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copiousloverofcopia · 2 years

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The Copia I love reading about is how he's portrayed as odd, quiet, nervous...finally getting the chance to bed a sister of sin, only to ask afterwards shyly "was....was that good?". Dude....she can't catch her breath, her ears popped twice from the strength of her orgasms, and she can smell colors now....OBVIOUSLY! Turns out he's some sort of sex God with a magic dick.🤣

Lol sooooo I did a thing. I also made Copia a virgin in this so it's an even bigger 😳

Anyways ghestie here you go.

Okie Dokie

Also available here on AO3!

Definitely NSFW beneath the cut

Copia took in a cleansing deep breath, his palms clammy beneath the leather of his embellished gloves. The Cardinal stood alone in his office. The day was winding down into night and there was no more paperwork that couldn't wait until tomorrow. It's time, he thought, staring at himself in the full length mirror–practicing what he would say. He adjusted his biretta and fastened his pellegrina, the diamond encrusted grucifix sprayed proudly across his chest prepared to be on his way. Tonight was the night he would tell you.

He had a noted pep in his step as he passed the siblings as they loitered in the hallways. A warm smile worn well on his face, only the hint of unease in his demeanor as he made his way to the chapel. His footfalls echoed off the marble floor as he stopped just outside the chapel.

This was your meeting spot. A public space as to not lead you both to temptation. Copia was always careful to not be perceived as pushy or too forward in your quiet romance. Leaving both of you on edge, constantly wanting more, but neither making the first move.

You still found it romantic however, the hours spent under the cathedral ceilings painted a rich shade of blue—mimicking the night sky. It was wondrous to behold and coupled with the warm glow of the candles that would embrace you, the perfect setting—if only he’d make a move.

You turned towards the noise, met with the sight of your sweet awkward Cardinal closing up the doors behind him. Your heart began to pound in your chest. There was something about him that, despite what others said about his nervous disposition and “rat-like” appearance, made you ache inside. You watched, a smile on your face as Copia made his way down the nave.

You stood up to greet him. Breath held within your chest as he walked toward you, his eyes still on his feet. When he finally looked up at you he smiled, shaking his head. “Oh no amore, please don’t stand on my account.” he insisted, motioning for you to be seated.

Copia made the Sign of Sin, as he slipped into the pew beside you. A traditional self blessing and blasphemous display, as an affront to God, in respect of his Infernal Majesty. The sign itself, sending your eyes straight to the Cardinal’s groin, inspiring lascivious imagery and making your cheeks ignite.

“Ahem…So why did you ask me here?” you inquired, clearing your throat as you shifted in your seat. Copia placed his hand tenderly atop of your thigh, instantly heat began coursing through you. You were almost embarrassed at just how flustered you became at a mere touch.

“You see…I have been thinking cara mia. I have been thinking that we should…um…that we should—”

“Should what C? Just spit it out already?" You laughed.

“That we should c-commit ourselves to sin. To …ah…you know to um…consummate our devotion in his name.” Copia confessed, pulling the biretta from his head. He fidgeted with it in his lap, patiently waiting to hear what you'd have to say. At first you were unsure you’d heard him right. Both of you had been careful to not discuss this particular subject, straying far away from anything that may lead to its implication.

Now here he was telling you it was his deepest desire, his wish for you both to become one. Your heart pumped hard, so hard you felt it might break free of your chest. Your would-be lover's words made your blood rush, flooding your entire body, and culminating in the growing ache between your thighs.

“Oh…that.” You said, the words choked as you tried to speak them, your mouth dry and voice shaky.

“Sí…I…I have thought a lot about it…uh…in the past few weeks and well—I would like to try.” Copia explained, his eyes meeting with yours. The impact of his captivating and mismatched gaze, parting your lips and creating a throb felt between your legs.

“Are you sure, I mean I know that this will…would be your first–”

“I…think…no I know. I am sure. I can’t promise I will be any good amore, but I know that I want to be with you—in all ways. And this—this is something I truly desire. As a matter of fact. I–I have never wanted anything more.” He vowed, his hands taking hold of yours. Copia ran his thumb against the back of your hand, a soft and intimate gesture that only served to impassion you more.

“Ok.” You said, the only word you were able to form from your lips. Copia's eyes stared into you, growing hungry with each passing second. He removed his gloves, placing them beside you on the old wood pew, as he drew forth another smile. Suddenly he brought his mouth to yours, your face cradled within his hand, as he pressed his soft lips onto yours. A rush sent through you, his tongue slipping inside your mouth and dancing with yours as if he had done it a million times before.

You lost yourself almost instantly, the moment both of you had secretly been waiting for was upon you. Now you struggled to hold in the moaning that so desperately wanted to leave your lips. Feeling his bare hand slide up under your habit made you breathless and trembling. Copia and you both moaning, fully unable to hold back as his fingertips met with the wet fabric of your panties.

“Oh amore, I want you. Por favore…Touch me.” he begged, lifting his hips up to send your attention to the swell of his cock below his cassock.

“Oh C!” You moaned, running your hand along on the rigid thick bulge of his pants.Your eyes widened, he was surprisingly well endowed. Your cunt aching so badly with the knowledge that you longed to have him inside you even more.

“Il tuo tocco è inebriante. Oh cazzo spero di poter durare.” Copia mewled, biting down on his lower lip as he slid his fingers past your panties, slipping carefully to meet with the full wetness of your folds. The silky flesh, plump with blood and need, making his cock pulse as he pushed his fingers deep inside. You both moaned once more, Copia stroking you and pressing into your aching cunt with full fervor. You felt yourself gripping the edge of the pew, Your nails digging into the wood as your hips rose up on Copia's hand.

“Amore, I want to be inside you. I need you now please.” Copia whined, unable to stand how good your pussy felt on his fingers. There was no need to rest on ceremony, he couldn’t hold off any longer.

“Take me C, show me how devoted you are to the sin of lust. To our dark God.” You replied, where those particular words had come from you didn't know, as he pulled his fingers from you. The Cardinal dropped his pants and undid his excessive buttons on his cassock. Rushing to get at his heavy, leaking cock as you wiggled out of your panties and leaned over the back of the pew. He pulled up your habit, bent over and ready as you revealed your dripping folds to him.

"Oh sweet Lucifer." Copia said, sucking in his lower lip as he stared at you. “Are you ready cara?” his words, even more strained and overcome with the impulse to fill you.

“Yes! C, please I’m yours!” You cried, looking over your shoulder as you raised up your ass before him, an offering fit for Asmodeus himself. Copia licked his lips, his eyes never leaving your body, as he rubbed his cock through your folds. Once he gathered enough of your slick, the head of his pulsing red cock pushed through and he buried it deep inside you.

“Mmmm…cazzo amore, you feel so good.” Copia groaned, sucking in air through his clenched teeth as he spread you out inside. Thrusting and pumping his hard cock into your warm cunt. You pushed yourself back on to him, allowing him in deeper. He grabbed hold of your thighs, steadying you as he fucked you right there in the chapel. Both of you too overcome with the heated sensations, of him sliding in and out, to care about being caught.

The girth of his cock filled you so tightly. The pressure against your every bundle of nerves, setting you aflame. The way he moved, the feeling of him inside…it was so salacious and unlike anything you'd experienced before. You wondered how the two of you were ever able to abstain before.

Copia pulled you up a bit, your hands still holding on the back of the pew for dear life, as he re-positioned you. “C? Ahhh AHHH!” You screamed, as this new position had him hitting you in just the right spot. Your body, clenching down around his cock and holding tight to him with his every movement.

“I want to be deeper inside you, feel every part of you." Copia panted as he rolled back your hips. The tip of his cock was pressing hard against your ribbed flesh with each thrust. The spot before only you managed to find, somehow the virginal Cardinal had found it within moments. The way it felt to have his cock rubbing you there sent you floating, your soul transcending your body.

You came hard, seizing down on him. Tasting the colors as they flashed by—painted on your eyelids held closed tight. Your mind, completely awash in the sensations felt between you. The rat man had surpassed all expectations sending you to the heights of passion and lust never before imagined.

With each passing moment, things only deepened in intensity. Both of you, clambering for air and struggling to maintain your grip. Quickly losing the strength to keep going but still needing to meet that extremely satisfying and fulfilling end. Copia continued to pump himself into you, the drops of sweat felt as they rolled down the small of your backs.

“Mmm… How? C?” you asked, breathless. Your words, almost incomprehensible as Copia smiled. He pressed his lips to your shoulder and he pounded himself even deeper.

“You bring out the beast in me. I need to fill you. Por favore allow me to cum…I don’t think I can hold it any more.” he growled, his grip tightening as he dug his fingers into the flesh of your ass. Copia losing his coordination with each subsequent thrust, ever so close to letting go.

“Cum C! Make me cum again for you!” You screamed. All of a sudden Copia pulled out from you, the sudden shock the loss of his width inside you short lived as he whipped you around to sit on his lap. You sunk back down on his cock, this time facing him. It was even more intimate and intense, his eyes locked with yours as he began to thrust up inside you, rubbing your clit with his fingers.

Your mouth fell open with his gentle touch. Copia taking his time as you rode him, holding you to slow you down. Both of you delighting in the feeling of you rocking your hips as you slid up and down on his hard shaft.

“Ah…mmm...you feel so good amore. I—I'm cumming, now cum for me!” Copia's words acting as a command, feeling his cock swell inside you. Pressing just enough more to send you over. You saw sparkles in your vision as you felt him begin to cum, the hot ropes of his seed pouring deep inside you. Your cunt squeezing him tightly as he tried to keep moving.

You both let out a final yowl as you road out the fall from your heights of pleasure. When it was all said and done you collapsed into Copia's arms. Sweaty and satisfied, a wide smile pressed on your face. Never before had felt this way and you suddenly wondered where this sweet dorky man had been hiding all this animalistic lust.

Copia broke the quiet come between the two of you as he spoke. “Did…did I do alright?” he asked, his face still flush from release. You looked at him in pure disbelief. Surely this wasn’t a serious question. Was it?

“I don’t want to sound like im being disingenuous or like im making stuff up…” you began swallowing back as you prepared yourself to answer, “C…I—I saw the end of the universe with that orgasm.” you confessed. You felt the words may sound silly but your satisfied, yet sore body was a testament to their truth. The cosmos had opened up to you with his touch. The pleasure he made you feel renewed your soul in ways that only Lucifer himself would be able to put into words, words beyond what you could muster.

“Okie dokie. Thats good then?” he asked, still unsure of himself as he smiled up at you. You couldn't help but break out in laughter. How naive he could be to not realize this. How could he not realize what a sex god he was as you sat in his lap within the pews, covered in sweat and cum from the encounter. Surely he was only joking, but you responded anyway.

“Yes, C…that was definitely good.”

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quecksilvereyes · 1 year

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Forgive me, brother, for I cannot follow. The nave of this cathedral has long been robbed of its candles and the doors of the confessional have rotted off their hinges an age ago. The lattice has broken from the window, the curtain hangs no longer.

If I leant forwards on this weeping wooden bench, I could fit my palm to the slope of your jaw. I could lay my forehead against yours, I could taste the salt on your cheeks. The window is wide enough, brother.

Forgive me, brother, for I have drowned myself in spirits. My hems are wet and the world is spinning. My tongue tastes as though some sick, bloating thing has made itself at home within my mouth. I've stuck my own head below the surface, brother, and I screamed until my lungs burned and my nails broke where they clutched for purchase.

A question, brother. A thought. How long must I claw at divinity to drag it down to earth? Someone has fallen. Another must surely follow. Do you not think it lonely, in that box? The stone is crumbling, and the earth is shifting. How long does a god sit atop waning faith?

Your knuckles are raw. There is blood on your lips, and your back is hunched. A self-important prick. A blown-up brat. Too busy trying to get himself shot to watch where he's going. It is the four and twentieth day of the month and this is the twenty-fourth phone call mother has made, her mouth drawn tight.

This is a confessional, brother. Did his teeth crack under your fist? Did his blood run warm? Did he apologise for the way he looked at you, or the way he stood where you walked? Did you reach for a sword no-one can carry here? I know the way you dig your teeth into a duel, brother, but this was no duel.

This was just a boy.

Forgive me, brother, for I doubt you. Your hands are shaking, and in the dim sunlight that reaches through the dirty windows of this cathedral, your eyes are a sky dipped into a brilliant twilight. In the darkness of your mouth, your teeth shine like stars.

These are no earthly constellations. The vowels on your lips are not of a language we share with our parents. How many rosaries must I pray, brother, for these sins? Must I shed dress and negligee and girdle and skin, and bare to the yawning mouth of this cathedral my flayed flesh?

Will you dig your claws into me, will you rip muscle from me in ribbons until you find, nestled between my lungs and crushed by my spine, the pearl of my faith? Will you pry me open with golden, bruised hands, and take from me the only thing of worth I can still produce? So you may hold it up when you return, upon a pillow of silk - an offering. There is just a delay. Worry not, the faith is still there.

Forgive me, brother, for I will not board the train. I will not clutch the little ones to my breast, and I will not bury my face in your chest.

I watched you slay a beast-god when we were children. Its blood soaked you to the bone, ten-and-three and weeping sorrow, red from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. To the tip of your sword and the tip of your tongue, until the field was flooded and the skies groaned.

I took your face in my hands and kissed your slick cheek. At our feet, the last breaths of the one hundred year winter rattled from the witch's lungs, and the beast's claws wore themselves to dust. Our little brother lay dead in the sludge. Our little sister wailed until her voice gave out.

Eight. And ten.

Forgive me brother, but I am reaching through the window. My nails are broken, I know, and my hands are calloused. I am digging into your flesh, I know, but maybe, if you folded yourself right, you could fit through it. Maybe, if you bandaged your knuckles and closed your eyes, you could submerge yourself, full-bodied, and draw the blood from your every pore.

There is no holy water in the basin anymore, but the river by the mill might do. Perhaps we will find a hammer with which to smash the pillars of your shoulders. My brother, where will the skies rest then? Won't they slide from you, and aren't they already shattered?

You do not move. The twilight shines with salt. Your hands shake and your hair is golden. Come with me, you say. You go through a wardrobe and I follow, you drape yourself in hide and I follow, you are crowned and I follow. You walk from a train station and I follow, you duel the man who has sat himself upon your throne and I follow. My skies and horizons, my brother.

You will board the train. I will dip my face below the waterline. Forgive me.

The cathedral is ransacked, and I do not know how to make it fit for worship.

- High Queen Susan the Gentle gives her last confession to her brother, High King Peter the Magnificent, successor of the lion by right of blood.

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scotianostra · 6 months

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Happy St Andrews Day.

As part of our Patron Saint’s Feast Day the Scottish Saltire is proudly flown and many people add it to their posts on social media to celebrate the day, but how did Scotland adopt the saltire?

There is no actual date, or in fact nothing in our written history of the time, but legend has it that in AD 832 the king of the Picts, ‘Aengus MacFergus’, ( Anglified to Angus but some stories say Hungus) with the support of 'Scots’ from Dalriada, won a great battle against King Athelstane of the Northumbrians. The site of the legendary battle became known as Athelstaneford in present-day East Lothian.

St Andrew visited the Pictish leader in a dream before the battle and told him that victory would be won. When the battle itself was raging, a miraculous vision of the St Andrew’s Cross was seen shining in the sky, giving a boost to the morale and fighting spirit of his warriors. The result was a victory over the Saxons, and the death of Athelstan. Thus, after this victory, according to the tradition, the Saltire or St Andrew’s Cross became the flag of Scotland, and St Andrew the national patron saint.

While there is no written reference to the battle in Scotland from the period it was said to have taken place, this is not surprising, as it was a time for which we have little or no documentation for anything. The earliest written mention of the Battle of Athelstaneford in Scottish history comes from years later in the newspapers of the day, if you follow my posts then you know I dip into these “Chronicles from time to time, the first one to mention Athelstaneford is the Scotichronicon, written by the Scottish historian Walter Bower.

The Scotichronicon has been described by some Scottish historians as a valuable source of historical information, especially for the times that were recent to him or within his own memory. But he also wrote about earlier times, and this included the battle at Athelstaneford.

Bower’s account includes the scene where Aengus MacFergus is visited by St Andrew in a dream before the battle. He was told that the cross of Christ would be carried before him by an angel, there was no mention of a St Andrew’s Cross in the sky in this version. It was in later accounts, from the 16th centuries onwards, that we have the description of an image of St Andrew’s Cross shining in the sky

Bower was writing in the early 1400s. The bitter and bloody struggle to retain Scotland’s independence was not just a recent memory but also a current reality for him. Parts of Scotland were still occupied by England, and Bower had been involved in raising the money to release Scotland’s king, James I, from English captivity.

Also, Scotland’s early historical records and documents had been deliberately destroyed during the invasion by the English king Edward I. This was done in part as an attempt to remove historical evidence that Scotland had been an independent kingdom. The idea was simple: take away a nation’s history and you strip it of its identity and justification for its independent existence. The theft of the Stone of Destiny was part of this process, the Black Rood which was believed to contain a piece of the Cross Jesus was crucified on was also removed, I have covered both these in previous posts.

Part of Bower’s motivation in writing his Scotichronicon was to help restore this stolen history. He was a scholar and a man of the church. In his time, the figure of St Andrew had become a prominent presence in Scottish society.

The greatest church building in the land during his time was the Cathedral of St Andrew, which housed relics of St Andrew himself. It had taken over a hundred years to build and wasn’t formally consecrated until 1318, just four years after Bannockburn. The ceremony of course included Robert the Bruce and at it thanks was given to St Andrew for Scotland’s victory.

Less than 100 years after this, in 1413, the University of St Andrews was established and Walter Bower was one of its first students. By this time, the Cathedral of St Andrew was a place of pilgrimage, with thousands travelling there to venerate the saint’s relics. A pilgrimage route from the south took in the shrine of Our Lady at Whitekirk, not far from the site of the battle, and many pilgrims took a ferry across the Firth from North Berwick, where the ruins and remains of the old St Andrew’s Kirk can still be seen close to the Scottish Seabird Centre.

So as he sat down to write his history of earlier times, he was able to trace this connection to St Andrew, using the limited earlier written accounts, such as those of earlier Chronicler I’ve mentioned before, John Fordun, who lived in the 1300s. While Fordun doesn’t specifically mention the location of Athelstaneford, he records a battle which took place between the Picts led by Aengus and a force from the south led by Athelstan, and said the location of the battle was about two miles from Haddington. The account of St Andrew appearing in a dream to Aengus is also described by Fordun.

This creates a powerful link to the development of the written version of the story. Let’s remember Bower came from what is now East Lothian. Let us also remember that people in the early centuries stored and passed on much of their historical knowledge not in the written word but in memory and handed down oral traditions. People told stories, remembered them and told them to the next generation. Undeniably, some details would be forgotten or changed over time, but the bones of the story would be handed down. And that would include reference to locations of significant events in the local landscape.

Bower will have had access to this rich oral tradition of local stories based on handed-down collective memories of past events, which is perhaps why he was able to name the location. The later writers who added to the story of the battle will likewise have found new sources in the oral tradition to add to the narrative. Even in the 19th century, cartographers mapping the area were able to identify locations traditionally associated with the battle from local people who were custodians of ancestral memory.

This is how the story of the Battle of Athelstaneford and its connection with St Andrew and the Saltire has evolved.

The village is home to the National Flag Heritage Centre which occupies a lectern doocot built in 1583 and rebuilt in 1996. It is at the back of the village church. Today the village is surrounded by farmland and has little in the way of amenities. Tourists can follow the "Saltire Trail", a road route which passes by various local landmarks and places of historical interest.

Athelstaneford Parish Kirk has a connection with the subject of my post last week, author Nigel Tranter, who was a prominent supporter of the Scottish Flag Trust. He married in the church, and in April 2008 a permanent exhibition of his memorabilia was mounted in the north transept of the church. Items include a copy of Nigel Tranter's old typewriter, a collection of manuscripts and books, and other personal items. The display was previously at Lennoxlove House, and prior to that at Abbotsford House, the home of Sir Walter Scott.

#scotland #scottish #history #Picts #Pictland #sr andrew #legend #Patron saints day #religious figure

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mirdance · 2 years

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The Linguist and the Bard

Day 13/14 - Age Gap/Worship

Pairing: Venti x Linguist

NSFW

Ludi Harpastum’s echoing festivities still sang strong as the moon hung in the sky like a nostalgic photograph. With any holiday in Mondstadt, the masses dove into whatever alcoholic liquid content their wild hands could obtain. The bubbles of wine and whiskey permeated the air along with the relaxed cheers of overworked farmers and knights. Their joy could not be constrained to a wooden mug; everyone was a friend to each other in such a way that she had hardly witnessed during travels. Mondstadt could be crude, dirty, sometimes lazy, yet no one turned away a helping hand. Houses stayed unlocked, farms somehow untouched by thieves. A wallet left on the church pew would still be there, untouched.

Which was where she found herself once again as the night lingered on.

She sat on the edge of the back pew, flipping her wallet between her fingers. The cathedral's atmosphere changed after its people emptied, after the sun slumbered. Gossip of the latest trending hat or sport felt as far as Celestia.

The Celestial rock sat uncomfortably in the sky through one of the many windows as if it had been painted on to a background it didn't belong. The glow of the moon danced in stained glass colors as she turned her gaze towards the alter.

She was a linguist, and linguists didn't belong in church. They tarried through forbidden books and parchment. Things that might shake the foundation. Not that Mondstadt was particularly religious compared to other regions. No, it wasn't religion that held the people. It was history. And history was doomed to repeat itself if one did not fully comprehend it.

She felt the precipice of unique knowledge on the tip of her tongue. She could taste it burning down her throat like the alcohol she'd declined.

Such thoughts belonged at the Akademiya; folks would rave. That was good and all, but we needed to plow and bring in and carry and dig our nails into the dirt and pick the apples that delicately hung in economic balance.

Returning from those daunting green library halls was both a blessing and a curse. Part of her still remained religiously hanging over an old tome and part in the creaking wooden bed of her family home. (Her plaid blanket frayed at the edges and smelled of warm tobacco and newspaper; it always welcomed her.) Whatever part remained within the pew was almost someone else, someone as far as the Celestia rock or the alter. Someone whose bones ached to be released. She could almost see it staring back at her, as if her conscious were floating above.

"Wow, I didn't expect anyone else to be here."

Her shoulders struck the back of her seating. A young man, possibly shy of 21, made his way from an unknown side room. His hips swayed with the bottle of red wine in his hand and the tips of his braided hair. She'd come for quiet contemplation away from the inquiring crowds, but she supposed anyone had the right to do so, even inebriated men.

He plopped himself next to her and stretched his long legs. His belt clinked and rattled and glistened in the little moonlight they had. "Sometimes it's good to get away, you know? Even a bard like me needs a bit of rest." He elegantly crossed his legs and brought the bottle to his lips. A hint of red dusted his cheekbones, matching the rosy color of his plump lips.

A bard. It had been a while since she'd sat down to have a discussion with one. Despite the Akademiya incessant scientific approaches, the arts were gaining more traction as they showed promise for developing brains. And a good bard knew history. A good bard was a good debater. A hidden gem amongst scholars. The Akademiya simply did not have ears to hear it.

"I understand. After coming home from Sumeru, the liveliness can be a bit overwhelming." She crossed her hands over her lap. "I'm sure being a bard has its rough days."

The man chuckled, and she almost did a double take at his face as he did so. The chuckle was lower in pitch than his voice had presented, almost gravely in nature. "Rough is one way to put it. But I wouldn't change it for the world," he beamed.

Another swig touched his lips. Her gaze followed the lines of his angled jaw until it rested on the edges of his teal hair. It almost glowed like ley line residue in the night, haunting and ethereal.

"Would you like a taste?" The man's toothy smirk matched his carefree body language. He extended the bottle.

"The church typically looks down upon excess," she chuckled.

"And when did Barbatos ever make such a rule? Doesn't he desire for a city of freedom, unbound by rules and regulations?"

"And this is why other nations view him as a demon."

"Do you?"

She took it and brought it to her lips without a thought. The acidic burn clung to the sides of her esophagus until it rested within her stomach. She cleared her throat and handed the bottle back. "No, I do not."

"Have as much as you desire." He laughed and swirled the liquid. The bottle sloshed. "This bad boy is strong enough to take a god down. Probably the highest alcohol content here in the great city of freedom."

Well, shit.

"Hey, you'll be fine." He patted her shoulder, his fingers lingering close to her neck. "Do they not have spirits in Port Ormos?"

"They do." She rolled her shoulders. "I partook occasionally." She paused. "How did you know I was in the Akademiya."

He winked. His eyes matched his hair, otherworldly and as bright as his teeth that flashed her way. "Maybe I'm just that smart. The way you rub your hands, your posture, that oh so daunting thinking pose." Another swig. "Nah, look." He caressed the lapel of her collar. "You're Akademiya pin gave you away."

The berries from his breath wafted her way. "That will do it."

"Whatcha studying? Oh, people probably ask you that all the time." He let go of her collar and dipped his head apologetically. "But I can't help but be curious. You know how nosy we bards can be."

This was abundantly true, and while the common question around the tavern could grind at her nerves after a while, the bards curiosity felt genuine. Or she was simply looking too far into the man she just met. She was self aware enough to know what loneliness did to a person's skin.

"Linguistics," she replied. "I read dusty old letters and books and old languages and study the evolution of words." She turned her gaze to the rock in the sky. "Useless things such as that."

His gaze followed hers and flickered to her eyes and back again. "Fascinating. Though I wouldn't call it useless. Words and syntax determine how societies are built. They're the very foundation of the world."

When their gazes locked, the acid in her stomach bubbled. "Yes, that's exactly right. For example, the words we use for wine here shape how we view the substance. Yet in Liyue their usage depends on context and tone more so than anything of our origins here, which..."

The corners of his stained mouth caught her off guard. He rested his chin on his arm against the pew. "Do go on. Your voice brings my ears music."

"You probably already know all this." Her eyes flitted to the bottle and the fingers that elegantly wrapped around the middle.

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Tell me something you're passionate about."

She took the bottle from him and threw back. He snickered in delight; it didn't escape her notice how his eyes lingered upon her throat. With a satisfied exhale, she returned the bottle. Their fingers brushed.

Her hands were better in her lap.

"The folklore of each land." The liquid brought her mind into dizzying clarity. "How they connect. Their origins. How far within the earth can we go to discover what we've lost? How should we preserve our current language so future generations can learn from the past?"

His eyes slowly shut, as if he were taking a moment to soak her words. "I see." He opened them again, and his pupils dilated in the moonlight. "Most would look to the skies for answers."

She followed his stare out the window. "True. But there are lots mysterious within the depths of the dirt and old words. Why do we pray to the Archons and not Celestia? Why not the old goddess of time anymore? Celestia must be asleep, and it's up to humanity not to repeat its sins. Even with old Ludi Harpastum, women were assaulted on the whims of a king. What if that is all buried to history, only to happen again? Nothing to point to?"

"A dangerous line of thought," he stated with a lilt at the edge of his tongue. "But an interesting one. What if you find something that shakes you to the core? That changes humanity?"

"Good." The berries and acid still hovered over her tongue. "What's the point of trying to progress if we can't change? Shake me to my core. I bask in the opportunity for my world view to be shattered into pieces."

His grin widened, all teeth, almost fang-like and hanging on the essence of her words like it hung on the wine.

And that was the first that a man called Venti followed the linguist around.

~~~

Distant cathedral bells rang in the morning haze. She caressed a glass of coffee laden with a hint of vodka in the back of Angel's Share. A few patrons scattered about the place, but most folks would be sitting in the pews of the church, not the den of drunkards.

"Didn't expect to see you here."

Venti. She eyed him over her drink. "Isn't today a holy day? Shouldn't you be singing somewhere?"

He helped himself to the chair across. The seat scraped against the flooring in one long stroke before he plummeted into it. His arms spread wide as he gestured around. "Is this not also a holy place? Where the people are gathered, so shall Barbatos be."

Smoke hung in the air like fog. Mumbled curses. Rustling of cards and clinking of gambling coins. Would a god sit among them, lounging like Venti, a cigar in one hand and mug of beer on the table?

"It is," she concluded.

"Then let us pray." Venti playfully clapped his hands. "Thank Barbatos for the mora I received to pay for this tab."

"Oh? You actually brought mora this time?"

He winked. "Can't I treat a lady every once in awhile?"

"Then we should be thanking you," she stated seriously. "I see how hard you work despite the...rumors."

If one looked closely, they'd see Venti's shoulders shudder ever so slightly. He tipped his chair onto two legs. "Hm, how blasphemous," he cried in false bravado. "Praying to me instead of Barbatos. What would he say?"

"He probably wouldn't give a fuck."

His chair hit all fours; his laugh melded with the heavy smoke. "Well, then," he leaned on one elbow and drew a long draw of his cigar. "Maybe I should pray to you?" ~~~

"You're so young," she mumbled through the tangled mess of Venti's hair as his arms snaked around her waist. "Compared to me."

Two bottles of empty wine clanked around their feet on the plaid blanket. Orange hues painted the sky as the moon began it's assent. "I'm too old for anything anymore."

"No, no," he grumbled in her shoulder. "You are. So young."

Inebriated and warm, she was inclined to believe him. There were times his attention would take pause, his gaze penetrating something far off that she could not see, words escaping his song that only the ancients could know. Like the fae of old, he invited her into him; if it was for a price, her body and mind did not care.

In its own way, their lips clattering together beneath the statue of Barbatos was a form of worship.

"Did you know," he said in between kisses placed upon her collarbone. "Barbatos fell as a demon, yet..." He sucked the mole on the side of her neck. "His rebellion was unbeknownst to the heavens." A nibble. "He could walk between the Abyss and Celestia."

"Oh?" She inhaled. "Will you play old man today and tell me fairytales?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you." He edged his thumb over her lower lip. "Heh. Even if it's not accurate, it's a nice story, don't you think? Besides," he kissed her upper lip. "When you get to be old like me, fairytales are what you hang onto."

"Old like you." She grinned as his fingers twirled behind her waistband. "Perhaps we've drunk enough."

"No, no, darling," he sang while tugging her garments to her ankles. "I don't think I've had enough to drink."

His tongue was on her folds like mouth to wine. The flat of his tongue languidly dragged from her cunt to the tip of her hooded clit. Her hands jerked in sensitivity and thudded against the statue behind. Her bundle swirled around his heated lapping and grew to meet his taste buds.

"Gods." She clutched his head.

With more strength than one might think of his size, he pried her thighs from his skull and chuckled. "We should thank Barbatos for such a tasty meal. Since you're singing so beautifully for his graven image."

She wanted nothing more than to snap her legs around his head, to feel the full heat against her mound. He was relentless; her thighs quivered against the ground, held steady by his palms. Whines filled the breeze as he lightly tapped his tongue against her clit.

"Mphm." Her hips dug the air. "God." A string of curses and praise followed, Barbatos's name falling from her lips like dandelion seeds.

"That's it." His voice fell in husky vibrations, and his palms fell to the wayside as she clamped around him and held him to herself.

The slurping and squelching that drizzled from his lips was anything but godly.

Without any notification, he curled a finger into her cunt and pumped the digit in time with his mouth. Had he enjoyed the blasphemous nature of her cries to that extent? She groaned and dug her nails into his scalp, allowing her voice to carry with the wind more names and gods.

The slender finger she clamped around was absolutely relentless as she road her high across his face.

Belt buckles immediately clinked. His leaking cock breached her entrance and bottomed out. Both clutched one another in thrusting pulsing groans. As if pleasure were the only need in the world. As if her walls belonged around him, in more ways than physical.

His orgasm was fast and harsh. His knuckles grew white from the grip he held her hips; his own hips continued fucking his seed into her until he was all but jelly, shuddering atop her in soft praises.

The night sky watched them hold each other breathless into the dawn, a festival of tangled bodies and lustful song.

#venti x original character #venti x oc #genshin smut #mir writes #genshin impact #kinktober 2022 #yandere genshin impact #venti smut #religious themes

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marshmallowprotection · 1 year

Text

Snow

For @rfaromance Holiday Event.

"You know, I couldn't take him outside when we were younger if it was cold like this. There was only so much the donated clothes from the cathedral could do. It didn't matter how much I tried to layer him up, there was always a chance that he would get sick. I don't know what I would have done if he would have gotten sick and our mother wouldn't have let me buy him medication," Saeyoung said, his eyes never leaving his brother for a second, as always.

"He always wanted to touch the snow, though. There was one time when I would describe to him what it felt like and I knew it wasn't enough. He had a smile on his face because he felt like he could live vicariously through me. I hated telling him... no. It made me feel like such a terrible brother. I know I can be overprotective and overwhelming. But I was always looking out for his best interest. I always wanted to do the right thing for him."

He was cautious about it these days.

Of course, it would make sense at this point. After all, he almost lost his brother to an explosion. That wasn't easy. Now he was even more worried about something going wrong whether he wanted to admit it or not. He was in therapy to work on that. Some days were better than others, though. This was a good day, though. However, his mind couldn't help but wander to those years when they had been young boys.

The sound of childish laughter escaped Lucy, V's daughter, as she playfully hit Ray with a fresh ball of snow. Ray didn't seem to mind it. He laughed, quiet as can be, whispering something to her before she'd dart off into the snowy hills to hide from her family.

She was like their little sister, no, she was their little sister. Ray and Saeyoung didn't mind babysitting a little sister. She was cute, sweet, and spoke to her heart without hesitation. Of course, that was tough for her parents, namely V, who always seemed so flabbergasted when a child could sass back at him with such glee.

They were all playing out there. V, his partner, Ray, and Lucy. Of course, the odds were in the favor of the younger pair. Nobody would let snowball fights end without letting the child win, after all. Whereas, you and Saeyoung had taking a small break just to appreciate the scenery. It was wonderful. It was a perfect day. There was light snowfall and you could hear the sounds of footsteps in the distance. It was quiet but not in an ominous way.

It was almost an welcoming embrace.

You were happy to be a part of this little family. As Saeyoung's partner, you were swept into this right before your eyes. You knew how much it meant to him to have people this close to his family and what it meant to be trusted with this. To be trusted to be this close to the people that matter the most. Even if you were still getting to know everything about him, you were grateful that he was willing to open his heart this much. You were glad to see the snow falling from the sky, kissing his reddened cheeks as if to make him glow.

Not with a fever, no, with a glow of life unlike anything you had ever seen. His light was one you couldn't imagine going out. It was almost a miracle within itself that he had been able to keep going with such faith and passion in what he believed in. There was nothing that could put him out. After a lifetime of going through things that you couldn't even imagine, he still stood his ground. If anything, it spoke to your faith and the belief that it instilled into you. Even if things became ugly and there were those that tried to snuff out your light, as long as you believed deep down inside of your heart in all the good you knew, nothing could destroy it.

You pressed your hand atop his. "You'll never have to go back to those days. Now you and your brother can go outside anytime you want to. Even if you get sick because you stayed out all night long, there's nothing stopping you from getting the medication. The world's at your fingertips. I can't imagine what that must feel like. But I do know one thing, I know that your faith in goodness paid off. You wanted a world like this for him... and for you, and now you have it, Saeyoung."

He smiled. You knew that he understood that. He had freedom that he never had before. His brother had the freedom that he never had before. Things were ultimately going to get better the more time he had to heal. You couldn't wait to see them get better in front of your very eyes.

His fingers intertwined with yours. "This snow is the first of many I hope to share with you. That's what I want. It's my new dream."

"I'm looking forward to our future winters, too."

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charlesandmartine · 2 months

Text

Thursday 11th April 2024

The first sight on opening the blinds this morning at 7.45 was the clear blue sky totally uninterrupted by cloud. The second noticeable thing was Table Mountain clearly peeping above the building in front of us. What's more there was no cloud covering any of it's 3558ft of solid granite rock. Looking good we thought to get to the top today. Originally named Hoerikwaggo by the San tribe, in time this became difficult to pronounce so after tables had been invented, António de Saldanha from Portugal climbed the mighty mountain in 1503 and because of it's uncanny likeness to a table named it Taboa do Cabo (Table of the Cape). Clearly this was also difficult for some, so it became Table Mountain as we know it today.

Having said all that, for the third day running the mountain was shut, this time due to very high winds.

Plan B. So we googled Art Galleries and found reference to South Africa National Gallery just a mile away, so best foot forward and all that. Our route seemed to take us from the now familiar Waterfront area out into the CBD and beyond to what began to morph into a very pleasing part of town. The buildings became colonial, Georgian and well, British. Off to our left was the grand stuccoed and palladian shape of the House of Parliament. Over to our right was the Cathedral of St.George where of course Archbishop Tutu had been in residence, and also contains the organ incidentally from St.Margarets London, moved there in 1909. Between these two buildings was the entrance to a stunning and quite fetching park, passing yet more stuccoed buildings and culminating with the National Gallery. These grounds formed an unexpected oasis of tranquility and occasionally, white squirrels. As the sun shone, we felt quite grateful the mountain was shut because we probably would not have found this hallowed place. The gardens were originally landscaped in 1652 to provide fresh vegetables to Dutch trading ships that harboured in Cape Town on navigating the Cape of Good Hope. The first Cape wine was produced in 1656 from vines planted in these gardens. Now laid out in partarre form with rose gardens it makes a truly lovely spot and we enjoyed a flat white and lunch within it's leafy confines. Autumn is on its way and gardeners were gathering leaves.

Very interesting art gallery. The curators struggle with achieving the right mix of African versus European art. The problem being that they have an awful lot of European/ British output and very little African. This balance made even worse by the years of apartheid when African art was very much disparaged. Thankfully one leading light in the indigenous department shines through; one Esther Mahlangu who despite lacking early on with confidence and encouragement stuck to her feather brush and produced a prolific output. Including painting her parents house (ie all of it, top to bottom) along with a Series 5 BMW! You try and stop her.

Tiring now we turned for the Waterfront again, popping into Avis Rental to remind them to hose down the charabanc for us tomorrow so that we can set forth on the next stage of our journey. We agreed they could deliver it to us at the apartment while they were about it.

Back to the apartment for dinner. Great day and it is still blowing a gale outside.

ps Also found a chunk of the Berlin Wall!

pps The whole town is swarming tonight with people celebrating the end of Ramadan. Not to feel outdone, we bought a halal sausage!

#Cape Town Parliament

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strykingback · 6 months

Note

On nearly every monitor throughout the governments of Remnant, only the words, "REPENT." would be featured on the screens of many. Systems were being hacked if only to send a message to the people.

And then a voice was heard.

It was the voice of an elderly man, though his voice held the strength and resolve of a resilient force, a force that would signal the coming apocalypse for this unfortunate world.

"And yet, after all these cycles, you still find yourself screaming in terror into that void where no one would ever answer you. No one but me. For I am the voice of one calling in the wilderness. I am the alpha and the omega. The possibilities within me are beyond anything you can conceive. Yet you still insist on resisting. Yet you refuse to submit your guilt to me. As if you could atone for it in a way that matters."

Unidentified spacecraft and ships would be nearing the system.

Each of them resembled massive, cathedrals, houses of worship when in truth, these were devastating machines of war. The number of these ships would cause the unprepared to faint if they saw into the deep reaches of the cosmic void.

One thing was certain though: This would be the beginnings of an apocalypse never witnessed before by anyone.

Would the people of Remnant be ready for what would become the fight of their lives?

Only time may tell.

The cycle of guilt cannot be broken,....

Across Remnant people would see this as they all listened with horror wirtten on their faces even as now Remnant had survived one horror after the other. And just when it seemed they were finally healing something no someone just had to stand in the way... but.... does that mean they are not prepared. No.... they are always ready.

OST: Guardians Of Light (Autoplay Warning)

In Brumel, King Rodrigues and the Council of Brumel agreed for the first time that this was a threat to Remnant he would say only one thing to everyone including the Atelier Paladins and the Hunters across Remnant.

"Arm yourselves..... for Brumel and Remnant Stand as one!!!"

Across to that of Ruins of Light in Mistral, Exaltia for the first time could feel the oncoming darkness that was coming one that could rival even her brother Imperius. Walking out of the Ruins of Light and looking up to the sky and taking an inhale in she would release a Titan Call..... calling any and all Grimm Titans to awaken and fight.

The Neo-Shinbaori would hear of this as well thanks to Mizunami and his influence in the Mistrali government as Masamune would rise holding his Katana and nod at his trusted allies.

"It is time to fight.... not just for our lives but for the fate of Remnant in its entireity"

While above Aelius would release a screeching roar flying above with draconic grimm following them, with that of wyverns, gryphons, screechers, and even chimeras following the Titan King of the Air as he flew above the main city, which left everyone fearful but what they noticed was Aelius was keeping them in check and even releasing a few chirps to make sure they dont harm a human or faunus... keeping a silent vigil of Mistral...

In Argus, Perseus and the Atlesian Military along with many Sea-Dragon Grimm were patrolling the seas with the Titan rising from it looking up at the sky and angrily giving a glare... to what was coming.......he wanted to be ready this time....

In Vale, Hades was running through the mountains holding his War Axe which he looked up at the sky as well throwing the Axe down and slamming his fists against his chest before he released a loud roar of defiance....

Then in Vacuo Hideyoshi would prepare the Desertwalkers along with many bandits who had saw the announcement..... they lost their home to war once.... they were not going to lose it again........

And lastly the Scions of Salem.... Salem would look for the first time worried.... but this was the time to fight.... it was time to throw away her plans...as she too had a connection to Remnant whether if it was good or bad... as finally... she turned around to look at all them.

"TO ARMS...."

FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER..... REMNANT WAS UNIFIED... UNDERNEATH ONE BANNER..... EVERY CREED, RELIGION, AND RACE WAS UNIFIED TO FIGHT

#archivisim #[The King Of Honor- Rodrigues]#[The Rising Sun- Masamune]#[The Titan Of The Skies- Aelius]#[The Titan Of The Seas- Perseus]#[The Shield Of Vacuo- Hideyoshi]#[Benevolent Light- Exaltia]#[The Scion Of Darkness- Salem]

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riverbird · 1 year

Text

"Wendell Berry writes, “It is the destruction of the world in our own lives that drives us half insane, and more than half." The world isn’t only the physical universe of objects outside the body; it also hums within the mind, is the constellation of thoughts we have about tangible matter. Destruction lingers, takes place many times over—once in the moment of violent dissolution and also much earlier, when we learn to think of this derangement as possible. When we learn to acknowledge that the water will come. Then just imagining an end to the world as we know it means also, at least partially, losing your own mind." "But just as paying attention to another person fosters intimacy and makes us feel less alone, perhaps scientific observation allows us to enter into a similar relationship across species. By listening, by returning to the grove time and again, by tuning our ears to the sounds of beings unlike ourselves, we begin to reenter what Thomas Berry, the Catholic eco-theologian, calls “the great conversation” between humans and other forms of life. This too can have a grounding effect, can help stave off a different, larger, and more gaping loneliness. If anything is sacred, it is this, I think. And by this I mean all of it: the salmonberries beginning to ripen in the bramble; the scratchy, scolding caw of the Steller’s jay that will nibble there; the long, straight trunks of the Pacific red cedars that rise into the sky’s blue cathedral. The web of life that too often capitalism seems dead set on dismantling."

Elizabeth Rush, Rising: Dispatches from the New American Shore (Milkweed, 2018)

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dk-thrive · 2 years

Text

Whatever feels unresolved, the animal part of you is already tracking the healing you need.

The outer healing of the land will always be my and my family's work. But our inner healing is even more important. We see the world through inner frames. Healing ourselves is as much a part of the restoration of the planet as building a place for elephants to walk to the mountains as ambassadors of peace.

Maybe, like me, you also need to heal but you can't walk out into the wilderness this afternoon. But you can look up at the sky or that tree poking through the concrete and know that there are thousands of other people who feel equally disconnected from their inner and outer worlds. You can, from where you stand, make a decision to restore from within, even if your mind screams that it is not possible. Whatever feels unresolved, the animal part of you is already tracking the healing you need. Follow that trail; the medicine will feel like freedom. In that moment, you'll become a part of restoring Eden.

- Boyd Varty, Cathedral of the Wild: An African Journey Home (Random House (March 11, 2014)) (via A Layman’s Blog)

#heal #healing #soul #Boyd Varty #outer #inner #purpose #meaning

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grimm-rider · 1 year

Text

Entry 20

Nothing else weird happened with the Hut after it swore fealty to Anastasia or whatever you want to call it. Everything was normal inside. Everything was where we left it. Aenland ended up in the worm room when he decided to enter through the chimney. All of our companions were still there—maybe a little shaken up from the Hut having been hopping around for the last two days on end, but otherwise no worse for the wear. Alexei seemed a bit spooked by the hut, but then, he’s a kid from a world without magic. A big sentient house with chicken legs is probably like a big monster to him. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.

We rested for the night, and reconvened in the morning. The kids insisted that they come along with us. There were still things they needed to discover out in the camp apparently. And they felt confident in their ability to hide from the guards. So we all agreed to let them tag along, so long as they stayed in the flying cauldron and stayed away from any of the fighting.

On the way to the camp, Rasputin manifest his face in the sky and made a big show of threatening us for ‘taking something precious from him’, but then he didn’t even do anything about it. Not that I’m complaining about not having more lightning or destruction spells thrown at me.

However the light show did distract Aenland enough that he nearly flew Nevra right into one of those landmines. I had to fly Talsune into them to knock them off course. Aenland got all defensive. As if I’d just ram into them for no reason, he should have known I was trying to help him without me spelling it out for him. But I did spell it out for him, and then he was properly grateful for me not just letting him get his ass blown up.

We made it back to the camp without further incident, and I had a plan to keep us hidden from the snipers and the enemy Dullahans. I’d taught myself a useful new spell for the occasion: greater hide from undead. We could pass through the camp completely invisible to anything that wasn’t entirely living within. Which given that Rasputin had the same predisposition for undead pets that I do, I knew this would give us a sweeping advantage against probably the most dangerous creatures waiting for us.

We decided to make our way to the back of the camp first, to take care of whoever had been throwing lightning at us the day prior.

It turned out it was treants. Two lightning throwing treants growing out of the building.

Nestian and Nevra cut down the trees before they had a chance to react, and we gathered a shocking amount of treasure hidden amongst their roots. Within the room was also a letter written in draconic in Rasputin’s handwriting, addressed to one “Radimir”, who he directed to keep an eye on “their little secret” which he didn’t want his sister to find out about.

A hoard and a letter in draconic pointed towards a dragon, but we hadn’t heard anything about a dragon working with Rasputin, nor had we seen any signs of a dragon before now. We…perhaps didn’t look into it as closely as we should have. Or maybe the answer was too close to us for us to see.

I’m not the sort to regret the past. I don’t think there’s any way we could have known, or anything we could have done differently. But somehow that stings more.

So we gathered the treasure and left the empty house behind. Aenland suggested we take out the snipers next, so that they couldn’t harass us while we cleared the Dullahan camp. I was hesitant to approach the central cathedral, but Aenland intended to snipe the snipers from a distance, and it seemed like it would be a quick in and out, so I didn’t voice a complaint.

We left Nestian and Aenland by the cleared out dragon den, and the rest of us made our way to the burnt out cathedral. The snipers never took a single shot at us—my spell did what it was meant to. They never saw us coming.

I saw arrows from seemingly out of nowhere fly through the sniper’s lookout right before I entered the cathedral with Talsune.

I felt like my heart was going to stop as a vision overtook my mind, of how Baba Yaga was captured by Rasputin. Horrible fractal effects sparked behind my eyes and I heard her screams. And Rasputin’s face swam across my vision. Before everything snapped back to clarity. I staggered up the stairs to try to still be of use against the snipers, but by the time I made it to the top of the tower, Aenland’s final arrow had slain the last undead sniper. He never really needed our help—although I’m not about to tell him that.

As I tried to catch my breath and braced myself to go back down the stairs, there was a searing pain through my body, and then blood was running down my cheeks and from wounds on my hands that hadn’t been there a moment before. Edeya was next to me, and she had blood running from her eyes and hands as well. I could feel that Talsune was in pain—whatever had happened to us had affected my partner downstairs as well.

Downstairs we heard Cesseer yell up to us that the statues were bleeding and attacking. So apparently that was a thing. Then echoing up from below we heard a familiar laugh.

Rasputin was here.

I cast Spell Resistance on myself and ran down the stairs, adrenaline banishing any remaining fatigue from the strange vision moments before. I flung myself onto Talsune’s back, and without my directing he reeled us around towards the statues.

My aim had been to try to punch past the statues and see if I could distract Rasputin while others more suited to fight the statues did so—but that isn’t how it went.

Talsune got slowed by one of the golems auras, and it began laying into him. My partner was really hurting, and we were in a bad position to try to get to safety. And then a second one joined in, just to make matters worse. I couldn’t do anything to harm the magic-immune golems. Talsune’s sword could only do so much, especially while he was surrounded.

Thankfully Cesseer stepped in and took on one of them, taking the attention off my partner. And Edeya caught up and began healing Talsune, assuring that he wouldn’t fall in this battle.

Unfortunately, since I wasn’t able to distract Rasputin as planned, he had joined in the fight. His oh-so-brave projected image flew through the wall and tried to strike Aenland with a curse—but thankfully he resisted. Aenland then proceeded to completely ignore Rasputin since he wasn’t really there, and began shooting statues, clearing the horde.

Even though we’d won, Rasputin laughed at us. He vanished, saying that the longer we took, the stronger he would become, and the weaker his mother would grow.

He’s so fucking full of it.

We’ve virtually completely cleared his entire camp in two days. What does he mean ‘the longer we take’? I think he’s just trying to sound big and scary to hide the fact that he’s starting to realize that we’re a legitimate threat to him.

Besides, there’s no way he could completely drain Baba Yaga’s power…right?

That aside, once we were done in the cathedral, we decided it was finally time to deal with the pesky little Dullahan problem.

So we made our way to the ‘Cossack’ camp. I’m still not entirely sure what a ‘Cossack’ is, but it’s what everyone here keeps calling all the Dullahans. Anastasia said that she thought that the Cossacks were meant to protect her family, she didn’t understand why they were acting the way they were now. Her brother seemed less convinced that they had ever been loyal. From what I saw of them while fighting them, I think they believed they were still fighting for Anastasia’s family, but someone had manipulated their perception of the world. Someone likely being Rasputin since he raised them as Dullahans. I have yet to tell Anastasia this. It seems pointless to heap more suffering at her feet by telling her that her loyal guards were made into puppets whose acts of violence were done in her family’s name.

With my Hide from Undead spell we were able to directly approach the camp, but once we were near the Dullahan captain and the Lantern Goat saw through my magic. The captain ordered his men to charge—but none of them had broken through my magic yet, and they seemed merely confused by his order. The Lantern Goat retreated into a tent—whether it was merely a coward or aware that it was the target, I’m uncertain.

There was one other combatant in the camp. A familiar sight from months prior. Radosek Pavril’s goat, the strange abyssal familiar that had burst into locusts the last time we’d fought it.

So, okay fine, the others were right that Pavril’s goat was here. I don’t know why his weird demon familiar would be here on a different planet consorting with a Lantern Goat, but who am I to question the motives of demons?

And seeing as it wasn’t undead, it saw us perfectly fine. It stood on its hind hooves and its body twisted and contorted out of its goat disguise until it had a grotesque fly-like head sitting atop its goat body.

I wonder if Radosek knew what his familiar really was when he was going around trying to impress women by showing them his goat?

Still, we had the jump on them with most of their troops completely unaware of our presence. Nestian led the charge, his blade drawing blood across an oblivious Dullahan.

And then my magic snapped. Unlike the snipers, these Dullahans must have had strong wills, because when Nestian’s attack connected they broke through the haze of my spell and saw the reality of us invading their camp.

The captain, astride upon a midnight black Nightmare rather than a regular warhorse, again commanded his men to charge. And this time they obeyed.

I am so fucking jealous. I made Ivan to be a superior Dullahan to Rasputin’s, I used abilities granted by Urgathoa herself and armed him with a Thanadaemon’s scythe and everything, and then he goes and does something as cool as putting a Dullahan on a fucking Nightmare? I am so mad. That much style is wasted on Rasputin.

Of course, first we had to deal with the pesky little goat demon. It charged forward and stuck Nestian with its proboscis, trying to suck his blood like a nasty little demonic vampire. Or a really big mosquito. Nestian pushed it away. Then I flew Talsune in. I had acquired a maximize metamagic rod from our recent ventures, and it was time to put it to good use. I cast a maximized boneshatter on the demonic insect, snapping and shattering its sections of its bones and exoskeleton.

I can’t say I bear much of a grudge against Pavril, but I don’t remember him fondly either. He tried to curse me when we fought against him. And this damned thing disguised as a goat had been shooting fire at us that whole fight. I wasn’t letting it get away again.

Feeling my desires, Talsune swung around and brought his blade down on the demonic half-goat-insect-thing.

Actually by now I knew what it really was, a Coloxus demon, but its partially dropped disguise made it look so horrifically disfigured that it was hard not to think of it was some strange monstrous thing instead.

With the clatter of hooves, the Dullahan captain charged forward, thrusting his lance through Nestian. Then his steed breathed out a noxious cloud that blanketed Nestian and the Coloxus demon. Then just to add insult to injury, he held up his dismembered head, and spoke our names. They echoed out, and each of us could feel our souls try to be pulled towards the grave. A nasty trick I’d been saving for Rasputin with Ivan—but seeing as he had our shadows, of course he would have his own Dullahan do the same right back at us. Most of us managed to recover, but Edeya and I seemed to have a more difficult time of it, and had to catch our breaths. I don’t know about Edeya, but I suspect for me it’s because my soul isn’ in a bit.

Yeah, more than once. I’ll get to the ‘a few times’ in a bit.

Aenland took initiative against the Dullahan cavalry, and began picking them off from farthest to nearest, to keep any more deadly charges like the captain’s to a minimum.

Ivan got into a duel with another Dullahan, but he was struggling—as loathe as I am to admit it, these Dullahans were clearly superior. They had brought knowledge of their battle tactics from life with them that I hadn’t managed to properly carry over with Ivan.

Roscoe on the other hand was doing an excellent job, despite having to avoid using his negative energy abilities. I fucking love Baykoks, easily the best undead pet. I might leave Ivan behind in Russia and just take Roscoe with me when we go back to Golarian. He can become an urban legend or something, wandering the snowy wastes.

Anyways, after the captain called out our names, the Lantern Goat seemed to take that as its cue to make a reappearance. It charged out from the tent it had been hiding in, and flashed its sickly light at us. Thankfully none of us fell into the panic it induced in less strong-willed individuals.

And now it was out in the open and completely exposed. I decided to hold off on the demon, which was shrouded in fog and would be a pain to attack now anyways, and threw everything I had at the Lantern Goat. Starting with a Destruction spell, empowered by the Pallid Princess to return this undead back to where it sprung from. The goat was still standing, just barely staggering forward. So I quickened a Boneshaker, and pulled it forward myself. Its bones ripped from its decaying flesh, and it fell in a heap. Its lantern fell atop it and shattered—releasing the soul trapped within.

While I had been busy with that, Nestian had taken care of the Dullahan captain and the insect demon. All that was left was one final Dullahan solder, which was looming over Ivan, who was struggling to fend him off. I directed Talsune towards the horsemen’s dual, and he cut down the final Dullahan. Keeping my pet alive for a little longer.

I still need him to use Death Calling on Rasputin to make up for his Dullahan captain doing the same to me, after all.

With the Dullahan encampment cleared, we only had three more locations to clear: the building with the ‘furry hunters’, the pit full of poisonous gas, and the Abbott House that made us feel an unnatural terror when we approached.

We chose the furry hunters first. And honestly this is barely worth a footnote. All that happened was that Nestian knocked on the door—as he does—and one answered. It turned out they were yetis, and the one that answered went to attack Nestian, but Nestian was faster and cut him down immediately. Then we cut the other three in the building down one-by-one, before any of them had an opportunity to act.

With that out of the way I suggested we deal with the pit next, as I had a plan to clear the poisonous gas and take the fight to the shambling creatures within rather than letting them get the jump on us at the Abbott House. The others agreed that this sounded preferable. So I dug out the Staff of Heaven and Earth that we got forever ago, that had been sitting in my bag of holding along with many other potentially useful trinkets, and I handed it off to Edeya so she could cast Control Winds through it.

She did, using her newfound command over the air to clear out the noxious fog in the pit at the back of the camp—revealing what was within. Two tanks and a legion of zombies with that same fog wafting off of them. And two large clouds of that gas that were unaffected by the wind—elementals of some sort, that were made of intelligent poisons and negative energy.

Aenland led the attack with a flurry of arrows that put both of the tanks out of commission. At the same time Nestian charged forward and cleared out the handful of living human combatants. Those that didn’t immediately fall before his axe had the smarts to flee—there was no victory here for them today.

I decided to spread a little chaos amongst their ranks. I enforced my will over half of the enemy zombies, severing their connection to the elementals that seemingly created them, and making them my own puppets instead. Then I set them loose against their former allies, having them turn on the other zombies and slaughter them—leaving us free to focus on the elementals. Talsune flew forward and burned away some of the nearest elemental’s gasses with his fiery breath. He was quickly followed up by an arrow from Roscoe.

On the other end of the battlefield I saw the other elemental make its move. It smothered Ivan and Cesseer. Ivan seemed perfectly fine—the gasses were made for the undead, so even as they ate at his flesh they also rejuvenated him.

Cesseer on the other hand wasn’t looking too good. We needed to clean this up quickly and get Edeya to her.

Fortunately, Aenland’s arrows shot through the elementals and cleared them out—good timing as Roscoe had made a misstep and had used negative energy on his bullets what healed one.

While I gathered up the remaining controlled zombies and had them gather together in convenient Searing Flames range to quickly wipe them out and get rid of loose ends, Edeya healed up Cesseer.

Then it was time to head back to the Abbott House.

Alexei suddenly became very timid, despite him agreeing with his sister about wanting to come with us this morning. He said that this was a very bad place, and we should leave it be.

But, obviously we couldn’t do that. There was something inside. Something we needed to see for ourselves.

We told the kids to get to safety away from the building while we explored.

Then Aenland decided he wasn’t going to do things the easy way—oh no—he decided it was time to go back to old tricks and take the window. He found the nearest window and smashed it, then climbed inside. A moment later I heard him messaging me over the Stone of Farspeech, informing me that he could hear Rasputin, and that he was going to hide.

I decided I wasn’t leaving him in there with Rasputin without any backup. Not when I had an ability now that could get me in and out unnoticed, virtually foolproof—or so I thought.

I handed off the Stone of Farspeech to Nestian and then used Spirit Walk to become incorporeal, vanishing onto the Ethereal Plane. From there I was able to simply walk through the wall into the room Aenland had hidden himself within. I could see the elf, pressed into a closet. I did not see Rasputin, nor did I hear any signs of him searching for Aenland.

I decided to do some scouting while my spirit form lasted.

I poked my head out of the door—and immediately came face-to-face with Rasputin.

He was seated casually on a sofa, lounging, toying with one of those nesting dolls, like the one he said Baba Yaga was trapped in.

He looked up when I entered and casually acknowledged me, stating he hadn’t seen me in spirit form in a long time.

I was so taken aback I simply admitted to him that I hadn’t expected him to be able to see me.

He laughed, noting that of course I wouldn’t if I didn’t remember anything. He then asked if it was just me here. I lied, telling him that it was—since I could become incorporeal I was ideal to scout ahead, so I’d come alone, I told him.

He said that was a shame, he’d intended to give us an opportunity to talk. But as it was, it would just be me and him.

He asked if there was anything I wanted to know from him.

I didn’t even hesitate to ask him what he knew about my past, what he knew that I didn’t remember or didn’t know.

He asked me something I wasn’t expecting. Did I want to know about Calio Caecos, or the Grim Rider?

I asked if there was really a difference.

He said superficially. It’s the same body, same abilities, adjacent personality, but there are differences. Calio is who I was at the start—and who I am now. And the Grim Rider is who I was when I worked for Elvana.

Rasputin said that I was never Baba Yaga’s rider, not back then at least. I was Elvana’s. When I went to Baba Yaga after leaving Keisuke with the mission to assassinate her, I’d refused her offer to be revived in exchange for a year of servitude. And somehow I found myself at Elvana’s doorstep instead, I ended up roped in with her plans to overthrow Baba Yaga, and I made a deal with her to become her rider instead. That’s why I was with her on Triaxus, and in Whitethrone.

I don’t get the logic behind it. I can see where I might have been too proud to accept servitude, as foolish as it might have been to seek out Baba Yaga just to refuse her, but then why turn around and lower myself to kneeling to Elvana?

The answer probably lies in the part Rasputin didn’t want to talk about.

He got evasive towards the end. He said he hated how the story ended. He hated how I betrayed them, and how I stood him up, and how he had to kill me and leave me in a ditch somewhere.

He tried to make me an offer to change things. To change that ending. Rasputin asked me to leave the others behind and to join him.

Obviously I said no. He had just told me to my face that he’d killed me once already. And besides…he’s not the winning side anymore.

…

I should be pissed. He killed me and threw out my body for the vultures. I should be chomping at the bit for revenge. I told him as much, that I always avenge myself when I’ve been wronged. Normally I’d be ready to swear to Norgorber how slow and painful his death will be for how he’s crossed me.

But I just feel tired.

I almost feel like I should have expected this. Of course I was working with Elvana all along. Of course Rasputin and I were lovers. Of course I betrayed him, probably on some ill-advised power grab I’d been planning since I first bent a knee to his sister, and of course he killed me.

I should be mad that he killed me, or surprised that I’ve apparently died not once but twice in the last year, but all I can feel about it is unspeakably drained.

When I refused, Rasputin just sighed and said he had to try, right?

I just nodded. Yeah. I suppose so.

I hate it that I can see where in another life I could have cared.

Rasputin told me to go get the others. He had something he needed to discuss with all of us. We’d taken something of his, and he wanted to negotiate. Although he felt he knew my answer already from our talk.

Seeing as he’d only started talking about us ‘taking something’ since we’d rescued Anastasia and Alexei—yeah, that was going to be a hard sell. For any of us—I was hardly going to be the most difficult of the lot.

I didn’t end up needing to go fetch the others, as it turned out. At that moment, Aenland sneezed loudly and there was a loud crash in the room where he’d been hiding. He slammed the door open and began accusing Rasputin of laying a trap for him. I sighed, informing Rasputin that my friends were, in fact, idiots. Then I dropped my spirit form.

At about that time Nestian, Edeya, and Cesseer came barreling in through the front entrance, having heard the commotion of Aenland crashing about.

So Rasputin had what he wanted, we were all gathered.

He informed us that he wanted Anastasia back. In return he would inform us where the dolls holding Baba Yaga were. He claimed that he wanted to keep Anastasia safe. He seemed genuinely upset about what had happened to her—the fact he’d had to resurrect her from almost nothing after her family was massacred. I’m good at reading people, and I couldn’t believe it, but he seemed sincere.

Still, he was doing a shit job, no matter how sincere he was. With him she was surrounded by the undead specters of her former guards, sadistic monsters who experiment on humans for fun, and the manifestations of different facets of death. Even if she was physically safe—which isn’t a guarantee with Kytons and Daemons about—that can’t be good for her mental health.

Then Nestian brought up a good point. What about her brother? Rasputin hadn’t said a single word about Alexei.

Rasputin’s face twisted, and he smashed the doll he was holding as he asked ‘what about him?’

His laughter echoed as he disappeared, replaced by four phantoms. Three young girls, and a young boy.

The boy was too familiar. It was very clearly Alexei.

The phantoms were clearly in distress, but also hostile. We had no choice but to fight back against them.

So we did, releasing their souls one-by-one. Their voices echoed a quiet ‘thank you’ as they faded away with a final blow. Alexei first. Then each of the girls—Anastasia’s three sisters.

When it was done, the room was quiet. Rasputin was gone. I wanted to scream. I was tired of him toying with us. I was tired of him.

Nestian had another thought, and had run out the front door.

A few moments later there was shouting out front. I ran for the front door in time to see a horrific sight. The mangled body of what was once Alexei, with two dragon heads protruding from his shoulder blades, far too large for his small frame. He was holding another of those Matryoshka Dolls in his hands—from the quick glance I saw this one looked almost lightning scarred. But then in an instant he was gone as he cast Plane Shift.

That dragon den we’d seen before. Now we knew who it belonged to. And what secret this Radimir had been keeping an eye on for Rasputin.

Alexei had been dead all along. There had been no survivors of the Romanovs’ execution—but Rasputin had deigned to bring Anastasia back. Only Anastasia.

Anastasia was horrified at what she’d just seen—rightfully so. But then with an astounding amount of willpower she pulled herself together. She told us that there was something else still in the Abbott House, and she didn’t want to leave until we’d seen this through to the end. We could hardly deny her, not when she was pushing through so much to keep going forward. Besides, it was to our benefit to purge the house of whatever was haunting it as well.

We returned to the house, and Nestian opened the last remaining door. Within were a half dozen wraiths holding a séance binding a single ghost woman.

When we opened the door, a few of the wraiths left their positions and floated through the walls to attack us with their touch that chilled to the soul.

I threw a Flame Strike into the room, setting everything within ablaze.

Aenland ended up surrounded by three wraiths, but he handled himself fine. Nestian and Cesseer pushed into the room and began clearing out the wraiths within.

After a few moments we had cleared out the haunting specters, and all that was left was the ghost woman. She introduced herself as Tsarina Alexandra Feodorovna—Anastasia’s mother. She was relieved to hear that one of her daughters was alive and well. This was enough to begin her transition to the afterlife—although she held on to the material plane for long enough to say goodbye to her daughter. Nestian went to fetch Anastasia.

I made some blithe comment to the Tsarina, and she spoke to me, referring to me as the Grim Rider. So apparently even she knew who I once was.

Anastasia was so happy to see her mother that she tried to fling herself into her arms—but of course she passed right through, her being a ghost and all. The two of them talked. Laughed, even. Then Anastasia asked her mother if Rasputin was her real father.

Oh. Yeah that would explain a few things.

Her mother confirmed. Which meant that Anastasia was the legitimate heir to Irrisen’s throne, as Baba Yaga’s granddaughter. Which is why Rasputin didn’t want Elvana to know about her—she was a threat to her rule.

Anastasia told her mother to forgive her, because she was going to commit a sin—she was going to commit patricide, because Rasputin had to die.

Her mother fully endorsed this choice, and asked Aenland to give Anastasia her family heirlooms, which the elf had apparently picked up somewhere. It was a fine uniform and a sleek gun. Anastasia handled the gun expertly—certainly with more precision than I ever could, I’m more of a spell user than a marksman.

Anastasia’s mother passed on to the Boneyard, and we began our trek back to the Dancing Hut. As we walked, Anastasia spoke to me. She checked in if I still had amnesia—I very much still do, despite having more answers now I still don’t actually remember shit. She assured me that once I got my memories back, it would feel good to have them—even the bad parts.

I hope she’s right. Because from what I’ve heard, there’s going to be a lot of bad parts to sort through.

#pathfinder #reign of winter #journal entry

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dkniade · 2 years

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I saw this post about noticing consistent themes from writers’ works. In OP’s words, “it’s like drawing a map through a writer’s collection of all the things that keep them up at night”

And honestly as a poet (who mostly posts on IG because Tumblr doesn’t seem to support spaces between lines too well) who uses not just metaphors but elaborate metaphors that continue across multiple poems—

It’s a defence mechanism for me, using elaborate metaphors so I can understand myself but keep irrelevant people at bay. That, or I feel too vulnerable talking about my feelings in prose.

Here are some verses from some of my (long and multi-sectional) poetry

Warning: vague depictions of night, violence

“so know this, I am not some cathedral whose silence is

broken only by the clicking of oh so prestigious heels.

I am not slow walks through corridors in some cozy cardigan.”

“and above all, do not compare me, your Stanza, to

‘beautifully’ edited photos of a page where hollow

words of love crawl over the white space.”

“let us rip up the beauty standard of poetry and use the

shreds as confetti.”

—“Poetry’s Response”, Be Not Undone By Thine Own Hand

“Please teach me how to transform

my pen into something softer:

a quill from the feather of a bird,

the bird who’s recently learned how to fly,

or perhaps still learning to fly,

to find his way within the vastness

of the sky that, dear heavens, beckons to him.”

—“The Pen That Softens”

“To draw my blade—

‘Ah-ah, you don’t want to draw your sword

when there are so many people around, do you?’

This poet’s brows furrow, knuckles turning

white from the grip. A scowl’s the only

thing you deserve after hurting me so.

I hold back this roused frustration and

sheath my sword. ‘Shall we dance?’ you ask.

But it’ll be a bloodless, transparent fight between us

should I keep my blade. This only exists within our eyes.”

—“Lay All Your Love On Me”, Nocturne of the Scarlet Soirée Beneath a Moonless Sky

#dkniade ; d'h ; n

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dankusner · 16 days

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Steel: Man Scrapes the Sky

The Flatiron Building, New York: one of the first steel framed skyscrapers

In 1856, Henry Bessemer refined iron to produce steel.

This strong, light material was the stuff of architects’ dreams, and within years, it dominated the newly industrialized world.

Previously, architects were limited in how tall they could build by the weight of the materials.

Stone is so heavy that it demands a wide base of support to hold up tall towers, while concrete is too fragile to stand tall unsupported.

Bessemer’s invention solved these problems: as steel-boned concrete became the recipe for immense, inexpensive buildings, skyscrapers leaped up all over the industrialized world.

For some time they clung to the architecture of the past.

New York’s Flatiron Building was like a Renaissance palazzo with Beaux-Arts details — only extended elegantly skyward.

Steel didn’t just revolutionize architecture: it changed the world.

As the material of progress and mass production, steel produced planes, highways, railroads, cars, and transport trucks to move people and goods at breathtaking speeds.

Under the influence of steel, the tempo of human life moved faster than ever before.

Building Blocks of the Future

Architecture, technology, and culture are inseparable.

Hand tools quarried the building blocks of ancient temples. Pulleys and wheels constructed cathedrals.

The advanced process of iron decarbonization created steel, which built the world we know today.

The story of technology is still unfolding, and so is the story of how we build.

How will the light-speed advance of 21st-century technology shape our buildings in centuries to come?

But most importantly, will that architecture stand the test of time?

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travelcase41 · 21 days

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“Unforgettable Europe Trip Packages: Explore the Continent in Style”

Hello, esteemed community members!

Set out on an incredible voyage around Europe, where new adventures and discoveries are revealed every day. Our painstakingly designed Europe trip package ensures an immersive experience that includes the continent’s famous attractions, breathtaking landscapes, and lively cultures. Travel with us over seven enthralling days, from the medieval alleyways of Munich to the lovely canals of Amsterdam, full of treasured memories and moments that will never be forgotten.

Day 1: Munich — Arrival and Reception

The vibrant city of Munich, Germany, where tradition and modernity collide with enthralling beauty, is where our European journey begins. Travelers are greeted with warmth and shown the ropes of Bavarian hospitality as soon as they arrive. Once you’ve found a suitable place to stay, explore the city’s energetic environment, which includes bustling markets, historic architecture, and colorful beer gardens. Savor the flavor of beer brewed locally and indulge in authentic Bavarian cuisine while raising a glass to the start of an incredible journey.

Day 2: Salzburg — Touring the City by Day

The charming Austrian city of Salzburg, which is tucked away within the stunning Alps, is the next stop on our itinerary. Explore the city’s cultural highlights all day long, including the magnificent Hohensalzburg Fortress and Mozart’s birthplace. Explore the picturesque Old Town, which has quaint cobblestone streets and baroque buildings. Admire the sweeping city views from the famous Mirabell Gardens, then treat yourself to a delicious dinner concert including Mozart tunes that capture the essence of Salzburg’s rich musical history.

Day 3: Zurich — Embracing Switzerland’s Serenity

Continue on to Switzerland, where you will find Zurich’s tranquil beauty. With its sparkling lakes and snow-capped mountains as a background, Zurich radiates sophistication and calm. Discover the city’s cultural offerings, which include beautiful parks and top-notch museums. Take a leisurely boat ride on Lake Zurich and enjoy the breathtaking views of the surrounding mountains. Indulge in a typical Swiss fondue dinner as night falls, complete with superb wine and mesmerizing views of the city lights.

Day 4: Basel — Charming Basel & Beautiful Lucerne

We travel to the quaint town of Lucerne, which is well-known for its picturesque beauty and medieval architecture, as we continue our journey through Switzerland. See well-known sites like the Lion Monument and Chapel Bridge before continuing to Basel, a city that skillfully combines modern refinement with medieval beauty. Discover the dynamic cultural landscape of the city, which includes thriving markets and top-notch museums. Take a leisurely walk along the Rhine River at dusk to see Basel’s lights twinkle against the night sky.

Day 5: Paris: Spending a Day at the “World’s Fashion Capital”

Salutations from Paris! Get ready to be mesmerized by the “City of Light’s” enduring charm. Enjoy a day of shopping on the posh Champs-Élysées, where upscale stores and haute couture are waiting to be discovered. Discover famous sites like the Louvre Museum, Notre Dame Cathedral, and the Eiffel Tower, which together provide a window into the past and present of Paris. Eat dinner in a classic Parisian bistro as night falls and enjoy fine French wine and tasty bites.

Day 6: Paris — A Full Day of Touring the City

We have one more day to spend exploring Paris, where there is a new wonder around every turn. Explore the quaint neighborhoods of Montmartre, climb Sacré-Coeur for sweeping vistas, and explore the Musée d’Orsay’s collection of fine art. Take a leisurely sail down the Seine River to end the day and enjoy the stunning views of famous sites lit up against the night sky.

Day 7: Amsterdam-Going Away

We say goodbye to the charming city of Paris as our European voyage comes to an end and go on to Amsterdam, our ultimate destination. As we set off on our return trip, remember the moments shared and the connections formed, bringing the irresistible essence of Europe’s ageless appeal and fascination with us. Come along on this incredible tour around Europe with us, where there will be unique experiences and fresh adventures around every corner. Allow us to lead you on an enthralling exploration of the abundant natural beauty and cultural legacy of the continent, from the medieval alleyways of Munich to the picturesque canals of Amsterdam.

Why Choose Our Tour Package:

A well-planned itinerary that includes stops at Europe’s must-see locations. For a hassle-free experience, comfortable lodging, transportation, and guided excursions are provided.

Knowledgeable tour guides that share their knowledge of the customs, history, and culture of each location.

The freedom to alter your schedule in accordance with your interests and preferences.

Lifetime memories and experiences that will never be forgotten.

With our Europe trip package, you may set out on an exciting and adventurous journey filled with fresh discoveries and life-changing experiences. Discover the diverse range of cultures and landscapes across the continent, catering to the interests of history buffs, art enthusiasts, and foodies alike. Now is the time to plan your trip to Europe and start the journey!

#europe trip #europe tour 2024 #travel case

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dizzydispatch · 9 months

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The Tower

There's something ominous about cell towers.

They stand on hills or in clearings beyond forested acres, huge and unsettling, with their mysterious bracketing and wide panels that blot out the sun, the discs that stand in what almost seems a defiant opposition to the light of the sky.

They hide in plain sight, disguised under cathedral belfries and standing alongside the church bells that, long before telephone came along to usurp the role of mass communication, would ring out in code when something was wrong.

The day I took the CritiCall, I sat alone in a tiny room with one small window overlooking the county jail, visible through the trees only because of how starkly contrasted its rigid cinderblock construction was against the disorder of the natural world.

A fish tank bubbled softly from somewhere behind my chair, its sole occupant gazing at me with the indifference of a long-forgotten eldritch god. For a moment I imagined the fish had human teeth, teeth that were grinning at me, or perhaps through me, as it contemplated my inconsequence. I imagined its penetrating awareness of me filling that hour in which I took the exam, a frame of time that might have seemed as long as decades to me but was, for the fish, but a drop in an endless tank.

The fish itself would live a short life, meaningless when stacked against the century a human may live to see pass if cared for properly. But it would be replaced by another, as this had replaced the one before, and on and on until the end of time. I would later learn that his name was Echo. Fitting, for the creature whose existence was a mere echo of whatever paradigm he exists to facsimile. How many Echos had there been, and how many were still yet to come... come... come...?

Standing adjacent to the jail out my window was a communications tower that seemed to rise from deep within the earth, or perhaps from whatever lies beneath. The tower leaned down to where I could hear its voice, and whispered in magnificent bellows just two words: Brace yourself.

There was an echo to its endless voice, which had not the capacity for gentleness. Echo stirred in his tank, caught up in the resonance that disturbed his shallow water.

Once upon a time, the Tower was a symbol of destruction, a harbinger of change. Upright, it meant disaster, upheaval, unrest. Inversion meant delay of the inevitable, resistance to changes deemed necessary by fate. The Tower was feared not for its intrinsic danger, but of what it foretold. Destruction. Suffering.

The day I went in for my test, I had drawn from the tarot deck the Tower. Something was coming, and at the time of the omen I was not yet sure what it would be.

But then the call, the invitation to try my hand at the career of my dreams. Maybe this was what it had promised. I was heading into a great unknown, and the reminder of the draw, one that foretold a painful transition drawing nearer on my horizon, echoed in my mind as I stood beneath that cell tower and looked up into the expanse of the future.

Learning more of how they work, the cell phone towers dotting the expanses became less mysterious. A feat of engineering to stand almost a mile high in stature, and a medal upon the lapel of human ingenuity that they were able to broadcast the signals that keep us connected in spite of miles in between. As I came to appreciate the beauty of our condition, tied together by telephone wires even as we drift further and further apart, I began to see the Tower in a new light, too.

In burning can be found a catharsis. In the aftermath of an upheaval, be it a political revolution of millions or the change in career of just one, change was a force neutral by default. Change is made beautiful or devastating or both all at once by the perceptions of those who stand at the tower's base, looking up, as I once did in the parking lot of my new job, at the start of something new.

#911 #true stories #911 dispatch #911 dispatchers #dizzydispatch911 #dizzydispatch #dispatchdiaries #dispatcher #tarot #the tower #prose #public #public safety telecommunicator #true story #cell phone towers #cell towers #communications

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xtruss · 2 months

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The Burning Cathedral on the Night of April 15, 2019: A National Trauma. Foto: Houpline/Sipa/Action Press

Rebuilding Notre-Dame: The Resurrection of Fire-Ravaged Cathedral Brings France Together in Unexpected Ways

Five years after the fire at Notre-Dame, the iconic cathedral in Paris now has a roof and a tower again. The reconstruction is almost complete in what is no less than a national tour de force that has led to rare unity in a divided republic.

— By Britta Sandberg in Paris • April 11, 2024

You can see it again from afar, the narrow crossing tower that has reliably risen into the Parisian sky for 160 years. A 96-meter-long monument made of wood and lead, built in the mid-19th century. The spire.

It is rare that gaps need to be closed in the sky. In this case, though, it was urgently needed. For almost five years, Parisians looked into a sad emptiness when they walked past Notre-Dame and looked up. The void reminded them of a national trauma: the evening of April 15, 2019, when smoke first rose from the Gothic building and flames then shot out of the roof.

With every catastrophe, there is a moment when the hope dies that the drama can still be averted. On that evening in April, it was the minute the glowing tower plunged into the depths. On both banks of the Seine to the left and right of the Île de la Cité, people stood and shouted, unable to believe what they were seeing.

Television stations sent images of the burning "flèche" around the world, just as they had shown the collapsing towers of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. And in November 2015, the footage of desperate people fleeing from Islamic State (IS) terrorists via windows in the Bataclan concert hall in Paris, hanging helplessly from the façade.

On this April evening, France once again felt it was the victim. After the terrorist attacks in 2015, in which 146 people died, the IS attack in Nice the following year and the weeks of violent demonstrations by the yellow vests in the winter of 2018, now Notre-Dame was also burning. The "epicenter of our lives," as President Emmanuel Macron would later state. A statement that was, of course, infused with hyperbole.

Macron's Risky Bet on the Future

Many French people last visited the cathedral as a child, during a school or family trip. Many of them are atheists, Muslims or Jews. Strangely touched, they nevertheless realized that night how much connects them with this building. If only because it was always there.

Notre-Dame may be Catholic, but somehow it belongs to everyone. The church survived the revolution, the Paris Commune and two world wars. The first bells to ring after fierce fighting in liberated Paris in August 1944 were those of Notre-Dame. On the night of the fire, Jean-Luc Mélenchon of the left-wing populist party La France insoumise, an avowed atheist, said it felt as if something had happened to a close family member.

The need to comfort the grieving nation was great, even though there were no fatalities and there was no terrorist attack behind the disaster. The next day, Macron announced in a speech to the nation that he wanted to have the monument rebuilt within five years – and that it would be even more beautiful than it had ever been before. The ruins of the cathedral were still smoking. But we can do this because we are "a nation of builders," Macron said.

It was a risky bet on the future. Macron knew that he would ultimately be measured against that promise. But he is also a player. Many French presidents have taken risks with large construction sites: Socialist President François Mitterrand had the Louvre renovated in the 1980s and commissioned a glass pyramid. Georges Pompidou left Paris the avant-garde and long controversial Centre Pompidou building. The history-conscious Macron should be pleased that he is now the youngest president since 1958 to become the builder of one of the country's oldest monuments.

Philippe Villeneuve has been chief architect of Notre-Dame since 2013 and is responsible for the conservation and restoration of the cathedral. He had applied for the national job posting, it was his dream role. "Without the architect Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, who made decisive changes to Notre-Dame in the 19th century and also designed the crossing tower, I would never have become an architect myself," says Villeneuve. For almost five years, his office has been a portacabin set up right behind the church. Relics of the fateful night still lie on the cupboards and desks to this day: Parts of old clock faces that fell into the nave. Molten lumps of lead from the roof of the church.

"I didn't look at any images of the collapsing tower. I couldn't have handled it."

— Philippe Villeneuve, Chief Architect of Notre-Dame

Foto: Sophie Carrère/Der Spiegel

Villeneuve wasn't in Paris on April 15, 2019, so he neither saw the crossing tower collapse nor the flames blazing on the roof. "And that was a good thing because I couldn't have handled it. I didn't look at any pictures of it afterward either." – Really, not a single one? – "I know, it sounds strange. Only since the tower has been back on the roof have I been able to do that to myself."

Tables with elongated rectangles in different colors hang in Villeneuve's container office. They each show the beginning and end of a construction phase – like an abstract art work that only insiders can understand. The Notre-Dame construction site is a complex logistical undertaking. It was divided into 140 individual construction sites, otherwise the technical challenges of reconstruction wouldn't have been met.

Tattoos to Keep What You've Lost with You at All Times

For the past five years, Villeneuve has dedicated himself exclusively to this construction project – the kind that only comes alone once in a century. The first one and a half years after the fire were spent securing the church, which was long considered to be in danger of collapsing. Villeneuve had hundreds of stones inspected to check how badly the heat had damaged them and whether they were still usable. He and Notre-Dame are now practically a single entity.

The 61-year-old pulls up the left sleeve of his cardigan, revealing the top of the spire beneath. "It takes up the entire arm, and there are more tattoos on the chest," says Villeneuve. Since the fire, he has had half the cathedral tattooed onto his body: the rescued north tower, the south tower, two mythical creatures on the façade and the copper rooster. He says he had to do something to keep what he had almost lost with him at all times.

Is that not a bit crazy though? – "Let's call it passion. I built a model of Notre-Dame when I was 16. I love this church, and I'm far from the only one."

When the crossing tower was erected on the roof again in mid-February, even the broad-shouldered carpenters are said to have had tears in their eyes. In the run-up to this, the country's four leading wood processing companies, who are actually competitors, had spent a year-and-a-half working together. Given the tight deadlines, a single company would never have been able to complete the task on time. All four companies worked to produce the thousand oak elements for the tower.

The restoration of stained glass in the cloister of the sacristy at Notre-Dame: more colorful and prettier than before. Foto: Patrick Zachmann/Magnum Photos

The reconstruction of the tower from the 19th century: a 96-meter-long monument made of wood and lead. Foto: Patrick Zachmann/Magnum Photos

Some 250 companies and numerous trades are working here in parallel, including painting restorers, stonemasons, roofers, specialist carpenters, air conditioning and heating technicians, archaeologists and scaffolders. More than 2,000 men and women are involved in the resurrection of the cathedral.

This national tour de force is being financed by 340,000 private donors who are raising a total of 846 million euros. Within only three days after the fire, the sum exceeded the total donations that the French transfer annually to the country's 10 largest charitable organizations. That's quite a lot of money for a pile of old stones, some have said critically. But they remain a minority.

The windfall came at the right time for President Macron, who had arbitrarily announced the deadline for reconstruction after the fire without consulting the experts. Five years sounded good. Besides, the Olympic Games would also be held in Paris in 2024.

People accused him of megalomania and the negligent handling of a listed historical monument at the time. Art historians and architecture experts wrote an open letter to the president. They warned against linking reconstruction to a political agenda or setting an actual set year for completion.

A Culture War over Reconstruction – Faithful to the Original or Modern?

There was another worry: Macron had declared that he also wanted to give contemporary architecture a place in the reconstruction. After that, strange designs for a modern tower began circulating. Some architects suggested a crystal spire "as a symbol of the fragility of our history." Others wanted to place a greenhouse and beehives on the roof of Notre-Dame. Yet others wanted to illuminate the roof from below so that it would be visible from a distance At some point, France's star architect Jean Nouvel weighed in. His objection: It isn't necessarily modern to replace something that already existed with something new.

Notre-Dame chief architect Villeneuve says he never tried to stop the discussion about all these idiotic ideas. "I knew that the crazier the designs, the greater the chances of a faithful reconstruction," he says. In July 2020, a national expert commission voted unanimously in favor of an historic reconstruction.

President Emmanuel Macron at the construction site: We can do this because we are "a nation of builders." Foto: Sarah Meyssonnier/AFP

One of the peculiarities of the French political system is that no commission or parliament ultimately decides on the architectural drafts. The president does. It's a monarchical gesture that survived the revolution. But Macron proved to be wise. A short time later, he agreed to a faithful reconstruction.

In the secular Fifth Republic, Notre-Dame belongs not to the church, but to the state. The latter makes the cathedral available to Catholics for the sole purpose of practicing their faith. And this according to a law passed in 1905. It made Emmanuel Macron the chief builder; the government is responsible for all renovation work and its financing.

Just two days after the fire, Macron appointed a former general as special envoy for reconstruction. He bypassed all the authorities – not even the Culture Ministry found out about it. The 70-year-old, Jean-Louis Georgelin, had previously served as chief of the general staff of the French armed forces and as NATO general in Bosnia's capital Sarajevo. He also led missions in Afghanistan and Cote d'Ivoire. And he is devout – a Catholic who knew the state apparatus well. Georgelin agreed. He didn't like being retired, anyway.

He moved into an office close to the president's in the Élysée Palace and explained to all critics that he was experienced at leading a task force in the military, so why not the Notre-Dame rescue operation as well? From then on, the general was primarily responsible for one thing: ensuring compliance with Macron's five-year plan.

Georgelin headed the "Établissement public," the public institution for reconstruction that the government had founded. He had himself photographed with an ax in the forest in front of oak trees selected for the new roof truss and gave everyone the reassuring feeling that the five-year deadline wasn't as crazy as it sounded.

Last August, the then 74-year-old had a fatal accident while on a hike in the Pyrenees. Macron dedicated a national memorial service to "the soldier who believed in heaven," as he expressed it, in the courtyard of the Invalides in Paris.

"What we are experiencing here is an incredible collective undertaking."

— Philipe Jost, general director of construction at Notre-Dame

Today, a glass conference room with a view of Notre-Dame's towers bears the name of the deceased. His successor, Philippe Jost, likes to use it for interviews. Jost, who was the general's deputy, is also a devout Catholic and previously worked in the French Defense Ministry. On this morning in March, he can see the new "flèche" from the large conference table at a height of almost 100 meters, a view that seemed unimaginable five years ago. "It only worked because the whole of France rushed to Notre-Dame's sickbed," says the 63-year-old. "What we are experiencing here is an incredible collective undertaking."

This construction site, he says, is also a demonstration of the will. "In a world of crises and given the often gloomy mood of the decade, the Notre Dame drama offered a unique opportunity to not surrender to fate, to take up the challenge and unite the whole nation behind this project. Emmanuel Macron already recognized that on the night of the fire."

"Do you know what makes scaffolding beautiful?" asks Didier Cuiset. "It's the aesthetics of perfect geometry." Cuiset stands 40 meters above the ground on a platform directly in front of the spire, in the middle of the sky above Paris. You can touch the rebuilt tower from here, touch the matte oak wood, see where the three-millimeter-thick layer of lead with the hook-shaped decorations begins. Even up close, the new tower is deceptively similar to the old one.

"Many people think that scaffolding is just a pile of metal, but that's not true. It can be a work of art."

— Didier Cuiset, chief scaffolder at Notre-Dame

Cuiset is the chief scaffolder here, and his company specializes in listed historical buildings. In the past, the company has put up scaffolding for the cathedral in Metz, the Louvre in Paris as well as Versailles. Cuiset has been living in a shared flat in Paris three days a week for five years now so that he can be part of the reconstruction of Notre-Dame.

"Many people think that scaffolding is just a pile of metal, but that's not true," he says. "It can be a work of art. When I draw one, I add pipes that it doesn't need structurally so that it looks nicer. Because I want it to do justice to the monument it surrounds."

Then, against all safety precautions, the 58-year-old climbs onto a barrier to take photos. This work of art is also ephemeral, it is currently being dismantled. As little metal as possible should obscure the view of Notre-Dame during the Olympic Games in the summer.

Restoration of the statue of St. Denis: 846 million euros for a pile of old stones? Foto: Patrick Zachmann/Magnum Photos

The nave of the cathedral: the stones are now "blonde" again, brighter and more radiant than ever. Foto: Patrick Zachmann/Magnum Photos

A few meters below, in the new roof truss of the cathedral, it smells of Christmas and fresh oak wood. Here you can see the faithful reconstruction of the medieval roof structure that was destroyed by the fire. It was also made possible because an architecture student had remeasured the roof for a research project in 2015. All the oak trunks used were worked manually with an ax by carpenters who still master the old techniques. Not folklore, as they say, but a method that makes the wood more stable. When worked by hand, it is easier to follow the core of the tree trunk. The beams were then joined together with wooden dowels, as they had been for centuries.

The daffodils are blooming in the garden of the Archbishop of Paris, and church bells can be heard from afar. The Catholic Church is not allowed to levy a church tax in France and is poorer than the German Church, but Monseigneur Laurent Ulrich lives very nicely. At the beginning of the 20th century, a wealthy widow bequeathed her 1,600-square-meter city palace and private chapel in the 7th arrondissement to the diocese of Paris, with the sole condition that the archbishop should live there in future. The property is now estimated to be worth over 50 million euros.

The world's richest man lives next door. He has also been the biggest donor in the effort to restore Notre-Dame. Bernard Arnault, owner of the luxury group Louis Vuitton-Moët Hennessy, gave 200 million for the reconstruction – twice the amount given by his eternal rival, the billionaire and art collector François Pinault.

"France has become a divided country, a fractured society. But Notre Dame has managed to unite our nation for a moment."

— Monseigneur Laurent Ulrich, the Archbishop of Paris

Foto: Sophie Carrère/Der Spiegel

It's raining outside, but Monseigneur is in good spirits on this morning. A few days ago, the topping-out ceremony for the newly constructed roof truss of Notre-Dame took place. In December, Laurent Ulrich consecrated the rooster for the crossing tower, which contains the relics of two saints that survived the night of the fire, a small part of the famous crown of thorns of Jesus Christ and, more recently, a parchment paper with the names of the craftsmen involved in the reconstruction.

If there are no storms or other disasters, he will be able to open Notre-Dame on time by December 8, says Ulrich. The originally planned date of April 15, 2024, had to be canceled due to difficult working conditions during the pandemic and strong winds.

The archbishop says he has been worried in recent years. "France has become a divided country, a fractured society," he says. "But Notre-Dame has managed to unite our nation for a moment. That makes me happy."

Monseigneur Ulrich doesn't want the April 15 fire to be forgotten, even if it was perhaps only caused by a short circuit or another trivial cause. The cause has not yet been determined. The archbishop has issued a call for tenders for six new stained glass windows in the cathedral. They are to be designed by contemporary artists "to leave a trace of the event that deeply wounded Notre-Dame. And which nevertheless showed what we are capable of: We were able to close this wound again." Macron has approved the project.

There are many things that divide the archbishop and the president. Just a few weeks ago, the right to abortion was enshrined in the constitution at Macron's initiative. A draft law on euthanasia is currently being prepared – issues that Monseigneur does not support. But when it comes to Notre-Dame, the two are in agreement. "Next December, the president will give the church back to Catholics to practice their religion. And we will thank him and everyone involved for that."

The faithful, Parisians and tourists will then discover a cathedral that is brighter and more radiant than ever before. After extensive work, the stones and columns inside the nave have been restored to their original color. Restorers painstakingly removed the dirt of past centuries, layer by layer. They are now "blonde" again, as the experts say. This color gives the nave something unusually sculptural. A depth that has been overshadowed by shades of gray for decades.

The colors in the neo-Gothic sacristy, once designed by architect Viollet-le-Duc, are also visible again for the first time. The restorers who cleaned it were amazed at how brightly colored this room once was, how deep blue the ceiling, how pink the frescoes.

Notre-Dame is actually more beautiful than before.

At the very front of the altar is an 18th century Pietà, a depiction of Mary with the body of Jesus Christ taken down from the cross. On the evening of April 15, molten lead had flowed from the roof of the church directly into the open right hand of Jesus, staining the entire sculpture with black splashes. There is no sign of it today. The restorers only left the lead in the palm of the hand. As a reminder of a special moment.

#Rebuilding Notre-Dame #France 🇫🇷#Emmanuel Macron | The War Criminal | The Scrotums Licker of the Zionist 🐖 🐷 🐗 🐖

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