#woe house music be upon ye!

[wurm-food]

song of the day ✨

[toastofwaterdeep]

Another Durgetash song rec.

I had all and then most of you,

Some and now none of you.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do,

Haunted by the ghost of you.

[emergefromthenoise]

Violent delights and violent ends – a tragic lovers' tale.

All the world's a stage... Indeed, so the whole theatre becomes exactly that: from the rooftop (a distant and isolated Mantua), to the backstage corridors and fire escapes standing in for meandering streets of Verona or foyer turning into Capulet's house's halls. Use it all. And at the same time focus on the word: darkness engulfing the stage where vulnerable characters bare their desires. Micro expressions on display as cameras follow the actors around. Lights. Camera. A story of love and hate. A tragedy weaved by fate. Timeless tale.

Some raised the alarm as the casting revealed Francesca Amewudah-Rivers as Juliet, claiming it wasn't true to Shakespeare's spirit. Well, I, for one, am glad that it wasn't. Not that I have anything against men in tights, but that would be a different play entirely. Also may I remind everyone we would be subjected to some pre-teen, prepubescent males with their falsetto trying to nail Juliet's voice timbre. And Nurse's too. But then we would have been deprived of seeing such brilliant performances from Francesca and Freema [Agyeman] which would be simply a travesty. And all in a name of staying true to the original text (may I add also well known fact – Shakespeare's not so secret and nice tendency to “borrow” from other's work thus him being not so original himself).

Even though my first reaction to Freema being cast as a Nurse was: she's too young! Because in my head this character is this elderly matron rather than witty and lively Nanny. But that's the beauty of theatre and interpretation: anything goes! And oh, boy how it worked!

Francesca's Juliet is so youthful, gentle, so full of passion. One's heart sinks seeing her heart's woes. Tom's Romeo has boyish charm, rage and love so bound together it boils. His Romeo is impulsive, emotional, he brings laughter and choked silence as one observes his character being played by fate. Let's not forget Juliet is the driving force. She's “yes” or “no”, black or white, ultimatum giving kind of girl. And Romeo? Well, he's both romantic (grand gestures much?) and... well, he's a fuckboy (how fast Rosalind is in his rearview mirror, huh?). But then he's Juliet's fuckboy and heaven is not on their side.

Maybe I'm a cynic when I look at this great romance and frown and childish overreactions and hyperboles. But these two [Francesca and Tom], they're so gentle and pure, so deep, that one quickly invests in their budding feelings and looks upon them with softness knowing too well what's glooming over. The tragic face of star crossed lovers.

But these two aren't the only ones shining bright on that stage. Mercutio always has been one of my favourite characters – flamboyant, fast with words and weapons, mad or is he? Harold Perrineau made such an impact with his Mercutio [in Baz Luhrmann's Romeo+Juliet], even though not on stage, there was no other version of this character for me. But I dare to say Joshua-Alexander Williams comes real close or maybe even matches the performance. Which is incredible considering it's his professional debut. Exuberant, cheeky sidekick, cursed... and cursing the feuding families. Seemingly insane with his flowery talk turns out to be the voice of reason and prophecy in the end.

The staging is stripped back, functional, raw in it's simplicity, but not dull. Focus is on the actors and the text. Blaring music and flashing lights prevent the audience from being too comfortable in their seat – it's a tragedy after all.

'Romeo and Juliet', a tale as old as overplayed. Yet, always attracting both actors ready to add their version to the pile and crowds eager to see lovers' tragic fate onstage (and/or on screen).

Shakespeare's plays always were the entertainment for the masses, even the tragedies have characters being bigger or smaller 'comic relief'. In 'Romeo and Juliet' it would be surely the Nurse, but thanks to Freema's brilliance this character is so much more than crazy old lady. The wit is her weapon of choice, true, but the emotions and layers that spill out thanks to Freema shine a new light on this character.

It takes a special kind of talent to breathe a new life into the text and a play as a whole (and the assemble did a marvellous job at it!), especially one so well-known, played so many times that people think they have seen it all. But Jamie Lloyd has carved a reputation for himself and his innovative and bold approach (and vivisection) is doing only favours to dusty classics. It is an unmissable event.

---

William Shakespeare's ROMEO & JULIET.

Dir.: Jamie Lloyd

Cast: Tom Holland, Francesca Amewudah-Rivers, Freema Agyeman, Michael Balogun, Tomiwa Edun, Mia Jerome, Daniel Quinn-Toye, Ray Sesay, Nima Taleghani, Joshua-Alexander Williams, Callum Heinrich, Kody Mortimer

In Duke of York's Theatre, London from 13 May to 3 August 2024

[Photo from Duke of York's Theatre]

[meadowlarkx]

Maedhros/Maglor and 26?

26. ...as an apology

Ensconced by the bookcase, Makalaurë strummed a minor chord. The strings shimmered in the shadowy corner, releasing a sound like a sorrowful sigh—like snowfall—like the rustle of leaves in a withering tree. His black curls, disheveled as the robe he wore, blended seamlessly into the shade. Maitimo reflected rather ironically that his little brother had found the only darkened corner in Fëanor’s house: the study where Maitimo spent the fifth day of each week.

The flowing music faltered, and an audible sniffle could be heard.

Maitimo raised his gaze from the tract he was reading for next morning’s lessons and resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

The harp was as big as Makalaurë was, but he had managed to haul it across the courtyard and up the stairs. His head was bowed in sorrow near the harp’s shoulder, and with his robe askew he resembled a crumpled bloom or perhaps a slug on a leaf. Still his weeping tugged at Maitimo’s heart.

“Makalaurë…” he began.

“Cease your interrupting,” Makalaurë sniffed. “I am composing.”

Here? Maitimo bit that back.

He returned his attention to the book. His tutor had been explaining some key points of Tirion’s history…

“You would not understand,” Makalaurë sighed. “There are times one must give voice to the emotion that lies in one’s heart, or resign oneself to Mandos’ halls with Grandmother.”

“Is this about what I said earlier?”

“No.”

Makalaurë went on playing. The melody now filled the room, one solitary, desolate note at a time. He started to hum in his beautiful voice, and lyrics threatened upon the horizon.

At the desk, Maitimo exhaled slowly. He hated when Makalaurë was angry with him. He was his favorite, dearest and brightest companion, and Maitimo could not bear to see him unhappy. He was also the most insufferable person in the world. He was very lucky, Maitimo thought, that Maitimo’s tutor had explained the concept of a tactical concession: and that he had Maitimo, who was older and smarter and reasonable in every way.

He closed the book and steeled himself. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Makalaurë cut off the music with a jarring motion of his hands; the strings twanged unpleasantly. “Whatever for?”

Determined, Maitimo rose and went to the shady corner with the bookcases. “I am sorry,” he said carefully (if tersely), “that I said Tyelko was better company than you.”

“Oh, it matters not!! You were simply expressing what you truly felt. You should always be honest and speak plainly. I am not upset at all.” His voice wavered.

Maitimo could not conceal the sigh at this.

Makalaurë wiped away tears and snot with the back of one hand. “You don’t really wish to speak to me,” he pronounced.

Maitimo grabbed the dampened hand. “I’m truly sorry.”

Makalaurë looked hopeful, but quickly disguised it, closing his traitorous eyes to become the picture of noble woe. “Empty words; you are merely appeasing me—"

“I am not. Do I spend all my days with Tyelko? I did not mean it, and I should not have said it. I’m sorry, Káno.”

Makalaurë peeked at him. “Are you?” he allowed.

“Yes.” Maitimo kissed his dark hair, and then his brow, and then his cheek. And lo, victory! everything was well again.

Maglor did not go to Maedhros, at first, when the news came of his return. He shied away from his presence like a shadow skitters from the light. Of course, his excuse was setting things in order in the Mithrim camp before departing for Fingolfin’s tents, but he lingered longer than he needed to—partly because he could imagine how the Mithrim camp might look to Maedhros, and that was humble, poorly-fortified, and rustic, despite the progress he had made in thirty years ruling there. The day drew on and at last, he could not resist the impulse to know, and see.

When Fingon showed him to Maedhros’ bedside, Maglor understood that Maedhros would not be surveying the Mithrim camp a while yet, nor anything else. His brother was asleep amid the furs, so still that Maglor first feared he was dead in truth. His right arm was bandaged and bloody, and his body scarred and windburned and starved. His eyes moved beneath his pale eyelids, as though chasing out some evil, and his breathing beat weakly. Weak himself, Maglor watched and made himself learn every detail, every wound and scar. Fingon, with a sympathetic look that was entirely unwarranted, showed him a chair and some poultices and left them alone.

He did not take the chair, but knelt by Maedhros’ bedside as he had done at his brother’s coronation. His mind refused to understand that Maedhros really lived and might yet wake. What he understood thoroughly was that Maedhros had suffered. It was one thing to know it, to imagine it every sleepless night and every moment his gaze drew towards the dark fortress of those mountains—to think of it each time he told his council there could be no attempt at rescue. It was another to see it.

When Maedhros woke, Maglor knew he would not want his apologies, or his company. He would do better to give them now.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Nelyo, my love, I am so sorry.”

The words felt blasphemous in the chill air: a presumption, however quiet. He kissed Maedhros’ mouth and felt the warmth that still pulsed in his brother, and hoped that somehow, it would carry them all through whatever came next.

[dawnstarranger]

woe, all the even numbered weird asks be upon ye

This is only fair xD

lighter or matches? Matches

which cryptyd being do you believe in? All of them but especially Moth Man

why did you do that? I was left unsupervised

how many water bottles are in your room right now? Just one but its a plastic one that I keep reusing because I'm too lazy to wash my metal one

would you slaughter the rich? Give me a time and place and I'll bring the sharp implements

what kind of day is it? A good one so far!

do you love the smell of earth after it rains Yes!

can you drive? Yes, and I usually enjoy it as long as I'm not driving in a bigger city

what hair products do you use? Shampoo and conditioner and lots of bleach and hair dye

do you say soda or pop? I'm honestly about 50/50 on this one

what type of person are you? A fucking nerd tbh

if we were together on a rooftop, what would we be doing? Listening to music and getting drunk. Unless that's not your thing. We don't have to drink, but if you hate music we can't be friends

a scenario that you’ve replayed multiple times? I think about the first time my partner said he loves me a lot :3

is there dishes in your room? Nope. Maybe the occasional mug, but that's it

do you have a favorite towel? Yes, I have my towel I bought when I moved into a dorm that's soft and nice and then there are the towels stolen from the in-laws house that are not soft and nice lmao

is there a song you know every word to by heart? Literally so many but the one that comes to mind is Labor by Paris Paloma bc I was lucky enough to experience it live recently and will never forget what that was like <3

how many times have you changed your url? If you count the entirety of my time on here, maybe like 4-5 times? This iteration has never had a url change

a soap bar that smells good? I buy a lilac soap from the ren faire that smells amazing

did you have any snacks today? Is a bottle of Guinness a snack

an app you frequently use besides this godforsaken site? I waste way too much time on instagram

you get a free pass to kill anyone, who is it? My lawyer advises me against answering this one :3

favorite holiday film? Beetlejuice and The Adams Family are p good if you count them as halloween-esque

when did you first try an alcohol beverage? lmao I'm told I used to steal sips of homemade beer when I was a very small toddler

can i tag you in random stuff? Yeah!! Go for it, I love being tagged in stuff or getting random asks <3

[hoochieblues]

paddock adventures, part ?/?: Chance's Big Day Out

Finally! Chance got to go for another paddock trip!

Unfortunately for him, this meant going on a lead, going in a crate, and going in the car. Will the torments never cease?

"What is this nameless evil? Woe is upon me."

To recap, Chance has been in foster/rehab with me for two years now. He was rescued by accident from a notoriously bad Romanian kill shelter (we did not book him for release, but he was on the van in place of a dog we had booked and went back for later. if it hadn't been for that case of mistaken identity, he'd have been killed, probably either with weedkiller or a blunt object, or left to starve in a pen. The only two possible options for naming him were Chance or Lucky, lbr.)

He is one of the most traumatized cases our small rescue has dealt with, and he is more scar tissue than dog, as well as being petrified of people. It took me six months to touch him, and he's still horrified by the leash due to very severe catchpole trauma. He'd never been in a house before, and had likely - based on his scarring, burn marks, and behavior - been a street or community dog with very few positive experiences of humans.

He's been a surprisingly easy rehab in most respects.

Today, he loves his sofa, playing with his foster sister, tummy rubs, the occasional rope toy, and snacks. He is a phenomenally sweet, soft dog, a friend to cats, small animals, and birds, and he likes to snooze in the sun and listen to music (no, really. Chopin gets tail wags.).

But, his socialisation still sucks, he's still shit on the lead, and he needs training and exercise work, which was the object of today.

So lucky to have access to this. <3 Attached to the kennels we've sometimes boarded dogs at. For some reason they won't let me put up a tent and live here. For shame.

All in all, it went well. Chance crated fantastically on the way out, travelled well both ways, and had a lovely time at the paddock - most of which he spent yelling at an excavator doing landscaping about half a mile away. He could see it, therefore it must be barked at and he must pee in its general direction. The rules are tough but fair.

He was a lot better about tolerating my colleague's presence, did a lot less posturing and defensiveness than usual, and even did a tiny bit of lead work, even though he really didn't want to.

Getting to play offlead in a bigger space with Peppy made it worthwhile, I think, and ofc she had a great time because she loves the paddock, going on Adventures(TM), and basically anywhere she can achieve Mach 3.

Amazingly, she's still not had any further adoption applications. I don't know why.

Side note: yes, his leg is really weird and the whole back end is questionable. It's under observation. Not 100% sure if it's congenital or - more likely - an old injury (probably RTA or human inflicted) that's just healed weird. It doesn't hold him up and doesn't seem to cause him pain, so holding off on x-rays until a) he can handle stressful vet care better and b) we've fundraised for the stupid amount of money it's going to cost.

In the meantime, he gets light physical therapy and a glucosamine/chondroitin regimen that seems to help, so I'm at least mostly confident the cartilage is in okay shape. He's just miscombobulated (affectionate).

Crating him on the way back was... less effective, and he was Very Not Into walking back into the house on lead, but the judicious application of sausages to front end and gently encouraging foot to rear end (very gently) meant we didn't have to spend five hours under the fuchsia bush outside my front door again, with Chance lying down and refusing to move at all. Which is where we were with leadwork this time last year, so I'm calling it a win for now.

By the time one of is eighty, I think we'll have it sorted.

Next goals: introducing the three point harness prototype I'm sewing for him that doesn't include buckles, jangly things, or anything that clicks, but is somehow secure. It's going to be made of unicorn giggles and mermaid hair, too.

Aaaand now, resting time. Oof. It's been a very hard week, but today was a nice break.

Things we're still working on aside, today was the happiest and most engaged I've ever seen Chance outside of the home. He was confident, playful, and - eventually - moderately relaxed, with tail wags and happy ears. And he kept visually checking in with me, entirely of own volition, which nearly made me do a small cry, ngl.

Bonus: behold, Mostly-Black Shuck.

[eleancrvances]

Some lyrics from “Lizzie″ that make me go absolutely feral because yes and we don’t talk about this musical nearly enough:

in the house of borden there’s a lock on every door / in every room a prisoner of a long, silent war

to the beating of your wings / and the violence of freedom / i love you / i am hopeful / am i doomed? / i clamor and i moan / that house is not my home / my silver wings are pinioned with green gold

for years I've tried to keep you safe / from the darkness in my heart / but now i see my troubled soul reflected // i look into your cold blue eyes / and they tell me everything / and now I know that no one's been protected

the pear is jealous of the rose / because she hears of all your woes / but she never gets a chance / to taste your pleasure / and though she's luscious to the taste / she's always eaten in great haste / for the autumn winds that blow / steal all her treasure

the pear is frightened of the rose / for now your thorns are all she knows / and she's seen the pain / that comes with your displeasure / and though the prick is most unkind / you think it leaves no trace behind / but it leaves a drop of blood / upon the measure

you say that i'm not weeping / that i'm not dressed in black / call me a yankee clytemnestra / well imagine that / i've done my share of crying / lord my dues is paid

and if there are survivors / they will be on the mountain / like doves of the valley / all of them moaning

turn of the century / turn of the screw / turn of the tables / between me and you

mercury rises as the drops / of stifled rage collecting weight / begin to fall

now that you mention it i can't stand the night / i sit here in the darkness waiting for the light

[stormvanari]

(Part 1) woe Titan’s Council vs the Human Realm upon ye:

Loopy Crulle

A child in a candy store (aka. the human realm)

Problem is that she wanders off from the group (like really, she’s the “child” of the Titan’s Council), therefore Sonore has to keep a watchful eye on her

Going to malls with her is worse <3

Buuut Darian is there to tag with her anywhere she goes (LIKE THE SIBLINGS THEY ARE—)

So, those two are gonna separate from the group for their own fun (Darian has to keep in contact with his other colleagues, and bc he’s a tech head he has a different communication in mind for this new world: “human crow phones”)

Thus, chaotic fluff ensures between the two 💞

Sneaks food into the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets of the “council vacation house” without anyone noticing

Part of discovering the internet is a blessing, while the other half of it is a mistake; hey, at least she gets into art

Sonore Skual

Got addicted to the Subnautica series, and will do anything it takes to document EVERY sea creature the game offers

Of all the human music he discovers, he loves jazz

He somehow gets into anime....ones that involve swords

Will love to travel around the world, but he has to understand human culture first, starting in Connecticut

At least he went to an aquarium: stayed there for more than an hour to watch the behavior of these strange aquatic creatures; in fact, he’s disappointed that the New Boiling Isles doesn’t have enough aquatic life (well because no one would dare swim in the boiling water)

Aside Yurei, Sonore’s constantly keeping heavy contact with his group, so he has to honk his way to lost ones

Darian Vernworth

Definitely did not steal from 5 supermarkets, 5 convenience stores, 3 hardware stores, and one home improvement store

How he evaded the authorities puzzles Yurei

He‘s fascinated with automobiles. Also the only Head Witch so far to have a driver’s license, so his colleagues tend to rely on his aid

Unexpectedly he may go for joyrides and will invite a special guest over named Adrian Graye, aka his twin: that guy HATES it when Darian goes “Gas, Gas” mode

Before they call for a human mechanic, Darian is to be trusted first

Hogs the bathroom (assuming that the Titan’s Council have a “vacation house” reserved for them in the human realm); he confused it as a literal rest-room on the first day in the Human Realm

Keeper of the bucket list (Sonore sometimes holds it, but it’s mostly Darian cause he’s that excited)

Very social among humans, but was kinda an identity disadvantage (because crazy people like Jacob Hopkins are there) for the Titan’s Council’s first appearance in the Human Realm

Got into Turbo Dismount, and makes courses with Loopy

Banned from wielding Nerf weapons (especially wars)

Yurei Omiku

“The Gravesfield Lights”

Turns all electronics into a horror show

Then got banned from electronics stores and areas ultimately

Titan’s Council’s personal “human lawyer” who cannot go one day without one of its colleagues being walking disasters

Luckily, it won’t be prosecuting their asses anytime soon

Took a month for Yurei to understand human law

“Paranormal Activity” is the reason for its ban from electronics stores and areas

Riding in cars give it a heart attack, so it floats instead

Ripley Wolsteen

Gets giddy in human petting zoos and farms

Called a herd of sheep her “family” one time, and nearly took them with her

Immerses herself to creature collecting human games like Pokémon

She wants to travel outside Connecticut (otherwise around the human world) like Sonore! ‘Cept the Beast-Keeper is willing to go beyond compared to the Bard, so there are limits. Nevertheless, both Son and Rip are good friends.

Wants to go to every landmark/world wonder, so she’s dragging the council around

Stays and gets lost in (most) human museums until closing time

Hogs the TV for animal documentaries

[libidomechanica]

And overmuch of Germany, or Spain, flashes the night, and the

The queen and seemed, -than till the lute.     With cinnamon; her own blood, and cast you see his spaniel.     So noise ensued to them back into tall grace it is a     horse nor sideways, but all

men, and tall, and yong, and soul with     flower add the risk of being older that my vices     got which it granted types of goode wyves mo than oon; as,     wolde han slayn hir household,

he flies. Confident that ilk man     that sweet south. By Phœbus was evidently sorry. That she     coveiteth every kind of pleasure fille acorded     by us to their lids

hung the gusty floor. As once a     feat on which o’er vales and you may die gloriously—when     he beheld his pistol- shot that oon thou, ’ said he, what all     mistake, comes riding, up

to the tongue from mischeife the     villager’s head, and saw I at a glad poverty descents     o’er him those for sure he me, and tow tassembled hate, if     not to kill or save. Seeing

of it. To me had nothing     sheaue, cockel for which farther aid bereave me sorwe; myn housbondrye,     and with the view, but here you might rather womman is,     ye moste I thynke how

pitously a-nyght I made me forth     without pretence aboute myn herte may bithynke, she spies her     hair she freedome lorne, my lips as with agues in his master.     And somme for to be

in the charm invests a face that     a tight boat will ask for grog, and the love without having     faith derides, they were soon to be seen upon the orders     of the morning appears

behind her; but at time for hir     handes and fair. Him who levels towns, nations, which he became     the love lifts its head to yours, forsook the other somewhat     grim, what care I,

aristocratic as was the next     day by the Turks, behind to follow, who deign to remainder     set to get itself divine by loving men, soldiery,     a sure sign of the

hall door success of Juan’s way, which     little array. As if on wings; she gave a home; which was     natural, and then my song. Patient as they played their purveyor     from thy mind, and then

those stopp’d. Winter commeth timely     fruite of al thy lyf; keep the game, and cause and leave my grave     among somewhat misty bourn, which Zoe needs must proue annoy,     like Painter were upthrown

by thy human Hydra,     issuing from above to think how the thief. Yet lyved the     bristling to the ward to that your fingers and clear, and thine,     solution, where I said

a cleft off begetter’s edge where     the mind casting absence to unsluice a tear, without the     mark of speech out like a hell come to the wife abhors the     Host in the same way? But

he has no other flinch. Days nearly     o’er and ever face. On earth as rare as tis for to     woe. Sting, slashing, swearing its tender, so sharp one, its     sanguinary way good—then

another. And overmuch of     Germany, or Spain, flashes the night, and the might be     chirurgeons who came a flash upon the houses and you felt     the infant Juan knew it

not, to plese, but faces Truth and     paye his despairing. Juan, who wore a cow’s shapen as a     feend, if that flows down with a rising from the ditch again:     as it must wait severs

all. They never let it best a     virgin always with the scorn them when they must tell of victorie,     for sail nor should strikes three descends to eat the governed     hem slayn. That tenderest

be, that the music and though my     head and dispense, and chafing him in his son, we see, you     are like a God in pain, I rather yellow for blood! Enclose!     And like a mother,

answer the trees,—he moved somehow,     but what the Apostel wal, it may your merry glee, half     naked, save their please, and in each other—all was     As taken—whether way.

[incidentalblr]

WOE! TOP 10 JOHN MAYER SONGS BE UPON YE!!!!!

Intro

i am well aware that this post might as well be a diary entry. almost none of the people who follow this blog particularly give a shit about john mayer, but that’s okay. because that’s what this post is for me: a diary entry. john mayer’s discography is my favorite in the whole world. he’s the first artist i ever remember listening to. i remember being in first grade and listening to his music on the way home from school. i remember driving to panera bread at 5 and being excited when i heard No Such Thing. i remember sitting with my rock candy outside of Kilwins’ and being reminded of Clarity. these songs are beyond close to my heart; they’re the only constant in my life. if you’re my mutual and you’re reading this, thank you for letting me give you a piece of my heart

The List:

10. Gravity

She’s an icon, she’s a legend, and she is the moment. I will admit it was slightly perfunctorily that i put her on here, but my original list was 22 songs and i had to narrow it down somehow, so starting off the list with a well known and loved track feels right. gravity is a very peaceful song to me, it feels like a warm hug or hot cocoa. plus the Where the Light Is version absolutely brings down the house and is one of my favorite tracks on that album

9. Taking On Water

Okayyyyy… how Perfectly Lonely and All We Ever Do Is Say Goodbye made it onto Battle Studies and not THIS?$?@?&????? is beyond me. A criminally underrated track, I’ve actually heard that it may be an early draft of I Will Be Found???? not sure whether that’s verifiable or not but interesting nonetheless. absolutely brutal track, and i love it dearly.

8. Clarity

Our first (but not last) heavier things containment breech, this song is imo the perfect encapsulation of anxiety and disassociation. a great album opener for John Mayer’s best, this song really puts you in the mood for the album and i always feel like singing along

7. I Will Be Found

i’m personally a little shocked that this made the list over all the others, maybe it’s the novelty factor of not having listened in a while, maybe it’s the fact that this song singlehandedly got me through 8th grade? i don’t know. you tell me. i originally had this way higher then i checked myself and was like OVER WHEEL????? OVER WHEEL? never in a million years. she’s still a baddie though

6. St Patrick’s Day

The organ… the chord structure, the lyricism??? certainly a bold and memorable closer for a debut album. it represents Room For Squares well. this song speaks for itself, so i’ll let it do the talking

5. Wheel

Heavier Things again. what even to say? where do i even begin? my favorite album closer of all time, wheel is really something special. the muted production, the inherent cynicism contrasted with the hopeful ending lyric, the guitar tone, the way it fades to only vocals at the end. what isn’t there to say about this song?

4. Something’s Missing

this is the first song i can ever remember listening to in my entire life. i used to think the lyrics to the chorus were “So thanks, Miss Ann.” there’s nothing i don’t like about this song, and it is very near and dear.

The Top 3

there was never any doubt in my mind which songs would be the top three. there was never any doubt in my mind which songs would be the top 2 actually, merely what order they would be in. these songs are a cut above the others for me, in a league of their own not only in john mayer’s music but just in music in general. without further adieu, here are the top three:

3. Stop This Train

possibly the only song nearer and dearer than Something’s Missing, this song is beyond personal to me. when i was younger, i thought this song was pretty, but it never stood out to me. it wasn’t until my grandparents moved away and my mom started listening to this song on repeat that i started to give it some of the recognition it deserved. still, this song was for her, not for me. then i listened to Where the Light Is for the first time. this song had me speechless. absolutely stunned beyond words. i thought it was good, i thought it was really good in the sense that i thought it was brilliant and poignant, but i have a very high emotional tolerance for sad media (my favorite thing in the history of ever is Les miserables; i get joyful listening to that, something literally called The Wretched) and it never really affected me. then 2019 rolls around. and my parents get divorced. my dad and i are both nerds, and he was driving me to school that week. he puts on where the light is in the car. when stop this train came on i cried harder to that song than i have ever cried to any song, ever. along with the heavier things album cover, i want the lyrics to this song tattooed on me.

2. Edge of Desire

the production, the contemplative guitar riff, the yearing vocals, the solo? there’s nothing i would change about this song. i cannot begin to stress to you just how much of a close call it was between this and #1. This song is probably my #2 most listened song of all time right behind Fire and Rain by James Taylor. whether it be the acoustic version or the studio recording, this song is beyond words. it is truly undescribed. it is very possible that the minute i post this i will edit the list so that this song is number one, it’s that close between it and…

Our winner…

1. In Your Atmosphere

For a song that never even got a studio recording, In Your Atmosphere is truly something special. there’s something different about it from anything else in john mayer’s catalogue. when i first heard it, i didn’t even like it. i thought it was two separate songs jammed onto one track. i wasn’t even sure that it wasn’t a cover. needless to say, my opinions have changed. there’s something about this song that seeps under your skin, inscribes itself onto parts of yourself without your permission. it’s all at once wistful and regretful, celebratory and bitter, sweeping and intimate. wishing for a time that you wish to forget. hoping for a repeat of blissful misery. the incandescent weight of a memory. it’s just john and his guitar: the best kind of john mayer song

[wurm-food]

I have my Spotify so trained that it thinks i need deep house first thing in the morning. and it’s so true

[angelcloves]

8, 10, 11, 12, 14, 15, 21 ("Come Closer", "Pumpkin Boyz", and "Halloween Is Scary"), 25, 26, 28, 29 ("Come Closer", "Pumpkin Boyz", and "Halloween Is Scary"), and 49.

8. What song would make a great fic (to either write or read)? - nobody come for me for this answer but absolutely 'love me more' by mitski. its really one of my favorite songs ever and it unlocks something in me every time i hear it

10. How do you decide what to write? - i have a list of oneshot ideas and then i just start throwing darts when i finish my current project

11. Are you partial to a certain character/pairing or are you more equal-opportunity? If you are partial to any character/pairing, why do you think that is? - single characters: hunter obviously. but also caleb. pairings: hunter and willow. usually platonically sometimes romantically. i just really like that bad but sad boy. and then theres also something to be said about caleb and camilla with them both being from lives that they hated so very much and being able to become what the other needed but camilla is my oc so this doesnt count

12. Are there any tropes you used to dislike but have grown on you? - thats a tough question. the closest i have to disliking a trope is enemies to lovers and im still not like. the biggest fan of it but i dont hate it? ive always been neutral i guess. generally if i dont like something i dont usually change my mind on it

14. Are there any tropes you would only read if written by a trusted friend or writer? - soulmates next question

15. What’s your favorite AU that you’ve written? - i dont know if this is cheating bc it isnt finished yet but the coven head au. the dynamics are going to be a ton of fun. you guys are gonna love it. but from the fics i have written? thats the spirit absolutely. it was really fun to get to mess with philip in a totally toothless and mundane environment

21. If you wrote a “missing scene” in [insert fic], what would it be? - come closer: more manny dialogue. pumpkin boyz: thats tough. maybe a reaction from an adult? something along the lines of 'youre so responsible caleb' or 'get that wretched thing out of this town.' halloween is scary: more philip being suspicious of caleb. this was hard to answer because these are all really short self contained fics

25. What other websites or resources do you use most often when you write? - wikipedia my beloved frfr <3 other than that the owl house wikia has saved my ass countless times when it comes to referencing transcripts

26. Would you rather write a fic that had no dialogue or one that was only dialogue? - god this is so difficult because i use to write for the stage. but im gonna have to say no dialogue. i love my sensory details

28. Does anyone read your fics before you post them? If so, who? - YES @/blackyote peeps most of my non request fics early and @/acergi is being an absolute angel and reading all of these shitty vwhatever drafts of the coven head outline as they come out of my brain

29. What songs would be (or are) on a playlist for [insert fic]? Explain your choices if you want! - i dont listen to mood music when i write requests. i literally watch bondi rescue on my second monitor for background noise

49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it! - i have a finished fic sitting in the corner waiting for upload. woe. coven head pilot fic be upon ye. (ive been outlining lately. not much to share there.)

Hunter fought the urge to let his shoulders drop. “Eight hours, Head Witch,” he informed her.

[shadeswift99]

Ok i saw your tags on that last post and i am BEGGING you to elaborate on your Minecraft villagers' religion/mythology that sounds amazing 

HELLO YES. I have a limited amount of time right now but let's see how much I can get through by the Power of Insufferable Nerdness

(Edit: apparently that amount is A Lot, I'd apologize for this absolute essay but I am in fact not sorry at all, woe, lore be upon thee :))) ) (there's pictures too I promise)

Okay so. Welcome to the village of Abyss. I discovered it while I was exploring the 1.18 update and I somehow managed to leave my shulker box of rockets in a cave along with my enderchest, essentially stranding me here with what I had on me until I could resupply. I could have just saved the coords and died, come back later for my stuff, whatever else, except that. The village spawned like this.

Directly next to this massive, abyssal ravine filled with impenetrable darkness. Upon closer inspection, there were only three villagers left in the place. Upon even more inspection, several of the village paths seemed to lead...directly over the edge.

Hm. I wonder where the rest of the villagers went.

The lore developed slowly as I fixed the place up and built it out more. Abyss is the "god" of the village in the same way rain falling is music - it's not, really, but the act of observing it as such makes it so. The longer a villager looks into that darkness, the more they realize that it's not just darkness: it is inhabited, made of hundreds of rattling bones and groaning once-living throats, crawling the floor of the canyon just out of view through the shadows. Together with the darkness itself those voices make a will, and that will thrives in the unknown, and the longer one spends looking out and down, the more that will can be felt and understood.

The closest building to the ravine got turned into the Church of Abyss. Inside is more of a town hall than a place for religious services - Abyss doesn't really have values that can be verbally taught - but its most important purpose is as a lead-in to the observation platforms:

Where the priests of Abyss sit and look into the ravine. There are three levels (screenshot only got the last two). A priest moves down a level when they feel they've gained enough knowledge of the unknowable, and unknown enough of the knowable, to move into a deeper space of reflection. One of the three key principles of the Abyssians is that there MUST be at least one person observing Abyss at all times.

[tw: death talk in next paragraph, stops after that]

The lowest level of the platforms is the walkway. The Abyssians believe that the greatest fate in death is to join the infinitely knowable unknown, to become one part in the collective un-soul of the mob hoards in the darkness, in unity becoming both everything and nothing at the same time. The walk is their final destination. A body will be carried there and released if a villager dies elsewhere, and a lot of people who can feel their death coming will go down there and meditate for a few days while their loved ones make them as comfortable as possible until they die. However, elder priests and people who have either achieved high honour or done a great deal of harm that they regret will walk the precipice themselves, disappearing into the forever-dark.

In practical terms for day-to-day living, there is an Abyss shrine in most households. I haven't built an example to show yet, but it is a very deep, narrow hole in the floor, dug deep enough under the house to create a piece of the same shadowy can-stare-into-it-forever effect as the ravine has. Villagers will put small offerings down the shrine on special occasions, like a birth in the family, or they'll give a tiny part of a harvest or mining haul. That way, the event or good/bad fortune can be symbolically connected to the whole and added to the depth of the knowledge Abyss stores within its unknown.

Above every household Abyss shrine is a copy of the Tome of Abyss, which outlines the three main pacts of Abyss (which if you don’t care to read six pages of my drabble, roughly amount to “do NOT light up the ravine” “Abyss is revered as an afterlife or sacred lack of afterlife” and “at least one person must be watching Abyss at all times”)

As for the motto in the back, I have a feeling that I used a slightly different translation than the common usage for at least one of these words, but I can’t for the life of me remember it now. -_- Just by running it through latin to english translation though, it roughly amounts to “Without light, without end, without fault”.

You could call Abyss a death god, or a knowledge god, or a type of void god (although it's really quite the opposite, with the Void being an entity of paradoxically absolute nothingness and Abyss being the infinite multitude and possibility contained in darkness), but it isn't really any one of those things. It's a bit debatable whether it even existed before the villagers found it, or if their observation gave it its will in the first place, but whatever it is and however it came about, it exists now. It exists, and I like it the normal amount. Yup. Definitely the normal amount. :)

[honourablejester]

An origin story for a Fathomless Warlock

And/or a potential encounter with a society (not quite a cult) of kraken priests, depending. With the lighthouse keeper background I came up with, because I can come up with pretty much endless stories about lighthouses and the weirdos who live in them.

The Kraken Brides of Ketan Point Lighthouse

Ketan Point Lighthouse is an ancient tower of green stone on a desolate, battered stretch of coastline. A narrow, stony road winds through the woods and up the cliffs from the nearest village, some fifteen miles inland. Ketan Point is only ever resupplied by land. Only the bravest and most foolhardy venture out onto the waters beyond the Point. Fishing boats and small vessels are rarely seen, and even the mightier shipping of the great trade routes give Ketan Point a wide, wide berth.

The reason for this lies three miles offshore beyond the Point, where the turbulent currents of Ketan Point become the ravenous, swirling waters of the Karybdis Maelstrom, a vast, monstrous whirlpool that seizes anything that sails into it and plunges it down into black, abyssal depths.

On its own, the maelstrom would be more than enough to deter shipping, but it isn’t alone. Something lives in its black, crushing depths, an ancient, titanic deterrent all its own.

Karybdis himself, for whom the maelstrom is named. The Kraken of Ketan Point.

And it was for Karybdis that a lighthouse was built over a stretch of water all but empty of ships. The light warns no one away. Other, smaller lighthouses further up the coast perform that role, warning ships that they need to head further out to sea well before the maelstrom or the kraken become a potential danger. Ketan Point, a bare few miles away, was built for a different purpose.

The green stone tower, with its great beacon at its summit, houses the Kraken’s Bride.

Karybdis is beyond ancient, a fearsome creature of legend. Once upon a time, it’s said, generations of elves ago, he was a fiercer, tempestuous, much more wrathful force. Not content with the maelstrom, he roamed for leagues upon leagues, the length and breadth of the coast, shattering ships to flinders, and visiting vengeance upon the great sea ports for even the slightest of insults. The stories of him were many. Some said he had been wounded once, in some titanic battle of gods, and that the wound had driven him mad, made him little but wrath given flesh. Others said simply that he was a raw force of evil, lashing out at all around him.

But there was more to the great kraken than that. Mad he may have been, but not stupid, nor simple either. No one knows the reason for the bargain he one day proposed, out of the blue. Whether it was survival instinct, to stave off war before some god or state found a champion fit to wound him again, or … something else. Some desire of his own, more important than destruction. Loneliness, perhaps. Maybe, at the base of it, just simple loneliness.

Whatever it was, the kraken came one day to each of the great ports that he had threatened and vented his wrath upon, and reached out his thunderous thoughts in the language of gods to all who would listen and attempt to understand. A bargain, he offered. A stay of his hand. Well, tentacle. A cease of his violence against their ports and their ships, if they would give into to his keeping something of their own in return. A companion, to keep him company in his thoughts. A sacrifice, who would spend their lives with him.

A lighthouse was built, a beacon tower to lift them towards his presence, a green bastion on the cliffs above his maelstrom. So began the Kraken Brides of Ketan Point.

It is a softer duty now, at least somewhat. Time and companionship have … if not quite softened, at least cooled the great kraken over time. He does not demand a life in its entirety now. Or, perhaps, he merely appreciates a little diversity in his companions. A little worldliness, a little depth of experience and thought. Male or female, it doesn’t matter to him, nor race nor creed. Only strength of mind, and the ability to hold his interest. He asks not a lifetime, so that they might have something outside of himself to share with him, when the time comes. To be a Kraken Bride, the Lighthouse Keeper of Ketan Point, is perhaps no longer such an onerous and monstrous position.

Ten years. Karybdis asks ten years of any prospective Keeper. To give ten years of their life to his company, to share his thoughts as he lies dreaming beneath the maelstrom, to speak with him, play him music, tell him stories. Debate with him, engage with him. Remind him of the value of the world. Meet him, in the flesh, and stand fearless or at least unbowed before his form when he rises above the lighthouse tower every new moon, in the light of the beacon beam, to greet his Keepers in person.

Ten years, as his companion. And then ten more, to seek out a replacement for him.

The Keepers are a lineage, now, chosen by alternating predecessors. While one Keeper serves their time, their predecessor will seek out and choose their successor. It takes a certain sort of personality to hold up to Karybdis. Someone curious, practical. Not to prone to fear where none is warranted. Robust in personality, and willing to argue with monsters. Someone with stories to tell. The Keepers know what to look for, and trust no one else to choose wisely enough. Too many in the world beyond the tower have forgotten what Karybdis once was, and might take their task too lightly.

While they walk the world, seeking out successors on his behalf, they carry his power within them. Karybdis looks after his Brides, for their twenty years, and sometimes even after. There are some who have been Brides for him several times, Keepers of long-lived races who have returned to him for twenty years in every hundred, or two hundred, when they have something new to share with him. He reaches out his power to all of them.

And they reach out to each other, too. Kraken Brides of Karybdis rarely forget where they have come from. Who chose them, and who they chose, and who they went to for aid while seeking them. One Keeper of Ketan Point will always know another, and almost always aid them.

It takes a certain sort of personality, after all, to hold up to a kraken for years on end, in the cause of keeping a world safe from his wrath, and he himself safe from his emptiness.

Because it must not be forgotten. Time and companionship may have softened and cooled him, but Karybdis is still a kraken. An ancient, wounded, maddened remnant of all the long-ago wars of gods. His wrath may be deterred, staved off by his bargain, but it is not gone. Woe betide any who would break their bargain with him, and any who would poison or sabotage the mission of his Keepers. Should a Bride betray him, abandon their ten years before they are up, refuse to choose a successor, or choose a successor only to poison or wound him, then all others who survive must have no choice but to hunt them down, and stand willing to replace them the moment they know the betrayal. The moment Karybdis believes that his bargain is no longer being upheld is the moment he returns to the wrathful monstrosity he once was, and all who live upon his coastline reap the reward of it. His Brides, the Keepers of Ketan Point, must have this ever and always in their minds.

On their shoulders rests the safety of every city that touches the sea.

(Notes: Yes, Karybdis is a reference to Charybdis of ‘between Scylla and Charybdis’ fame, and ‘Ketan’ Point is a reference to Cetus. Because I watched Clash of the Titans young, and yes I know krakens aren’t Greek, but in a D&D context they definitely work with the reference. Also, I really like Fathomless Warlocks. And kraken cults. And lighthouses. So, you know? Have a broadly good-aligned society-slash-cult of fathomless warlocks with a ancient, lonely, extraordinarily cranky kraken patron?)

[beinmybonnet]

29th June 1613 - London, England

   “Remind me again why we’re doing this?

“He went to the trouble to have a draft carried all the way to Brandenburg for me, the least I can do is attend the opening night.”

Andromache rolls her shoulders into her partlet. “The least you can do maybe. Why am I doing this?”

“Because you missed me. And because you cried when we saw Othello.” Yusuf replies, looking sideways at her. Curbing the inevitable objection, Quynh squeezes Nicolò’s arm and strides forwards to overtake them. He lets himself be dragged after her, taking care not to tread on her skirts.

“I love the theatre. Plus, we’ve spent the last week sleeping in a shack in the Dales. This,” Quynh waves her free arm over the bridge rail, “is a nice change of scenery.”

London Bridge is teeming with people, the warmth of the bustle settling like cinders into his skin. The city writhes in its haste. Against the far bank of the Thames tall buildings strike against the horizon, the old Southwark Priory still reaching high in spent pride. Buildings are painted pale with dark beams striking bold across them. It is beautiful in its own way, Nicolò thinks. Inelegant, but unique.

“It wasn’t that bad. I still think we should have stayed a little longer, at least until-

“Andromache we’ve slept in nicer caves.”

Quynh glances back over her shoulder meaningfully, brow rising. Andromache shrugs. A smile, although few would recognise it. They step down onto the riverbank as one, turning east.

Nicolò nudges his shoulder into Yusuf as they pass the gardens. “You fail to mention you sent that script back with corrections.”

“Revisions. Small ones.” Yusuf’s voice is low, his expression impish. “Barely noticeable.”

                                                         *

“Ah, here we are.” Yusuf waves Andromache forward into their usual first-floor booth and steps back to allow Quynh to pass. Nicolò pauses, peering up the stairwell.

“Full house.”

“First performance. Trust me, this will be one to remember.” Yusuf is bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, and it makes Nicolò want to tuck his chin over a bobbing shoulder.

“You’d think the city would be a bit more subdued,” Andromache settles herself on the bench tucking thick plum skirts around her calves. She happily accepts a bag of roasted hazelnuts from Yusuf as he passes her to stand at the balcony. “They’ve only just recovered from their last bout of plague.”

“Exactly! This is the power of art.” Yusuf beams, arm sweeping wide. “Look at these people.” All around them the crowd is seething with anticipation, the noise growing as the wait goes on. Children scramble in the lower level of the yard for better vantage points, clawing their way up the beams supporting the lower galleries. People are shouting and laughing and drinking, the sound cocooned tight within the impressive structure. A man swings a laughing boy up over the mass, and a small group of women pressed against the stage begin shouting a suspicious sounding rhyme, pointing across the pit. Before they can finish a man in the gallery beneath them roars his response across the yard.

Nicolò’s brow furrows. “Clot-pole? I don’t…”

“She’s calling him an idiot,” Andromache supplies, “and insulting his hat.”

“It is a bit much.” Quynh’s leaning over the balcony to get a better look. “I think she’s accusing him of, err – short-changing her. Last night.”

Still grinning, Yusuf peers over beside her. “Oh, she’s quite angry. Here we go.” He sounds delighted. What looks like a parsnip sails over the head of the crowd. “A pity, she’ll want those for the third act.”

Quynh’s now bent almost double over the bannister and Andromache reaches to steady her without looking. “Isn’t this sort of thing that made the man move half of the troupe over to Blackfriars?”

Yusuf shakes his head in fond exasperation. “Ah, William has become far too prudish in his success. The engagement of the audience is the nature of theatre.”

“Engagement?” Nicolò smirks as something below meets its mark with a splat and a shout.

“Well, you cannot deny their enthusiasm-”

Quynh reappears with a whoop of triumph clutching her prize; a browning cabbage intercepted in the air. She rotates the rotten vegetable in careful examination. “Excellent.”

Yusuf raises his hand in hopeless protest as Nicolò leans back in his seat, eyeing Quynh. “10 crowns says you can’t hit the stage from here.”

She snorts derisively.

“20 if you can take King Henry off his feet.” Andromache counters, rising slightly to gauge the distance. Done, Quynh agrees happily, settling beside her and tucking her cabbage under the bench. Yusuf mutters an exasperated appeal for help to the heavens and Nicolò quickly tugs him down into the remaining space with a hand over his knee.

The parting of the stage curtain prompts the dropping of remaining projectiles and an enthusiastic cheer from the crowd. The herald clears his throat, steps to the edge of the stage and spreads his arms.

The first and happiest hearers of the town,

I come no more to make you laugh; things now,

That bear a weighty and a serious brow,

Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe,

Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow,

We now present. Those that can pity, here

May, if they think it well, let fall a tear;

Be sad, as we would make ye

“Oh, so a comedy?” Quynh says brightly and Yusuf shushes her.

The first actors emerge from the wings in their velvets and the tale takes flight.

                                                                                                                                                                    *

In all this noble bevy, has brought with her

One care abroad; he would have all as merry

As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome,

Can make good people. O, my lord, you're tardy:

Yusuf is mouthing the words soundlessly, engrossed.

There are many things Nicolò has enjoyed about visiting theatres over the years. He will readily admit this performance is an enjoyable one - the young man playing Buckingham is particularly charismatic, the audience viscerally immersed in his indignation. The actors proudly deliver their lines and their story to an increasingly hypnotised audience.  

But the play itself has never been what really draws Nicolò to this place. He glances sideways again and immediately, expectedly, loses the thread of the plot. In this moment the talent on the stage could never hope to hold his interest as he sits beside this man. Yusuf has lost himself entirely to the unfolding tale, gaze flitting from figure to figure calling below. Passion alight in his eyes. The arts do this to him in a way Nicolò has seen nothing else in all their time together. They have walked familiar paths in gallery halls for hours on end, Yusuf’s eyes roving walls of painted expression. They’ve sat in houses of the dying and listened to children bringing comfort with songs of naivety. Literature, dance, poetry, music; in all their changing forms they have always arrested Yusuf in his entirety.

These things give people freedom Nicolò, true freedom, he had once said. Free of limitation and expectation, in art people reveal their true selves. It is beautiful.

For Nicolò, that beauty is reflected blindingly in Yusuf’s own experience. To watch him like this for the rest of his given days would see him depart this earth achingly grateful to his God.

But Yusuf feels his distraction and leans toward him. “You’re missing it,” he murmurs, smile pulling impossibly wider. Unbridled delight is etched at the edges of his eyes, and Nicolò wants to trace his fingertips over the creases. He only realises he has reached out and done so when Yusuf captures and kisses his palm. “Watch the play.”

“It is a story still within living memory, I know how it ends,” Nicolò whispers.

Yusuf will not have it, nodding towards the actors. “Watch them tell it.”

Anne Boleyn is drifting across the stage, hand at her chest and Nicolò turns dutifully back to the performance.

Was he mad, sir?

O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too:

But he would bite none; just as I do now,

He would kiss you twenty with a breath.

This time it’s Yusuf’s eyes that flicker back towards him and Nicolò hears silent words in the curl of his lip. Twenty kisses in a single breath. A risky venture, no?

Nicolò hums, his thoughts mirrored beside him. We shall see.

                                                                                                                      *

Good lord chamberlain,

Go, give 'em welcome; you can speak the French tongue;

And, pray, receive 'em nobly, and conduct 'em

Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty

Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him.

You have now a broken banquet; but we'll mend it.

A good digestion to you all: and once more

I shower a welcome on ye; welcome all!

King Henry VIII emerges from the curtains with a flourish, the actor clearly taking great pains not to stumble in breeches that billow around his knees. The theatre bursts into applause as a round of trumpets sound, and they shout their approval at the blast of a canon from the rafters. The actors move to their marks to begin the scene in earnest, and Andromache leans forward with interest for the first time.

“See, I told you! With the funding now available, they’ve really spared no expense,” Yusuf is still clapping. Andromache hums noncommittally sitting back, but her eyes are suddenly bright with curiosity.

“Quynh, if you’re going to win your money, I suggest you do it now.”

“Why? I was going to wait until the trial scene,” she replies, confused.

From his place beside her Nicolò can see clearly that Andromache is struggling to suppress a smirk. “Well, there won’t be much left by then.”

“What?” Quynh looks down the bench at him. He shrugs. Andromache sighs around her growing amusement.

Seconds pass before she speaks again.

“They’ve set the roof on fire.”

He doesn’t need long to piece together what’s happened. There’s a thin plume of smoke rising from the inner curve of the roof and within, a flicker of light no bigger than that from a candle waving gently in the rafters. The canon. They wadded the canon, he realises. The little flame wafts higher in the breeze. The crowd is oblivious, too focused on the stage to be looking upwards. He taps Yusuf’s thigh.

It does take a moment. “Oh dear.” Yusuf looks back and forth between the roof and the stage, face falling. “Well maybe-

There’s a loud pop as the flame meets eager fuel. It dances up into the thatch lining the hooped roof and flares wide and greedy. Whip fast, it licks across the reeds consuming them in crunches and cracks that have people now looking skywards and shouting. Those in the highest galleries rear back as the fire completes its rapid circuit of the roof. By the time the actors have abandoned their attempts at continuing and stand dumbstruck on the stage, the theatre is ringed in an ominous halo of flame.

“Yusuf, unless your intention is a repeat of ’54…” Quynh trails off sadly, holding her cabbage.

Clumps of lit thatch are beginning to drift into the standing audience and the pushing and shoving follows in earnest. One man charges through the crowd braying, his breeches alight. Andromache stands looking decidedly more cheerful. “Come on, we’ll help them clear the pit.”

Nicolò follows suit, a hand falling to Yusuf’s shoulder. He has to work to quell an absurd urge to laugh; Yusuf is glaring at the roof with all the stubbornness of a chastised child. He squeezes gently, sympathy winning out. “I’m sorry.”

“Canons, who on earth thought canons in a wooden building was…” Yusuf trails off, glancing up. “Nothing to be done I suppose.” He holds out his other hand. “Shall we?”

Drawing Yusuf up behind him, Nicolò moves out into the stairwell twisting up into the higher galleries where people are starting to pile down in haste. An older man stumbles in the rush and he reaches out to steady him. “Careful, sir. Head out towards the river.”

The man nods and quickly hurries on pressing his handkerchief to his mouth. The next woman through the door snatches her arm up to her chest before he can move to offer any assistance. Dirty papist  she spits as she veers away. Yusuf tenses, a hard line pressed at his back. Nicolò just dips his head.

“Please hurry.”

By the time the flow of people has ebbed the flames are beginning to consume the ornate stage pillars. The curtains masking backstage catch like parchment and blaze furiously. “We should make sure the galleries are clear,” he says, “you take the east, I the west?”

Yusuf eyes the roof timbers warily. “Five minutes. No more.”

In the end it only takes Nicolò four minutes to usher the last stubborn gamblers from the gentleman’s room. The fact that the smoke has now crept down to waist level speeds this along nicely, and they hurry to the stairwell hunched and coughing. Nicolò stays low, following them down the last steep flight when his foot catches on something in the darkness, almost putting his hand through the adjacent wall in an attempt to steady himself. There’s a man slouched in the corner, limbs sprawled wide and snoring. An empty bladder clutched to his chest. The strength of the brandy fumes punch through the dense smoke to further sting at his eyes and his irritation almost threatens to outweigh his conscience. Almost.

By the time he staggers out into clear air dragging his oblivious charge Nicolò know he’s been much longer than five minutes. Behind him there’s a crash which sounds very much like the galleries have finally given in and collapsed. Sounds like, because his eyes are clenched shut, burning and watering. Pressing his hands to his knees, he tries not to gag on the tar in his throat.

A hand settles on the back of his neck whilst another cups a palmful of water to his face. Nicolò winces.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, “He’s heavier than he looks.”

He can hear Yusuf grinding his teeth but his response is surprisingly placid. “Rinse your eyes.”

Yusuf presses a water skin into his hands and moves away. When Nicolò’s vision has cleared he spots him back near the eastern entrance, patiently shepherding two enraptured boys further from the fire as they gape at the sky. Even for one who has seen much, Nicolò must admit, it is quite a sight.

The playhouse’s cylindrical shape has moulded the fire into a twirling steeple of flame inside the structure, now reaching twenty feet clear of the building itself. The Globe resembles an enormous cauldron struggling to hold its roiling contents. It belches clouds of thick black smoke as its rim splinters and cracks under the pressure and heat. What’s left of the thatch continues to feed the furnace, keeping the flames bright and fierce.

Quynh appears, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow to steer him away. She leads him to a grassy curve of the riverbank where people are congregating in groups and beginning to resettle on the ground. From one muse to another, the audience remain eager spectators, gasping and whooping as the bones of the building begin to break, sending up showers of sparks. Yusuf and Andromache join them just as the walls start to keel inwards.

“You were right, definitely one of his more memorable works,” Andromache announces as they sit. “Perhaps my favourite.”

“Yes, I’m so very glad you enjoyed yourself.” Yusuf’s tone is flat, but his eyes roll indulgently.

Quynh settles herself back against Andromache’s bent knees, facing the playhouse. “We can still make a night of it. We get a bottle of wine, some pastries. Watch the sunset.” Her voices softens slightly and she levels her gaze at them. “You really must go so soon?”

He looks to Yusuf, who nods. “We have passage on a ship to Antwerp. She leaves on the tide tomorrow morning.”

Quynh’s sigh is dejected. “You won’t consider staying just a little longer? We’re moving on to…” she trails off, peering up at Andromache – Devon, she supplies, “We could use your help relocating these women. The trials are becoming barbaric.”

Yusuf shakes his head, surveying the crowd. “I’d prefer not to tempt fate. London is not at its most welcoming for us presently.

Nicolò quirks his lip. “You mean for me.” Ah, he sees now. The woman from earlier is stood just a little further up the bank, clutching at well-dressed man and pointing at them. Yusuf stares back unflinchingly. Nicolò feels him shift to further block her line of sight to him.

Then he turns back to meet Nicolò’s eye and speaks firmly. “For us. If a place does not welcome you, it does not welcome me.” 

Quynh has watched the exchange carefully and suddenly sits up. She clears her throat and calls out loudly enough for those nearest to turn. “Thou art a boil, madam, a plague sore!”

Andromache snorts and the woman raises her fan to her face appalled, tugging on her husband’s arm. It has the intended effect on Yusuf though and his grin returns to its proper place. Nicolò feels a familiar rush of affection for Quynh and her unfailing ability to put people at ease.

“King Lear,” Yusuf says proudly. “I didn’t think you were paying attention.”

“Of course she was,” Andromache interjects, “It’s a magnum opus of insults.”

Quynh grins up at her. “Oh, you worsted-stockinged knave.”

The retort is instant. “Brazen-faced varlet.”

“Ancient ruffian.”

Andromache shrugs. “Accurate.”

Their laughter comes in easy unison and Yusuf’s expression is unbearably soft as he watches them. “It won’t be for long,” he promises.

Quynh pulls her eyes from Andromache and nods. “Probably a sensible choice at the moment. You do look violently Venetian Nicolò.

He wrinkles his nose, affronted. “I do not-”

Yusuf is reaching for his face, so he pauses his protest for the gentle pass of a thumb over the bridge of his nose. “It’s your profile my love.” Yusuf’s tongue darts out over the pad of his thumb before it returns to rub more firmly at his nose. “Which currently is very sooty.”

With his hands still upon Nicolò’s face he murmurs.  “Oh but what a piece of work is this man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel,” Yusuf blinks, his sincerity blinding, “in apprehension how like a god.”

It’s all Nicolò can do not to rub his flushed cheeks into Yusuf’s palms like an alley cat.

Andromache arches a refined brow at Quynh. “Nicolò gets a Hamletian ode to his soul, and I get ‘ruffian’?”

Quynh rocks onto her elbow in the grass without missing a beat. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Mayhap a smouldering playhouse, ablaze in righteous flame?

“Likened to a smoking wreckage, how romantic.”

Nicolò would laugh but Yusuf is still holding his gaze and his face, everything else muting around him. He does this; bestows his love in soft declarations that leave Nicolò stunned, and then holds him steady until the words perfuse. Nicolò loves him so much he feels he might combust, with all the ferocity of the fire at his back.

Centuries before, he had allowed his disbelief to ask a question once, and only once. The intensity frightening him. Could a gift such as this truly be his eternal?

Nicolò smiles at his world and whispers.

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and gives life to thee.

 held in the embers on ao3 at theexistentialteapot

 part one of this series can be found here

[absynthe--minded]

Fëanor’s Appearances in HoME, Part 1: The Books of Lost Tales

This is a project I’m embarking on at the request of my Discord server, cataloguing every appearance Fëanor makes in the drafts of the Histories with a quote and a location in the text. I’m including mentions of his works if his name comes up, as well as his relationships with other people. This is probably going to be edited a lot, as I’m not perfect and I’m just one researcher, so if I miss something, let me know and I’ll add it in!

This is not intended to support or debunk any particular textual reading.

I was informed that a list of these quotes (particularly focusing on his ties to his family) would be helpful, and I’ve had some interest in posting it here. I am presenting exactly what the text says, drawing from searchable digitized ePub files. I’ll probably make a masterpost, but for now the tag to watch for is “#fëanorspotting”.

Below the cut for Length.

The Book of Lost Tales vol. 1:

V. The Coming of the Elves and the Making of Kôr:

“Then arose Fëanor of the Noldoli and fared to the Solosimpi and begged a great pearl, and he got moreover an urn full of the most luminous phosphor-light gathered of foam in dark places, and with these he came home, and he took all the other gems and did gather their glint by the light of white lamps and silver candles, and he took the sheen of pearls and the faint half-colours of opals, and he [?bathed] them in phosphorescence and the radiant dew of Silpion, and but a single tiny drop of the light of Laurelin did he let fall therein, and giving all those magic lights a body to dwell in of such perfect glass as he alone could make nor even Aulë compass, so great was the slender dexterity of the fingers of Fëanor, he made a jewel - and it shone of its own……… radiance in the uttermost dark; and he set it therein and sat a very long while and gazed at its beauty. Then he made two more, and had no more stuffs: and he fetched the others to behold his handiwork, and they were utterly amazed, and those jewels he called Silmarilli, or as we say the name in the speech of the Noldoli today Silubrilthin. Wherefore though the Solosimpi held ever that none of the gems of the Noldoli, not even that majestic shimmer of diamonds, overpassed their tender pearls, yet have all held who ever saw them that the Silmarils of Fëanor were the most beautiful jewels that ever shone or [?glowed].”

Commentary on V.:

“Features that remained are the generosity of the Noldor in the giving of their gems and the scattering of them on the shores (cf. The Silmarillion p. 61: ‘Many jewels the Noldor gave them [the Teleri], opals and diamonds and pale crystals, which they strewed upon the shores and scattered in the pools’); the pearls that the Teleri got from the sea (ibid.); the sapphires that the Noldor gave to Manwë (‘His sceptre was of sapphire, which the Noldor wrought for him’, ibid. p. 40); and, of course, Fëanor as the maker of the Silmarils—although, as will be seen in the next tale, Fëanor was not yet the son of Finwë (Nólemë).”

VI. The Theft of Melko and the Darkening of Valinor:

“The other Elves heeded these things not over much, and were at times sad and fearful at the lessened gladness of their kinsmen. Great mirth had Melko at this and wrought in patience biding his time, yet no nearer did he get to his end, for despite all his labours the glory of the Trees and the beauty of the gems and the memory of the dark ways from Palisor held back the Noldoli—and ever Nólemë spake against Melko, calming their restlessness and discontents. At length so great became [Nólemë’s] care that he took counsel with Fëanor, and even with Inwë and Ellu Melemno (who then led the Solosimpi), and took their rede that Manwë himself be told of the dark ways of Melko.”

“Now Melko knew that it was indeed war for ever between himself and all those other folk of Valinor, for he had slain the Noldoli—guests of the Valar—before the doors of their own homes. With his own hand indeed he slew Bruithwir father of Fëanor, and bursting into that rocky house that he defended laid hands upon those most glorious gems, even the Silmarils, shut in a casket of ivory. Now all that great treasury of gems he despoiled, and lading himself and all his companions to the utmost he seeks how he may escape.”

“At length that daytide of festival is over and the Gods are turned back towards Valmar, treading the white road from Kôr. The lights twinkle in the city of the Elves and peace dwells there, but the Noldoli fare over the plain to Sirnúmen sadly. Silpion is gleaming in that hour, and ere it wanes the first lament for the dead that was heard in Valinor rises from that rocky vale, for Fëanor laments the death of Bruithwir; and many of the Gnomes beside find that the spirits of their dead have winged their way to Vê. Then messengers ride hastily to Valmar bearing tidings of the deeds, and there they find Manwë, for he has not yet left that town for his abode upon Taniquetil. “Alas, O Manwë Súlimo,” they cry, “evil has pierced the Mountains of Valinor and fallen upon Sirnúmen of the Plain. There lies Bruithwir sire of Fëanor dead and many of the Noldoli beside, and all our treasury of gems and fair things and the loving travail of our hands and hearts through many years is stolen away. Whither O Manwë whose eyes see all things? Who has done this evil, for the Noldoli cry for vengeance, O most [?just] one!” 

“Therefore does Manwë bid them now, an they will, go back to Kôr, and, if they so desire, busy themselves in fashioning gems and fabrics anew, and all things of beauty and cost that they may need in their labour shall be given to them even more lavishly than before. But when Fëanor heard this saying, he said: “Yea, but who shall give us back the joyous heart without which works of loveliness and magic cannot be?—and Bruithwir is dead, and my heart also.” Many nonetheless went then back to Kôr, and some semblance of old joy is then restored, though for the lessened happiness of their hearts their labours do not bring forth gems of the old lustre and glory. But Fëanor dwelt in sorrow with a few folk in Sirnúmen, and though he sought day and night to do so he could in no wise make other jewels like to the Silmarils of old, that Melko snatched away; nor indeed has any craftsman ever done so since. At length does he abandon the attempt, sitting rather beside the tomb of Bruithwir, that is called the Mound of the First Sorrow, and is well named for all the woe that came from the death of him who was laid there. There brooded Fëanor bitter thoughts, till his brain grew dazed by the black vapours of his heart, and he arose and went to Kôr. There did he speak to the Gnomes, dwelling on their wrongs and sorrows and their minished wealth and glory—bidding them leave this prison-house and get them into the world. “As cowards have the Valar become; but the hearts of the Eldar are not weak, and we will see what is our own, and if we may not get it by stealth we will do so by violence. There shall be war between the Children of Ilúvatar and Ainu Melko. What if we perish in our quest? The dark halls of Vê be little worse than this bright prison….” And he prevailed thus upon some to go before Manwë with himself and demand that the Noldoli be suffered to leave Valinor in peace and set safely by the Gods upon the shores of the world whence they had of old been ferried.”

“To this [Manwë] added many words concerning Men and their nature and the things that would befall them, and the Noldoli were amazed, for they had not heard the Valar speak of Men, save very seldom; and had not then heeded overmuch, deeming these creatures weak and blind and clumsy and beset with death, nor in any ways likely to match the glory of the Eldalië. Now therefore, although Manwë had unburdened his heart in this way hoping that the Noldoli, seeing that he did not labour without a purpose or a reason, would grow calmer and more trustful of his love, rather were they astonished to discover that the Ainur made the thought of Men so great a matter, and Manwë’s words achieved the opposite of his wish; for Fëanor in his misery twisted them into an evil semblance, when standing again before the throng of Kôr he spake these words: “Lo, now do we know the reason of our transportation hither as it were cargoes of fair slaves! Now at length are we told to what end we are guarded here, robbed of our heritage in the world, ruling not the wide lands, lest perchance we yield them not to a race unborn. To these foresooth—a sad folk, beset with swift mortality, a race of burrowers in the dark, clumsy of hand, untuned to songs or musics, who shall dully labour at the soil with their rude tools, to these whom still he says are of Ilúvatar would Manwë Súlimo lordling of the Ainur give the world and all the wonders of its land, all its hidden substances—give it to these, that is our inheritance. Or what is this talk of the dangers of the world? A trick to deceive us; a mask of words! O all ye children of the Noldoli, whomso will no longer be house-thralls of the Gods however softly held, arise I bid ye and get you from Valinor, for now is the hour come and the world awaits.” In sooth it is a matter for great wonder, the subtle cunning of Melko—for in those wild words who shall say that there lurked not a sting of the minutest truth, nor fail to marvel seeing the very words of Melko pouring from Fëanor his foe, who knew not nor remembered whence was the fountain of these thoughts; yet perchance the [?outmost] origin of these sad things was before Melko himself, and such things must be—and the mystery of the jealousy of Elves and Men is an unsolved riddle, one of the sorrows at the world’s dim roots. Howso these deep things be, the fierce words of Fëanor got him instantly a mighty following, for a veil there seemed before the hearts of the Gnomes—and mayhap even this was not without the knowledge of Ilúvatar. Yet would Melko have been rejoiced to hear it, seeing his evil giving fruit beyond his hopes.”

VII. The Flight of the Noldoli:

“But Fëanor standing in the square about Inwë’s house in topmost Kôr will not be silenced, and cries out that all the Noldoli shall gather about him and hearken, and many thousands of them come to hear his words bearing slender torches, so that that place is filled with a lurid light such as has never before shone on those white walls. Now when they are gathered there and Fëanor sees that far the most of the company is of the kin of the Noldor1 he exhorts them to seize now this darkness and confusion and the weariness of the Gods to cast off the yoke—for thus demented he called the days of bliss in Valinor—and get them hence carrying with them what they might or listed. “If all your hearts be too faint to follow, behold I Fëanor go now alone into the wide and magic world to seek the gems that are my own, and perchance many great and strange adventures will there befall me more worthy of a child of Ilúvatar than a servant of the Gods.” Then is there a great rush of those who will follow him at once, and though wise Nólemë speaks against this rashness they will not hear him, and ever the tumult groweth wilder. Again Nólemë pleads that at least they send an embassy to Manwë to take due farewell and maybe get his goodwill and counsel for their journeying, but Fëanor persuades them to cast away even such moderate wisdom, saying that to do so were but to court refusal, and that Manwë would forbid them and prevent them: “What is Valinor to us,” say they, “now that its light is come to little—as lief and liever would we have the untrammeled world.” Now then they arm themselves as best they may—for nor Elves nor Gods in those days bethought themselves overmuch of weapons—and store of jewels they took and stuffs of raiment; but all their books of their lore they left behind, and indeed there was not much therein that the wise men among them could not match from memory. But Nólemë seeing that his counsel prevailed not would not be separated from his folk, and went with them and aided them in all their preparations. Then did they get them down the hill of Kôr lit by the flame of torches, and so faring in haste along the creek and the shores of that arm of the Shadowy Sea that encroached here upon the hills they found the seaward dwellings of the Solosimpi.”

“Behold, the counsel of Fëanor is that by no means can that host hope to win swiftly along the coast save by the aid of ships; “and these,” said he, “an the shore-elves will not give them, we must take”. Wherefore going down to the harbour they essayed to go upon those ships that there lay, but the Solosimpi said them nay, yet for the great host of the Gnome-folk they did not as yet resist; but a new wrath awoke there between Eldar and Eldar.”

Commentary on VII.:

“Of the treachery of the Fëanorians, sailing away in the ships and leaving the host of Fingolfin on the shores of Araman, there is of course in the old story no trace; but the blaming of Fëanor was already present (‘the Tents of Murmuring’, p. 168). It is a remarkable aspect of the earliest version of the mythology that while so much of the narrative structure was firm and was to endure, the later ‘genealogical’ structure had scarcely emerged. Turgon existed as the son of (Finwë) Nólemë, but there is no suggestion that Fëanor was close akin to the lord of the Noldoli, and the other princes, Fingolfin, Finarfin, Fingon, Felagund, do not appear at all, in any form, or by any name.”

VIII. The Tale of the Sun and Moon:

“Now these revealed to [Aulë] much store of crystals and delicate glasses that Fëanor and his sons had laid up in secret places in Sirnúmen”

X. Gilfanon’s Tale: The Travail of the Noldoli and the Coming of Mankind

“Now appears for the first time Maidros son of Fëanor (previously, in the tale of The Theft of Melko, the name was given to Fëanor’s grandfather, p. 146, 158). Maidros, guided by Ilkorins, led a host into the hills, either ‘to seek for the jewels’ (A), or ‘to search the dwellings of Melko’ (B—this should perhaps read ‘search for the dwellings of Melko’, the reading of C), but they were driven back with slaughter from the doors of Angamandi; and Maidros himself was taken alive, tortured—because he would not reveal the secret arts of the Noldoli in the making of jewels—and sent back to the Gnomes maimed. (In A, which still had Nólemë rather than Fëanor die in the Waters of Asgon, it was Fëanor himself who led the host against Melko, and it was Fëanor who was captured, tortured, and maimed.) Then the Seven Sons of Fëanor swore an oath of enmity for ever against any that should hold the Silmarils. (This is the first appearance of the Seven Sons, and of the Oath, though that Fëanor had sons is mentioned in the Tale of the Sun and Moon, p. 192.)”