just stood up too quickly.” She smiled at Emmrich in an attempt to reassure him. “Please stop fretting, love. It’s been a long day for both of us: you need to relax too.” 

His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “Yes, dear, but—“

“‘Yes dear’ — that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” She rounded the small ebony dining table and took his face in her hands, standing on her toes and brushing her lips against the tip of his nose before kissing him properly - deeply. “Leave the dishes - I’ll see to them after, and then perhaps if you’re still up for it and aren’t too upset with me, we can turn our minds to my earlier suggestion…” Her hand drifted from his smooth cheek and skimmed down between them coming to rest between his legs to underscore her implication. 

He made a soft, muffled sound and his fingers wrapped around her wrist as his other hand squeezed a handful of her rear. He stooped slightly, bringing his lips close to her ear so she could clearly hear him when he whispered, “We shall have to see about that, won’t we? You have been rather naughty today…”

Amina let out a small squeak at the innuendo laced through his tone; the heat of his breath as it danced over her chilled ear; and the awareness of him beginning to harden under her hand. 

“Dammit Emmrich,” she breathed, massaging him through his pants, eyes locked on his, noting the sly, clever smile playing around his lips. 

“Go have your bath, dearest, and we’ll discuss your proposition afterwards.” He pulled her hand away from his crotch and maneuvered her around so she was facing the hallway. “Off you go,” he bid her with a firm swat to her backside. 

“I won’t be long,” she promised, looking over her shoulder at him as she exited the dining room. She reappeared around the doorframe a moment after walking through it. “I love you, Emmrich.”

Oh and how she meant it. He looked so perfectly wonderful standing there by the dining table, his eyes soft and affectionate, his cock half-hard, bulging through his trousers as he scooped up his wine glass and drained it, his Adam’s Apple bobbing.

“I love you too, dear. Take as long as you need - I’m not going anywhere.” 

She shivered in the bathwater, turning the image of the horror they had fought in the tomb over in her mind.

She’d never seen anything like it - never fought anything like it. It wasn’t darkspawn, it wasn’t a maligned spirit given physical form; nor was it a possessed corpse. 

It had no aura.

Everything had an aura, right down to the little snails - no bigger than an apple seed - that lived on the sides of the rocks of the little stream that ran behind Reda’s house. 

That thing though… it was surrounded by blatant, vacuous nothing. Sheer entropy. As though what aura it might have had was gobbled up by its existence alone.

And Emmrich was just as baffled by it as she was. He knew things about the Necropolis, history and secrets he had literally filled books with. How could it be that he hadn’t even heard so much as a whisper of the existence of such a creature in all his years of communing with the dead? 

Her stomach grumbled insistently under the water, and a pang of hunger followed: she hadn’t finished her dinner. Sweet peppers stuffed with beans and rice was her favourite comfort meal, and Emmrich’s spiced, roasted sweet potato was a household staple, but she couldn’t bring herself to clear her plate tonight, and the few bites she’d had weren’t sitting well in her belly. Too tired, she supposed, for such a rich meal. She'd pay for it in the morning when she woke, shaky and sluggish… especially after the amount of energy she’d expended today. 

Perhaps she’d snack on some veggies and nuts before bed to tide herself over till morning, but first…

She bent her knees and slid her back further down into the black marble bathtub, submerging herself deeper into the heat of the nearly scalding water as she tried to ward the annoyingly persistent chill from her marrow - it wasn’t usually so difficult to warm up after a day in the lower levels. Perhaps she was fighting off the beginnings of a bout of sickness - that was the last thing she needed: Emmrich having kittens over achy muscles and a runny nose. 

It wasn’t that she resented him for his concern for her wellbeing - she loved it, actually: he had a way of making her feel seen and valued that no one else ever had - but at times she suspected that he used his seemingly boundless compassion for others as a bulwark to shield himself from facing the realities of his own fears and insecurities. An effective solution, really: one couldn’t be expected to confront their own problems when they were endlessly occupied with altruistically shouldering the burdens of others who were also struggling…

Despite this suspicion, he was well within his rights to be cross with her after the events of the day, likely because he knew just as well as she that had she possessed the ability to do so, she would have disabled those wards on her own the day before and encountered that thing by herself, and the odds of her surviving alone wouldn’t have been nearly as good as her surviving with Emmrich.

She drew a deep breath and clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Steam wafted over the surface of the lavender scented water, but she still felt so bloody cold…

If she was getting sick she was going to be furious - she didn’t have time right now to be laid up in bed for days. She had work to do, a wedding to plan… a fiancé to make love to. They were going on that trip to Orlais, and they had hired a dancing instructor because Amina wanted to learn how to waltz properly for their first dance, and she had a dress fitting next week, and - and, and, and…

She cursed softly and dragged her wet hands through her damp hair, startling herself with how warm they felt against her forehead and her scalp after being submerged for as long as they had. She pressed her palms to her cheeks and frowned at the curious sensation of her body parts being so intensely different in temperature. 

She heaved a sigh, acknowledging the growing tightness in her chest, and the feeling of her heart beginning to race, pumping aggressively to circulate blood through her circulatory system and fight off whatever illness was coursing through her veins. 

“I’m definitely getting sick,” she murmured to nobody, disappointment weighing down each word. “Just my luck.” She toed the brass faucet and hot water began flowing from the tap again as she slipped further into the water, leaving only her face above the surface now as water rushed into the tub and her straight black hair drifted whimsically around her head making her look like a nymph from a fairytale, wild and free. 

Her stomach made another protestation that she could feel but not hear over the sound of the water, and she closed her eyes, giving herself to the peace of her surroundings and quiet, empty thoughts. 

He’d never lived with a partner before Amina, but they had combined their lives with nearly effortless ease following the defeat of Elgar’nan and their return to the Necropolis. 

They meshed well into one another’s space and routines, encountering very little friction in the initial weeks of acclimating to their new arrangement. 

Because of this, Emmrich didn’t feel pressed to check in on Amina during her bath: he picked up early on that the time she spent in the bath was not solely to maintain good personal hygiene, but it was akin to a ritual - sacrosanct and deliberate - where she recalibrated her balance and grounded herself, washing away the filth and grime that clung to her soul after she opened herself to the brutal and jarring emotions that she drew upon to channel her powers as a Reaper. 

Also, she liked to smell nice.

It was her space - her time. For him to impose himself upon it would be unkind. 

So he caught up with Manfred for the better part of an hour as Amina had suggested, sitting on a stool beside him in his bedroom and listening patiently as Manfred read back his notes on Transversal Atmospheric Anomalies, unable to keep the beaming pride from his face as his - their - ward recited what he had written himself today with only occasional assistance from Emmrich in matters of pronunciation. He had come so far in such a short time: it was remarkable that just over a year earlier he had begun to speak, and now he could carry on proper - albeit brief - conversations. Every day he learned more, became a bit more… surprised Emmrich more than he thought possible. 

“Where’s Rook?” He looked from his untidily scrawled notes - penmanship was an ongoing study - to Emmrich, his ever-grinning visage curious and benign.

“She’s having a bath. Now, I see you’ve written ‘unbalanse’ here when you clearly intended to write ‘imbalance’ - so let’s try and spell it out together shall we—?”

But Manfred was no longer paying attention to his notes: he was looking over Emmrich’s shoulder, into the hallway. 

“Puddle!” He exclaimed giddily, pointing a gloved finger. “Inside-rain!” 

“Dear me, Manfred - you didn’t make it rain in the house again, did you?” Emmrich twisted in his seat to look at where Manfred was pointing, fully prepared to lecture the neophyte mage once more on the discretion one must use when utilizing elemental magicks indoors, but the words died in his throat at the sight of the slowly spreading pool of water seeping from under the closed door of the bathroom, advancing over the dark wooden floor. “Stay here, Manfred,” he instructed, hoping he sounded calm, but knowing the icy terror flooding through him had robbed him of any of the authority he could normally call upon with such ease. 

He darted from his seat, the stool toppling behind him, crossing Manfred’s room in two long strides, his bare feet splashing through the warm water that continued to seep from under the door. 

The door was unlocked - Amina knew she had no need to lock it to guarantee her privacy - and he flung it open, slipping over the threshold with the urgency of his momentum. 

“Darling—?”

He was met with the sight of the black marble bathtub built into the wall opposite him, overflowing, water still cascading from the brass faucet.

He might have shouted her name when he realized he couldn’t see her in the bath, and he slipped on the slick stone floor, falling to one knee when he surged forward. 

No, no, no…

Clothes drenched, he clamoured gracelessly over the floor and closed the distance between himself and the tub, gripping the sharp stone edge and hauling himself up, a wail of absolute horror tearing  from him at the sight that met his eyes: Amina laying on the floor of the tub, her creamy skin standing in morbid contrast against the backdrop of black, her dark hair almost indiscernible as it drifted placidly around her still face, her wide gaping eyes, and slightly open mouth: a peaceful mockery of the sheer panic that had overtaken him.

“No!” Emmrich choked, voice breaking in that single syllable, arms plunging into the water. “No-no-no-no… no, please… no, Amina—“ Her skin under his fingers was the same temperature as the tepid water that surrounded her, and he hauled her from the tub, yanking her sodden, lifeless weight over the side and onto the floor. 

A mortified sob fell from his lips as water sloshed over the edge of the tub, washing over them both; landing in her open mouth and splattering over her limp form as her uncannily empty green eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. 

Having seen enough death to know better, he still jammed his index and middle finger against her carotid artery, then the radial, brachial, femoral, popliteal - even the dorsalis pedis and posterior tibial. 

Utter, damning stillness met his fingertips in every location that should bear a pulse. 

Refusing to accept this confirmation of her death, he let her waterlogged ankle slip from his grip - it fell to the floor with a wet thud - and lifted his hands, parting the Veil and drawing on the Fade, channeling decades of skill and mastery into what he knew was a potent spell that could drag a person back from the threshold of death if too much time had not elapsed since their demise - a maximum of a few minutes at most. 

He speared the magic through her, directly into her chest where her heart lay, not bothering with typical conventions of propriety or gentle bedside manner: he needed this to work and he needed it to work now. 

Her bare chest arced upwards at the impact of the brilliant green light, and as wisps of necrotic shadow dispersed and faded, Emmrich’s anguished scream reverberated around the smooth walls of the bathroom when it became clear that the magic had failed and his beloved remained still and empty, the glorious temple of her body macabre in its unnatural, unholy silence. 

His fingers curled around her upper arms and he shook her, sobbing her name, beseeching her uselessly for a response that would never come. 

“Please darling, please…” He found the base of her skull and tilted her chin to the ceiling, stabilizing his other hand on her forehead and pinching her nose shut before inhaling deeply and clamping his mouth over hers, sending his breath into her water-logged lungs in a frantic attempt to impart vital oxygen to her. He repeated this a few more times before clasping his hands over the middle of her chest and leaning over her, bracing his elbows and compressing abruptly, again and again and again, his hands slipping over her wet skin, hot tears dripping down his nose and splashing onto her naked abdomen as he attempted to mechanically will life back into her body if magic wouldn’t do it. 

Water burbled out of her mouth, accompanied by chunks of her paltry meal that evening. It dribbled down her chin and clung to her skin, and he tilted her head to the side as he continued compressing her chest with enough force that he heard cartilage pop under his thrusts - felt ribs crack. 

“Don’t leave me,” he pleaded, hardly able to see her through the tears obscuring his vision.

He was distantly aware of Manfred standing behind him, peering over his shoulder politely, drawn by the unexpected cacophony.

He breathed into her again, uncaring of the rush of water and sick that purged past her lips against his.  

He screamed her name, pleading for her to return, not with his magic, but his very soul. He could not - would not - attempt his Corpse Whispering on her, because that would require accepting that she was gone.

He pumped her chest until he physically couldn’t anymore, and collapsed in a heap on top of her, cradling her against him, twining his fingers through her heavy, wet hair and stroking her cold, lifeless cheek. 

“I need you, Amina…” he wept against her cool skin, uncaring of the water that continued to pool around them, flooding outwards into the apartment. He rocked on his knees, removed from himself, fully and completely at the mercy of grief and horror. 

“I love you.” He squeezed her tightly against him and more water poured from her mouth that lolled open grotesquely. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he chanted brokenly, as if the words might undo what had been done. 

Even despite the rushing water and the steady trickle of it cascading over the edge of the tub, there was a particular brand of silence that was dominating this space, weighing on it - crushing it in its immense gravity as Emmrich cried over the corpse of his beloved.

What would he do? Who would he alert first to this tragedy? Could anything else be done? Surely the sacrifices she made to save the world from the gods merited special consideration. Someone could… they should—

He yelped when cold fingers gripped his wet shirt and Amina’s body spasmed, going rigid for a moment, her eyes blinking once, twice, as the perceiving spark of cognizance returned to them and her jaw worked soundlessly, struggling to speak through the deluge of water that spewed forth from her lungs. 

His heart leapt in his chest: she was alive - by some incredible miracle she was alive despite her lack of a pulse, the water she’d inhaled, and the not insignificant amount of time she had been at the bottom of the bathtub.

Remarkable.

He helped her lean forward so she could continue retching up stream after stream of water, holding her dark hair from her face even though he knew there was little point in it - the fact he was able to mentally function at all was a miracle too.

When she was done, Amina shuddered intensely and collapsed back into his arms, voice weak as she croaked out his name through ravaged vocal cords. 

“W-what happened?” She rasped, pressing her cold body against him, seeming to almost subconsciously seek his heat as she wrapped herself around him, uncaring of her nakedness. “I m-must have drifted off… and I woke up to you c-crying, and— wh-why is the floor all w-wet?” 

Her teeth chattered together violently between words, and he could feel her shivering against him - partly from adrenaline, surely, but he could feel her through the wet material of his clothing, and he had never felt anyone so cold - no one living, at least. 

He leaned back on one hand and tilted her chin up from where she had buried her face in his chest to get a better look at her, knowing at once that even though she was conscious again, something was not right: her lips were bloodless and blue, the biggest giveaway that her circulatory system was not adequately managing her internal temperature. Her skin, exceptionally pale to begin with, seemed to have lost any colour that it had, leaving it with a semi-translucent, milky, opalescent appearance. 

“Emmrich?” 

And her eyes… those lively celedon orbs, now made different - an anemic, sickly green almost as void of pigment as her skin - haunting by their very existence and the fact that they had replaced the eyes he had come to know so intimately.

“Emmrich,” she repeated, panic edging into her hoarse voice when he continued to stare down at her, unable to speak because he was desperately trying to comprehend what was going on. “Why were you crying?” It wasn’t a question: it was a demand.

His hand drifted from the smooth, cold surface of her cheek, over her jaw, and past her throat, coming to rest just to the right of her windpipe, index and middle finger pressed flat against the place where her pulse should be.

Should be.

With a gasp he drew his hand away, letting it fall to his side as confirmed fact and direct contradiction collided, refuting and simultaneously verifying the evidence before him. 

Amina was still staring at him expectantly, pleading silently for an answer with those strange eyes of hers. 

Emmrich’s voice shook when he finally tried to say what he never in his wildest dreams imagined he’d be saying. He took her icy hands in his, squeezing them gently in some foolish hope that the simple action would soften the reality of his next words.

“I was crying because…” He faltered, tried again. “Because you are dead, darling.”

[aneurinallday]

The Elster Man

The antique shop on Allenbrought Street was, to me, the most magical place in the world. Even though it was the first paying job I’d managed to get after university, I was in no particular rush to move on - it was preferable to the waitressing job I’d had at school, and it appealed to my love of the vintage and forgotten. For as long as I could remember, I’d been fascinated by the concept of antiques, so this was the closest I thought I would ever come to a dream job.

I’d only been working there for about six months, but to me, the shop had become a safe haven - a secret hideaway, where I could curl up with a blanket and a cup of tea, and lose myself in a Georgian adventure or a Gothic romance, while the minimum wage trickled into my pocket. The ticking of the grandfather clock was like a lullaby to me, and sometimes I would doze off with the book in my hands, until being woken by the sound of the bell above the door, signalling a customer’s entrance.

My life changed on a Monday afternoon - always the quietest time for our shop, since people were too busy with work or school to come and gawk at antiques. The owner was sick, so it was just me: the only employee, diligently manning the till, sweeping the floor, and dusting the shelves. I’d only had two customers that day - an old man searching for photo albums or soldiers’ diaries from the Second World War, and an elderly woman looking for vintage ornaments - but I didn’t mind. I liked the peace and quiet.

As I pottered around the shop, I was struck, as I often was, by the cosy, cluttered charm of the place. The shelves were stacked high with a beautiful chaos of miscellany - ballerina music-boxes, candlesticks, lampshades, silverware, egg cups, biscuit tins - while the walls were hung with framed photographs and wooden cuckoo clocks.

Sitting on chairs were stuffed animals with button eyes and porcelain dolls with real human hair, and looming over everything was a large, ornately carved grandfather clock, whose pendulum swung to and fro almost hypnotically. Every object had been crafted by skilful hands, whose owners were long-dead; and I took my role seriously as the caretaker of their legacies.

I finished rearranging a teapot, teacups, and saucers on a tray, then looked around for something else to do. I took advantage of the down-time to start unpacking a delivery we’d received the previous Friday: several beat-up cardboard boxes of items from Elster House, an eighteenth century manor-house somewhere in the south.

In order to fund the upkeep of the twenty-bedroom, twelve-bathroom mansion, the aristocrat who lived there was in the process of converting it from a private residence into a public attraction. Tourists and history buffs would come flocking to admire the topiary and old paintings, and hopefully leave a few coins in the donation box. But first, the attics needed to be cleared out.

And so here I was, kneeling on the floor, elbow-deep in a cardboard box stuffed with old bits-and-bobs, sorting the tat from the treasures.

Porcelain figurines of blushing cherubs and graceful Regency ladies gazed down at me as I worked. With a keen eye, I inspected each piece closely, looking for any scratches, scuffs, or discolouration that might decrease their value. I set aside a gilded snuff-box, and my gaze fell upon a rectangular tin at the bottom of the pile.

It wasn’t an antique, but a fairly modern storage tin, maybe from the 1970s or 1980s, painted with a rather gaudy floral design. It looked out-of-place among its Victorian companions.

I picked it up, and turned it around several times to admire the pattern. Then I attempted to open it, struggling to dig my fingernails under the lid. Gritting my teeth, I exerted more pressure. The lid finally gave up with a wheeze of escaping air, and the contents were revealed: a mess of old photographs, grey or sepia-toned, unmistakeably and authentically Victorian.

I scrambled to my feet, wincing as my stiff knees protested. I hurried to fetch a pair of cotton gloves, specially bought for protecting old, fragile documents from skin oils. Hastening back to the box, I sat cross-legged, put on my gloves, and reached into the tin.

The first photo I picked up was an unremarkable portrait. A young man sitting in a chair, wearing full Victorian garb, staring off into the distance in an aloof, regal fashion. His expression was dignified and stoic, his pose statue-like. When Louis Daguerre had succeeded in reducing a camera’s exposure time from hours to minutes, the popularity of portraiture had exploded; but having one’s photograph taken had remained a serious event, and smiling hadn’t yet become acceptable.

I peered more closely at the faded image. The man was strikingly handsome, in an angular and somewhat haunted way, his dark hair slicked with pomade. His large, shadowy eyes seemed full of secrets and deep, unknowable thoughts. A Gothic beauty, complete with an aura of mystery. Judging by his fine clothes and aristocratic bearing, he was probably an ancestor of the current owner of Elster House. The plain background and lack of other objects ensured that my gaze focused on him.

I turned the picture over. Written on the back in elegant cursive were the words:

Richard Mariah Elster

His Lordship on a fine Friday

October 13th 1843

To my chagrin, many of the photographs were heavily damaged - covered in splotches and scratches, the corners faded and curling. It seemed as though they’d been tossed carelessly in the tin with no regard for proper storage, yet a loose chronology seemed to exist. As I flipped through, I realised that they were all of Lord Elster. It was a collection dedicated to one man - one beautiful young man (or young to my admiring eyes, at least).

In most of them, he was alone, sitting or standing in various attitudes; but in some of them, he had companions - an elderly couple that I assumed were his parents, a male contemporary who was probably a university friend, a young woman whom he may have been courting. All of them seemed to pale in comparison; my eye was always drawn to him.

Each picture was its own little enigma. Who was he, and what circumstances had brought him to be photographed that day? Was he marking a significant event in his life, or had he simply wanted to show off his new clothes? My gloved hands carefully turned them over, checking for writing, but most of what I found was illegible.

As I searched, my fingers found something that wasn’t paper - something soft and ticklish. I withdrew a lock of dark brown hair, long and curly, bound with a red ribbon tied in a bow. I handled it with the utmost care, afraid of damaging the centuries-old strands. Then, on an impulse, I sniffed it. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I could detect the lingering, sweet fragrance of perfume. I wondered if he’d requested it as a keepsake, or if his lover had offered it as a token of her affections.

Picking up another picture, I experienced a momentary shock to see Lord Elster’s dead body propped upright, bereft of its head; but I quickly identified it as a joke photograph. In the 1880s and 1890s, there had been a humorous fad for “headless portraits”, in which the subject posed for two photographs in succession, and both photo negatives were combined to create the illusion that they were holding their own severed head by the hair or cradling it on their lap. Sure enough, the lord’s “decapitated” head was sitting nearby while his hand pretended to stroke its hair. I snorted with laughter, and put the picture aside.

The one that followed wasn’t a single image, but a collection of eight, arranged in two rows of four. I recognised it as a “visiting card” from the 1860s or late 1850s. At the time, it had finally become possible to take quick, casual photographs and print them onto a single sheet of thin paper, usually showing a person in the same setting but in different poses and attitudes. The low cost and simple production of such photos had led to their boom in popularity, as they could be easily traded among friends and family - one of the earliest examples of social media.

In all images, he was standing with a top-hat and cane in his hands. Sometimes he was posed in a serious and stoic manner, but sometimes he appeared grinning and playful. The images were too small to make out details, but I was struck by his humour - a long-dead man captured forever in a moment of amusement. It was a jarring reminder that people had been just as silly seven generations ago as they were now. Looking at him, I realised I was smiling.

But when I put it aside and saw the next picture, my smile died and my heart dropped. The young lord was sitting in an armchair, his eyes closed, his face slack, his mouth a sliver of blackness as it hung ajar. He looked like he was fast asleep, but I knew that he was dead. The sight came as a gut-punch to me. I’d been piecing together the jigsaw of his life, and in a strange and maybe stupid way, I felt like I’d gotten to know him. Now he sat in front of me, dead, motionless, his existence reduced to a scrap of paper.

There was nothing written - no date, no tribute, no expression of grief. I wondered what had happened to him. Had he died peacefully or violently? In bed after a terrible illness, surrounded by the tender care of his loved ones? Or in the middle of the street after a sudden accident, surrounded by gawking strangers? Morbid curiosity compelled me to peer closer at the photograph, looking for any clue as to what may have killed him - but he was fully dressed and immaculately hairstyled, hiding any possible sign of injury.

He was undeniably dead, and in accordance with the customs of the time, his family had decided to take one last picture of him.

I hadn’t come to work that day expecting to get emotional. Perhaps it was just the dust, but my eyes had begun to sting. I moved on, eager to shake off the image of his lifeless face.

The following photograph was decidedly less formal - probably a private memento. He was standing up, one foot crossed in front of the other, leaning his arm on the back of a chair in a casual manner. His hair had grown longer, and hung in easy-going curls to his neck - quite unusual for the time period, when most men had worn their hair short, slick, and sensible.

He appeared to be in an exquisite garden lined with marble columns, with a fountain in the background, but I couldn’t tell if it was a real place or a studio backdrop. Maybe it was a corner of the Elster estate, or maybe it was just paint on a canvas.

I held the precious picture in both hands, glad to see him alive again, then gently put it aside.

What I saw next caused me to freeze for a moment, as if my heart had skipped a beat. The young man was sitting naked on the floor, and smiling at someone out of frame. His long, dark curls were gathered loosely back, exposing his pale shoulders, and his expression was one of eager delight. Compared to the formality and pomp of its companions, the image was shocking in how alive and intimate it was. The subject was aroused, happy, and in motion.

I turned the picture over. Scribbled on the back in messy cursive were the words:

My darling, delicious Rick. A souvenir. Nothing tastes sweeter.

Something about the penmanship made me think it was a man’s. I felt a sudden guilt. This photograph was never meant for my eyes - it was a secret message between two lovers, who in their time period would’ve lived in the shadows.

Moving on, I jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire - the next picture was even more scandalous. His unrestrained hair tumbled in disarray about his face, and he was wearing an embroidered dressing gown that hung open, revealing that he was nude underneath. He was draped over a chaise longue in a languid pose, one bare leg crossed lazily over the other. To my modern eyes, the pose was no more shocking than a Greek statue, but for the time, it must’ve been outrageous.

Staring at him, I abruptly realised that it was his hair I had sniffed. His perfume I had imagined a whiff of. For some reason, the fact was embarrassing.

On the back of the scandalous photograph, I discovered the words:

To my dearest Rick. I found this and had to share the memory.

Wednesday 6th June 1866

This time, the handwriting felt feminine to me - painstaking, graceful, the result of years of strict schooling. I wondered how many lovers he’d had in his life, and which one he’d married to continue the Elster line.

Wait…1866? I squinted at the number. No, I’d definitely read it correctly.

I returned to the first portrait, dated 1843, and examined his face with a more critical eye. If I was generous and assumed he was in his early twenties at the time, he still looked remarkably youthful two decades later. Perhaps the hand holding the pen had made an error, or perhaps Richard was simply blessed with good genetics. Oh well, this mystery was above my pay-grade - correctly identifying the pictures would be the museum’s job.

I was approaching the bottom of the tin, and already wondering which museum to call first. These photographs belonged in a safe place, not a dusty antique shop, and I felt curiously protective of them. This man had been happy, beautiful, and by the looks of it, exciting; and the thought of him being forgotten hurt.

Suddenly, my eye was caught by a pop of colour. Something blue amid the grey and sepia. I reached for it, drew it from the pile, and my blood ran cold.

It was a Polaroid, and the face smiling back at me was Lord Elster’s. From what I could see, he was wearing a blue denim jacket over an unbuttoned tie-dye shirt, and his hair was gathered back in a loose mess. Seeing him in colour came as a shock to the system. Even in the faded, washed-out Polaroid, his curls were a rich and lustrous brown, his eyes a deep green. Even his pale skin seemed to be a dozen hues of pink.

My hands had begun to shake. It was the same person. Unmistakeably so. Indistinguishable, down to the slight asymmetry of his eyes. Even an identical twin wouldn’t be such a perfect match.

I knew it was him, but I also knew the idea was impossible. Although colour photography had ceased to be experimental in the 1930s, it hadn’t become the norm until the 1960s, and the Polaroid Corporation hadn’t dominated the world of instant cameras until the 1970s. If the man in front of me was the same man who’d sat patiently for a portrait in 1843, he would be almost two centuries old.

The sound of the shopkeeper’s bell jolted me from my reverie, a resonant chime informing me that a customer had entered. Sure enough, I heard the door swing shut with a decisive thud, and a male voice calling cheerfully:

“Hello?”

“One moment, please,” I answered, quickly returning everything to the tin and putting the lid back on. I heard his bouncy, blithe footsteps striding across the floor towards me, and realised I was covered in dust. I brushed myself off and emerged from behind the shelves, the floral tin in my hands. “How can I help - ” I began, but then I saw his face and the words died in my throat.

“Ah. I was looking for that. Thank you.”

His voice was youthful and sweet. He plucked the tin from my unresisting hands, paused, and peered closely at it. I realised I’d failed to rotate the lid back into the same position I’d found it, resulting in the flowery pattern being disrupted. My mouth opened and closed, but all speech had deserted me.

“You’ve been nosy, I see,” he said, “No matter.”

He smiled brightly, and slapped a stack of bank-notes down on the counter without counting them.

“There. Whatever awkward questions you have, this should be all the answer you need. If you feel it’s insufficient, please feel free to swing by Elster House whenever you’re in the area. I’ll give you a guided tour without the entrance fee, and I promise you’ll leave happy.”

He turned, and with a flick of his dark curls, was gone.

For @rmelster

[archinform]

Pleasant Home, Oak Park IL

Pleasant Home (Farson-Mills House), 1897, 217 Home Avenue, Oak Park, IL 60302

Pleasant Home

George W. Maher designed this 30-room mansion for millionaire banker John W. Farson of Oak Park. Farson purchased the lot at the corner of Pleasant St. and Home Ave. in 1892 for $20,000, the largest price ever paid for a residential lot in Oak Park. Over the following years he acquired land to the south and west for a large garden.

Herbert S. Mills, the second owner of Pleasant Home, made his fortune in the amusement business. The Mills family sold the house in 1939 to the Park District of Oak Park, the grounds being designated as Mills Park in their honor.

The home today is operated as a historic house museum, an events venue, and serves as the headquarters for The Pleasant Home Foundation.

The house is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Illustration of Pleasant Home from The Inland Architect and News Record

Considered one of the earliest examples of prairie school architecture, Pleasant Home is often viewed as the finest surviving example of Maher's residential work. The house was completed three years after Frank Lloyd Wright's Winslow House in River Forest, an early expression of Wright's emerging design principles, later to be known as the prairie style.

The Prairie School developed in sympathy with the ideals and design aesthetics of the Arts and Crafts movement of 19th century England by John Ruskin, William Morris, and others. It is also seen as a successor to the Chicago School of architecture associated with architects William Le Baron Jenney, H.H. Richardson, Daniel H. Burnham, John Wellborn Root, Dankmar Adler, and Louis Sullivan.

The Prairie School attempted to develop an indigenous North American style of architecture, without the design elements and aesthetic vocabulary of earlier styles of European-influenced architecture such as the Queen Anne and Gothic Revival styles. 

The smooth surfaces of Roman brick, the low-pitched, hipped roof and the broad entrance porch of the Parson House are characteristic features of Maher's work that link him to the early modern designs of his Prairie School contemporaries. In the Parson House Maher also introduced his personal design philosophy, which he called motif rhythm theory, to unify the decorative details of the house and its furnishings. The house retains its historic integrity in terms of materials, design and setting. Virtually all of the original decoration specified by George Maher is preserved and the lavish decorative treatment is everywhere apparent on the interior.

Kathleen Cummings, National Historic Landmark Nomination, 1996

Detail of front porch support column

Stained glass entrance and flanking windows

Entrance hall fireplace beneath Pleasant Home panel

Detail of lion head carving, repeated throughout the house, on entrance hall built-in bench

Carved screen in entry hall in front of the music room on the mezzanine

Stained glass entrance window

Reception room

Living room or sitting room

Dining room ceiling fixture

Dining room

Dining room corner, leading to summer dining room

Domed light fixture in the library

Library

Original Maher-designed dining table and chairs, now displayed on the second floor

The stunning original wall colors are seen in the above two photos of second-floor bedrooms

Vintage views of Pleasant Home, from the Ryerson and Burnham Libraries, Art Institute of Chicago:

Left: George W. Maher and John W. Farson in the garden of Pleasant Home

Right: Entrance hall

Left: dining room Right: sitting room

The Ryerson and Burnham Libraries, Art Institute of Chicago, house a copy of the 1902 publication "Farson, John, Residence; Farson-Mills Pleasant Home." The publication contains many views of the house, exterior and interior.

Collection Call Number FF Special NA7239.M34 A65 1902.

Access the digitized copy at this link:

[sacrificial1-lamb]

“𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔶, 𝔰𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ” @mothercain

large format 4x5 photo of the Randall house🖤

[lumenniveus]

"The world is what you make of it, sir! If it doesn't fit, you make alterations."

RuneStone my dark love letter to you this year. I have put love, blood and many hidden secrets into these objects. Some you can only find during gameplay, others will only show themselves when you aren't directly looking.

Download it now on SFS: Merged | ZIP

Grab esotericas-sims's dormer window recolor here

As always, there is more info below the cut for you 🦇

RuneStone is an 68 asset large set full of Gothic, dark and mostly functional items. I'm going to list a few highlights below the catalog. It is mostly BGC, but what needs a pack will be properly named as such.

* not pictured here are: 2 wallpapers, 1 stone wall, 2 wooden floors, 1 ceiling tile *

A pocket door is a door that slides into walls. It's especially nice to look at in dark academia builds and haunted mansions.

A SHROMP that acts as an anti-monster toy. Many thanks to @surely-sims for the original iconic SHROMP!

A rounded bar to fill out small rounded spaces. These are seamless, so don't hesitate to put them into your turrets or belfry.

Lots of visual effects that you can toggle on and off.

A see-through dungeon floor, anyone?

Two TVs that don't look like TVs. Who has a flatscreen in an medieval castle? One slots to things, the other has slots.

Stairs. As in, a staircase you use in BB mode. Not much else to say there.

Dormer windows and matching fake roofing, as well as enough stained glass to make a cathedral weep in joy.

This set is tagged as Vintage and Storybook furniture style and will behave appropriately in-game.

Will you build something grande and majestic or will you settle down in grimdark catacombs? Your choice, really. Have a preview

With everything up, let's begin @simblreenofficial 👻

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I have never seen a house in Topanga Canyon, CA that I didn't like, because they always have a mystical, magical feel, and this 1953 charmer is no exception. 3bds, 3ba, 2,562 sq ft and it includes a guest cottage. $2.35m.

Double gothic doors open to a lovely entrance hall/sun room. Look at the finials hanging from the corbels. That's different.

Enter a large room that's a flex space with two arched doorways to the living room.

It's an open concept floor plan that has the cutest little stone fireplace and a wall of windows that open to a deck.

There is plenty of space for a large dining table between the living room and kitchen.

The kitchen is spacious, yet so cozy with it's vintage stove, bronze double farm sink and cute cabinets. The counters are nice as well, and match the backsplash.

Did you see how the pretty flooring meshes nicely with the wood floor from the dining/living area?

Interesting powder room- look at the sink and walls- all sculpted by hand.

Very large primary bedroom has doors to the deck. This home is so sculptural- look at the niche and shelf right in the wall.

The bath has a double vintage sink and a cement or some sort of adobe tub.

This pass-thru hall is like a mini library with a stained glass window and skylights.

The secondary bedroom is large and sunny.

Bath with a cute vintage tub.

Beautiful deck with a fountain goes around the house and it has a great view of the canyon and mountains.

Up the stone stairs is the guest house.

There's a patio and covered deck out front.

Oh, this is so nice.

There's even a little sun room.

The ladder goes up to a sleep loft above the cute little kitchen.

Very nice shower room.

Lovely rock gardens. Look at the slide. Isn't that fun?

Topanga Canyon houses always make it feel like you're living in the trees.

Look at how the stones make hearts. So cute. .91 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/2095-Topanga-Skyline-Dr-Topanga-CA-90290/20549321_zpid/

[sweethoneyrose83]

SC College/Slasher AU AU by @semisolidmind My "Angel" Oc Name: Beatrice Nickname: Bea Age: 25 Birthday: February 26th Hair color: Blonde Eye color: green Clothing style: 90s vintage/ gothic romantic Species: Human Gender: female- she/her Sexuality: Bi Height: 5'4 Playlist about Bea -Guardian Angel · Nino de Angelo -Come What May - Lauren Synger (BATDR) -Appearances · The Material -Paramore - I Caught Myself -Maggie Lindemann - all around me -Maggie Lindemann - decode -Maggie Lindemann - you hold my love -blow (s l o w e d n reverb) ke$ha -Kota Kira — Redemption feat. Eda Lovelace

Extras: Bea is cream skinned woman has a charming feel about her She has a large scar on her left hand which resulted from brave behavior years before / also has some claw marks on her back ( She wear black fingerless gloves around others) She has tired, piercing, green eyes, bony cheeks and a narrow face. Her mid-back length, curly, blonde hair, currently tipped with shades pink She wears black eyeliner, lipstick and pastel purple metallic eyeshadow. She has multiple tattoos on back, right ankle, right lower leg, left wrist

"I'm fine" Bea whispers looking at the Critters. "Are you sure? Because you look like your going to gonna faint" Hoppy says concerned glancing at DogDay who was slowly walking closer to her and whimpered in worry. "Yeah… You might wanna catch me" Bea whispers again giggling weakly as falling her head throbbed as she felt dizzy. DogDay caught her quickly holding her close "Angel?!" he yelled very concerned. CatNap watched also concerned inside for her.