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skitskatdacat63 · 2 months

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Prince Jenson of Somerset

+ process & lore

Yayyyyy omg finally have drawn portraits of the four main characters!!!! I'll show the process of Jenson's first and then them all four together. Though it's a shame the Seb/Fernando ones are older, I think it's hopefully obvious how much I've improved since November?

Look at him in all his handsome, princely glory 🥹 It's funny, I'm always happy with the second sketch and initial lineart, and then I start coloring it and I absolutely hate it, and it takes a significant amount of time into the painting for me to like it again. And then I reach a certain point and I'm in love with it again. Ugh though I gotta say, I love drawing the curls, it's just so 18th century, but at the same point, man I always will love my original lineart for the hair the best ah. Also yes I absolutely had to give him a big ass hat with feathers, he really is that kinda guy to me. I originally drew a bicorne and then realized that those don't really exist until basically almost a century later oops, so tricorne it is!!

Okay now omg look at them all together 🥹

Haha wow I have improved a lot! Just like the Seb/Fernando ones, Mark and Jense's were meant to be put together. I think there's a lot of inherent characterization in their poses that highlight the difference between them. Mark is looking up, very wistful, looking up to greater people, greater things. Jenson's head is tilted down, almost looking at the viewer, he is very satisfied with his role and revels in it, he's here to slay!

Okay, yes, lore, characterization, sorry that it is so far down on the post!!

Jense would probably be the fan favorite if this AU was an actual book or show or something. He's the guy you randomly find while browsing Wikipedia and you're like, woah this guy is so cool??? Unlike Sebmarknando, he doesn't really have the same level of angst, he's kinda just chilling. He's a bit harder to write a lore post about, because he's basically that character who is always magically around the corner, ready to witness some crazy thing and just breeze past it.

He is less linked to Seb than people like Mark and Fernando, because he's basically just his personal minister of transportation(read: horse fucker), so he avoids a lot of the relationship complications and drama, but that isn't to say he's completely uninvolved. He really likes Seb, and loves to hang around with him and serve him, but he's not as beholden to him. He's who everyone goes to air their grievances or to get away from the others, and he's very happy with this role. He's generally willing to play any side in an argument, but does tend to have a pretty big soft spot for Seb overall(Seb also gives him cuteness aggression, and he wants to bite him. Especially when Seb puffs himself up and acts super bratty when he gets offended at not being seen as a proper ruler.)

He's royalty from other kingdom, but pledged his loyalty to Seb's kingdom when he was quite young and has served him(his father first) ever since. He started off somewhat low in the military, rose to a pretty high rank, was a renowed war hero, and then ended up retiring pretty early to tend to Seb's horses. That's an oversimplification, but yeah. He liked the military life, was very good at it, but decided he had done enough, and wanted to be involved in more direct service, albeit more laid back. As I mentioned in Mark's post, Mark *really* doesn't understand his choice to do this, because if Mark had been in Jense's position, he can't ever imagine being able to let all that go and living the quiet life.

He is the palace whore, everyone has been with him honestly. It'll be like, some man walks into his bedroom, only to see Jenson in bed with his wife, but instead of being angry, he's like "wow you couldn't even wait for me??" He's just very carefree, and happy to just slut around and tend to Seb's horses.

I think he definitely still advises Seb, and would go to battle if truly need be, but generally seems to be living in a different world than the weird psychosexual homoerotic political drama that the others seem to be living in. But as I said, it's not like he doesn't contribute to it! He loves to goad Fernando, and constantly plays devil's advocate in "debates" between Fernando and Seb. He's also obviously the one that keep "accidentally" locking them in rooms and forgetting where the key is.

Sorry if this isn't very explanatory, I hope it gives a general idea to the type of character he is???? As always, let me know if you have any questions! I kinda struggled on what to write here because I'm finishing this at almost 8 am 😭 so I'm not sure if it's great or not. But basically you need to know: horse fucker who is generally breezy and carefree but also can be a bit of a menace to society every once in a while.

#YAYAAAAAAA PRETTY HAPPY WITH THIS ONE!!!!#lmfao tho not 100% sure about the lore notes because i wrote this at like 8 am #hope its understandable 😭 and that you love jense as much I do #hes probably the funniest character in the AU #and like if it wasn't centered on seb/nando he would be the favorite #hes just often there as my kinda reaction character #tho both he and Mark are reaction characters but on opposite sides of the scale and they play off each other #jenson walks into a room where sebnando are psychosexually glaring at each other from across the room #and hes like hmmm how can i make this worse #and mark is the type to walk into the room. see whats going on. and briskly walk away #so jense absolutely loves to tease him w this kinda thing and just make any situation 100x worse(aka funnier)#well funnier for him probably not the other people involved #but its okay bcs they love him. hes jense!!! who wouldn't love him!! hes our favorite guy!! our jense!!!#I just love to imagine he gets all the sides of the gossip and is like hmm yes yes interesting #but doesnt use it for scheming or evil but rather just to tease and be annoying and make everyone blush :)#okay well anyways wow im not really discussing the art itslef sorry!!!@#I think he looks so handsome pretty in this 🥺#hes pretty difficult to draw but i think it came together when i gave him freckles tbh #i hope he gives off carefree but seductive but laidback prince 🙏🙏#f1 #formula 1 #jenson button #catie.art.#boy king au #*not sure about his title officially yet. i mean hes from somerset but yeah idk its okay

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communistsister · 10 months

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Diary of a Strange Land

I’ve been rereading Ikoku Nikki again, an ongoing manga series written by Yamashita Tomoko (who you may perhaps know as the original writer of recent anime adaptation of the supernatural BL series The Night Beyond The Tricornered Window). It’s one of my favourite manga, largely due to the art and very considered, introspective writing, but also because I just empathise with one of the two protagonists a lot.

Some thematic if not literal spoilers will follow.

One of the two protagonists, 35 year old novelist Makio Koudai is wonderfully written; she’s awkward, somewhere on the neurodiverse spectrum, struggles to be around people and prefers solitude; she forgets things, hates phonecalls, struggles to clean up after herself; and she has a tendency to monologue on deep dives into the meaning of words, the uniqueness of everyone’s own feelings, and how it’s okay to hate your family. Much of the plot is her learning to live with her 15-year-old recently orphaned niece, Asa, who she adopts at the start of the series.

Generally though... she’s a rare kind of protagonist that I don’t really see written much, and is also directly relatable for basically everything I wrote above. I see myself in Makio a lot. I also think it’s easy to read her as trans; the author’s background in creating Boys’ Love manga means she tends to draw women with quite androgynous-to-masculine face shapes, and some imagery and subtext has cropped up so far through the series that can be read as supporting Makio as trans. She has at least one close nonbinary friend who she can joke about their junk with; she quickly clocks a supporting character as a teenage lesbian struggling with her identity; childhood flashbacks of Makio’s terrible relationship with her sister often show her in masculine clothing with short hair. It’s not textual but it’s an easy read for me.

As both an author and a neurotic person who largely overthinks things and lives inside her own head, Makio does display a lot of emotional intelligence throughout the series; but it’s generally a very analytical display of it that I feel an affinity with. She struggles with direct emotional outbursts, and sometimes fails to read how others feel until it’s said out loud; she explicitly says she struggles guessing people’s thoughts and emotions. But when able to take a step back and describe an emotion or situation in a more literate way, she expresses a real understanding of the nuances of a lot of difficult emotions, like waxing lyrical on the expression of grief when her niece Asa is thinking about her recently deceased parents, by discussing the use of tense in both english and japanese:

Makio’s a good protagonist to co-centre the story around; Ikoku Nikki deals with the obvious themes of grief that come from having an orphaned character, but keeps going into some other less familiar areas. Whether your parents love you; how and when it’s acceptable to be angry; being unable to relate to others’ feelings; breaking up with a partner because they feel too perfect and you feel undeserving of love; the struggle and loneliness of writing & creating art. Makio often takes a teaching role in chapters about these topics, conveying wordy thoughts to Asa as the latter struggles through processing grief & growing up through school. Makio’s own past is told through often-abstract flashbacks rather than spelled out, but it’s clear from how she acts in the present day that she’s developed a sort of detached, almost disassociative maturity around being a person, and her advice to Asa usually comes across as pained sympathy instead of lecturing. Coupled with a small cast of similarly well-rounded supporting characters and their own internal and external emotional dialogues, Ikoku Nikki both starts strongly and grows over its chapters to be a really thoughtful story about sets of complex emotions. In case you can’t tell from me writing a long post about it, I really recommend it, as a relatively uncommon example of manga with a well-fleshed-out adult cast dealing with the low, relatable stakes of trying to be happy.

#long read #manga #ikoku nikki #Yamashita Tomoko #trans headcanons #there's canon lesbians as supporting characters too if you need an extra motivator lol #introspective

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themediummultiverseau · 1 year

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Will papyrus ever be included in the storyline, maybe sans opening up to him about it, or he gets suspicious about sans's behavior and corners him or something?

Aaaand are there any prominent side characters that we'll see?

Papyrus notices that his brother has been leaving the house more, and at first, hes overjoyed! Sans was finally leaving the house! But, he realised after a while, that he always dodged the question as to where he was going. (Sans, being the secretive little fuck that he is, refuses to tell anyone about the ghosts.) Worried, Papyrus follows him one day, only to find him walking al the way to the park. And then he just stops, and starts talking to air.

Papyrus is CONCERNED (tm,) and goes back home to wait for Sans to come home. It takes him HOURS to come back, (he visits everyone he can,) and, when confronted, he once again try to avoid the questions.

Papyrus says he followed him, saw him talking to air, and was considering getting him professional help, his depression had been bad before, and if he was starting to see things now as well...

Sans is forced to tell the truth.

And he does. For the next few hours they sit and talk about the ghosts. Papyrus want to believe him, really, he does! But he cant help but still be worried, so says takes his phone out and googles "Nightmare - Prince" and shows him the results. He then goes through the lot of them, showing death reports, news articles, anything that appears really, and Papyrus finally believes him.

From then on, he insists Sans takes something for them every time he visits, and often makes them food to give (more often that not, its spaghetti,) and asks how they're doing. Sometimes, they go and Sans acts as a medium, for them, so Papyrus and the ghosts can talk directly.

Killer and Dream especially take a liking to him, while Dust is pretty scared of him (he looks way to much like his won brother its actually scary,) and always ask how he is when Sans comes without him.

Side characters.. It depends what you mean by that.

Every Sans you could ever want can exist here, they just might not haunt the town,

(i got lazy when drawing here, so its just a messy sketch but yk)

(Red - shot, epic - shrapnel, Fresh - car crash, Outer - fell)

Alternatively, most of the ghosts had family members, most of them had a Papyrus look alike, (Papyrus isn't reincarnated here, but every Sans deserves a Papyrus, even fate believes it so)

(Nim (Dream and Nightmares mother, Queen), Phantom (Dusts brother,) Horror had lots of siblings, ect...)

Buuut, while many of the original Undertale cast have been spread out throughout the years, Toriel, Chara and Frisk are all based in the present time.

Toriel, after the death of her son, adopts two kids, twins, who were considered "difficult" children, (really there were disabled, but why would they care about that, - Chara has some mental issues, and Frist is mute and has sight problems.) They're lovely kids , and they visit quite regularly, typically with their mother. Sans was named their Godfather (Papyrus was considered, but he told them Sans was a better choice, ) because Toriel knew he'd love them.

Sans and Toriel met at a comedy gig, both preforming on the same day, and became friends instantly over their shared love of stupid puns. (They're not together, this universe has no canonical relationships, everyting's platonic here, but ships are totally allowed and welcome if you wanted lol.)

Holy moly, that was a lot of work lmao, would you believe it, i dont think ive ever actually drawn Papyrus before? I have no idea why, just havent, ill have to do more so in the future cus hes fun.

Ive also never tried to draw anyone from the angle Sans is at in the first drawing, think it looks fine as long as you ignore the feet lol.

No, i didnt get lazy drawing the ghost in the first, it was a stylistic choice! /j /sarcasm, also, Hi, im Whisp, i hate backgrounds!)

Please excuse me attempt at drawing a wimple for Nim and the tricorned hat for Phantom, they're very difficult!

All of Horrors siblings there don't have names, they were just designed on the spot really, so if anyone has and names for them, ill take them on board!

But hope it all looks okay, this is all full of firsts lol. Have a lovely day everyone! :)

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olimpias · 3 years

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THE JUGGLERS OF VENICE - A SHORT STORY BY ELIZA ORMANDY

words: 2k

warnings: death and i can’t be too explicit here, otherwise it would spoil some things, but ill say this: it’ll be very, very disturbing

general taglist: @stuff-lucie-wrote @buster-keaton @bookphobe @write-gallagher

tjov taglist: @withered-rose-unbreakable-lotus

persons of the mystery

Geronimo - a young Venetian gentleman

Erasmo - his friend, the Marquese di Giglia

the old woman - a ticket seller

the man with the Gnaga - a fire-eater

Gaspare - a woodcarver

Floriana - the daughter of Erasmo’s cousin

When autumn arrives and the days begin to be shorter and darker than before, it happens every October that the jugglers come, in their colourful little wagons and their funny fringed costumes, to lure the already rather dusty population of Venice out of their incipient winter torpor and to tell them about foreign lands and people. Here, in the city of the arts, these vagabonds are quite highly regarded and, even though the Venetian way of life cannot exactly be described as colourless, they are seen as a welcome distraction in view of the approaching winter. There are a lot of rumours about the jugglers and a few years ago a child disappeared there whom I even knew (she was the daughter of a distant cousin of my friend Erasmo, the Marquese di Giglia), but even after an extensive search little Floriana could not be found and so her disappearance was explained that she must have fallen into a nearby canal and the jugglers were not further associated with it.

And so it happened that on the very day that the curious folk came to Venice, I was staying at Erasmo’s' palazzo and we passed the time excellently at his expense. "Listen, Geronimo," he said, when we had just emptied our second bottle of wine, "don't you remember that the jugglers are to come to town today?" "How right you are, Erasmo!" exclaimed I. "Let us leave at once, for it will soon be dark!" Briskly we got up, threw on our masks and cloaks and set off.

Never before had I seen the jugglers with my own eyes. Their reputation undoubtedly preceded them and it was said that they were godless, unbridled creatures who knew how to make others laugh but remained as cold as ice themselves. They had set up their quarters near a small square on the outskirts of the city. As dusk had already fallen, most of the visitors had left, and the cold wind was getting into our limbs, so that we wrapped ourselves even more tightly in our coats, but there was a wonderful glow from the little stalls and the most pleasurable music was playing, which made us soon forget all the dark stories about the jugglers.

A stooped old woman stood in front of the stalls selling tickets. She wore a blue and gold half mask, a large tricorn with a cock's feather and her lips were painted a rather quaint red. "Come in, come in!" she cried in a croaky voice. "Two tickets for the young gentlemen? Here you are, here you are, always come in, just don't hesitate! Let us whisk you away into another world! But be warned: no one who goes in comes out as he was!" At this she burst into cackling laughter and Erasmo grabbed my arm in fright.

We left the strange old woman behind and looked at the various stalls. There was the most artificial candy that could even move, daintily built little houses with tiny figures in them, there was a tent where a fortune teller was supposed to be and of course the jugglers, fire-eaters, acrobats and girls with apple-red cheeks offering candied fruit. Every now and then a stately white horse was brought in, with a feathered headdress and a lady in red on its back, wearing a red mask and a red veil.

Suddenly, from behind the stalls, a puppet with a large key in its back appeared and performed a wild dance before our eyes. It threw itself into the air, hit the ground, jumped up again, spun in circles, flailed its arms and shook itself before falling lifeless to the ground. Then a man dressed in black and red and wearing a Gnaga mask leapt into the circle that had formed around the doll and shouted, "Good evening, dear friends! What you have just seen here was one of the dolls of the famous Gaspare, known as the best woodcarver who ever set foot in Italy!" With these words he beckoned a small man of slight stature, dressed all in white, even his face was painted white, but his lips were ghastly red. Gaspare bowed awkwardly and grinned as if possessed. Hesitantly everyone applauded and he spoke in a squeaky voice: "I suppose if the gentlemen would like to take a look at my humble tent, I can show them some more of these amazing puppets."

Everyone entered the tent and Gaspare spread his arms. The walls were covered all over with dolls of all kinds, big, small, men, women, children and mythical creatures, but they all had one thing in common: their ugly, almost devilish laughter, which made me think of Gaspare himself.

But another, smaller area of the tent was separated by a cloth. "What might be behind this, Geronimo?" said Erasmo quietly to me, but Gaspare, who must have heard us, moved around and stared at us. "In this part are the particularly valuable dolls, those that are only brought out on special occasions." All the while he squinted his eyes. I felt uncomfortable in the face of this madman and wanted to urge Erasmo to leave, but Gaspare approached us again. "Would the young gentleman agree if I took his portrait?" he asked with another hypocritical grin, stroking Erasmo's cheek with his pale, bony finger. It is true, Erasmo is significantly more handsome than me and not infrequently I, who looks quite normal and unassuming, have envied him his thick, dark hair, which is entirely without a wig, and his noble, light brown skin, not to mention his flawless features, which immediately make everyone suspect his aristocratic origins. "Well, why not?" he replied politely, even managing a smile, which I give him credit for, knowing how much he hates it when other people touch him. "Don't do that!", I whispered in his ear. "Something is not right here!" But he squeezed my hand tenderly and followed the old man to a moth-eaten velvet armchair where Gaspare told him to settle down. Then he took out some paper and began to draw magically fine lines on it with ink, which joined together to form a face with incredible speed. It was unmistakably Erasmo's, albeit strangely distorted, with huge eyes, a tiny nose and a small, pointed mouth. When he had finished, Erasmo reached out to take the drawing, but the old man snatched it away. "I still need it," he cawed. "You can have it - later. That is, if you still need them then." With these words he slipped through the curtain into the hidden section and came out again a short time later, but without the drawing. "I have work to do now. Out, out!" He suddenly seemed very upset and really shooed us out of the tent.

When we got outside, it was dark and I noticed that we were the only visitors left. "Let's go," I said, pulling Erasmo with me. He allowed it, although reluctantly. The old woman laughed as we passed her.

We hadn't gone far when Erasmo stopped abruptly. "Let's go back!" he said, and I saw in his dark eyes the dangerous mixture of adventurousness and folly that was well known to me. Ever since we were children, I had tried to stop him from doing something stupid, but usually without success. This time was no exception. He looked at me pleadingly and I gave in. "All right," I said with a sigh. "But what do you intend to do anyway?" "I want to get my drawing," he replied, but I knew very well that he was merely using this pretext to get into the hidden area of Gaspare's tent.

So we crept back, under the cover of night. Fortunately, we were both dressed in dark clothes, so we didn't have to be afraid of any passers-by. We arrived at the stalls, but there was no one to be seen. The lights were no longer shining and the cheerful music had stopped. When everything looked so deserted and uninviting, I felt a bit queasy, but I took heart and followed Erasmo, who was walking carefully but purposefully towards Gaspares' tent. He too was nowhere to be seen, neither inside nor outside the tent. We peeked behind the curtain that divided the room into two halves. At first glance we saw nothing unusual. To our right was a workbench with some tools and a candle on it. It was burning. Opposite was a chest and before I could hold it back Erasmo had already opened it. I stepped closer.There were dolls in the chest too, but these ones looked different, more alive in a frightening way. Their eyes seemed to look straight into my heart and their red mouths seemed as if they wanted to say to me: "Listen, Geronimo, what are you doing here? You have meddled in something evil, you can believe us!" I suddenly became so scared that my throat tightened and I turned to Erasmo to ask him to get out of here once and for all, but he had stepped to the other side of the small room and was looking thoughtfully at a cloaked figure leaning in the corner. It reached about to his waist and was strangely slumped. "What do you think this is?" he asked, and even in the dim light of the single candle I could see his eyes shining with excitement.

Slowly he lifted the cloth, but when he saw what was hidden underneath, he stumbled back, startled. "Just look," he whispered with fear in his voice. I walked over and was also struck with fright. The doll looked exactly like little Floriana! Her light brown frizzy hair was twisted up into two elaborate curls, her wide brown eyes stared up at us trustingly and even her cute rosy mouth looked as if it might start talking at any moment.While we were still standing there, barely able to contain ourselves, the curtain was pulled aside behind us. We wheeled around. There stood Gaspare, trembling and gasping. He staggered towards us, yet it was not It was not his sudden appearance or his indistinct muttering that frightened me, but his face, in which the bright madness glowed.I believed he was about to attack us and for a moment I thought my number was up, but he paid us little heed. "Did the young gentlemen discover my masterpiece, eh?" he asked in a trembling voice. "I knew they would come back. You only have to take a look at their inquisitive noses!" He knelt down in front of the doll and clasped it with both arms. "My dearest Floriana," he whispered. "Just look!" He palmed her. "It's her hair and her clothes!" He opened her mouth. "And her teeth!" He jumped up, the doll in his arms. "Never will she grow up, never! She will always be my little daughter. And you," with these words he came up to Erasmo, "you will be my son, and I will delight in your beauty as I make you and Floriana dance, just for me!" His ghastly laughter shook the tent walls. Then at last I awoke from my rigidity of terror, seized Erasmo's arm, and, dragging him behind me, ran as fast as I could out of the tent and past the stalls, not stopping until we had reached the canal on which Erasmo's palazzo is situated. There we leaned against the parapet, breathing heavily. "Poor, poor Floriana," sobbed Erasmo. "And my poor, poor cousin!" I wanted to say something comforting, but I couldn't think of anything.

The next day we heard that the jugglers had left, much earlier than usual, and they were never heard of again, either in Venice or in all Italy. Erasmo and I quietly agreed that we would take that terrible experience to our graves. It is probably better that way, even if I am pained by the grieving face of his cousin who comes to visit now and then. I can only hope and pray that the jugglers have given up their terrible ways, but I cannot imagine it. Surely they will travel around for all eternity until perhaps someone comes along who has enough courage to put a stop to them. But that someone will not be me, that is certain.

#the jugglers of venice #tjov #my writing #my wip #short story #writeblr #amwriting

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tirasiantrouper · 5 years

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Soon

Soon.

Whoever came up with the word soon? It was timeless, yet used to give some measure of time. The very word now grated on Sarah's nerves as she had drawn on clothes and boots. She had 'borrowed' one of Merrick's sweaters. It was big and bulky enough to make Sarah look a bit frumpy. To help her blend in a bit. She had opted to not paint on her usual eye-catching shade of ruby red lipstick. Whatever she could do to not draw attention to herself. As she stumbled and bumbled about the docks of Freehold, she'd ask here and there on if people had seen anything out of sorts.

Uncomfortable.

That was another word she cursed. She hated that it was accurate for her. She felt uncomfortable, exposed, standing out on the docks, trying to get some form of heading on where to begin looking for Merrick and Graham. After some time she had at least figured out which direction the nearest tavern was in. That would be a good place to check, she reasoned. And yet...

Taverns in Freehold were more like lamplights.

There was one, or more, for every street corner -- often stacked one upon the other. The nearest tavern to their particular dockhead was a rather boring affair named the ‘Colorful Carnation’. True to its name, the sign which swung in the sea-breeze was carved into the shape of a blooming flower. Outside stood a great-many manner of men and women, all seaside sorts who were drinking and smoking, even at the afternoon hour.

To misfortune perhaps, none appeared to be a gargantuan foreman nor finely-tailored director. The great expanse of the patrons visible were all rough-and-tumble, salty sorts who looked inquiring for a place to spend their voyage’s pay.

Sarah had her eyes peeled, looking for both of them, but mostly looking for Merrick as she was sure to notice him in a crowd before Graham. Something about his size, she figured, would make him stand out. She made her way towards the gathered group, trying to peer through the crowd of them to see what the kerfuffle was. All the while, cursing and grumbling under her breath. It had been hours. Merrick knew she gave them two.

Kerfuffles were many and a-plenty, it seemed.

“Oooh -- ooh, I see what yer’ game is boy! You really gonna go ahead and try to swap-a-swindle on me? No, no -- no no. Come on, you really wanna have me chewin’ up your backside from here to fuckin’ Tel Abim? Gimme the doubloons, swabbie.”

“Okay -- I can see you are upset. I feel your energy, and I am putting good energy back. But … the thing is … these are my doubloons. See, you did bet them against my hand -- and now, see, I’ve won that hand. So under all the laws of Gods, Fortune and Men, these are my doubloons.”

There appeared to be a rather profound argument on the outer deck of the Colorful Carnation regarding a particular hand of cards. A brutish, thick-jawed sailor bearing a red-dyed tricorne was arguing his loss of wealth with a svelte, rather dapper -- and handsome, by some measure -- one-eyed man with a gilded eyepatch.

Freehold. It never changed.

As attractive as one might have been, those weren't her men. Therefore they weren't hers to mind about. Especially given she was certain at least one of them was unscrupulous in their sea-faring ways. Even if the argument reminded her of a certain illusionist. That reminder only served to make her frown, remembering why she was there.

Onto the next tavern! Slinking away as best she could, to avoid the crowd and the fight going on behind her, Sarah tugged her-- well, Merrick's-- sweater closer around herself.

The great expanse of Freehold’s ramshackle streets was vast.

There were no shortage of taverns, sea-side spitting houses, ‘breweries’, and pubs. Perhaps a few square feet of the entirety of Freehold was not built for the express intention of putting liquor into the bloodstreams of sailing sorts. It was that kind of a town.

With no defining marks, and a far -- far -- too big garment wrapped around her, Sarah did not poke out. Amongst the peoples of Freehold, cause for ‘catcalling’ was as broad as physiology could abide. Men, women, and all else got the side-eye and a hoot-and-holler from various sorts. The afternoon as it was did not hold so ripe a contest of maritime debauchery as surely would come about by nightfall. Fortuitous, as it were.

Beyond the din of many sailors cavorting, arguing, and fist-fighting with one another -- there came a sound. It was small, given the surrounding cries and yells, but it seemed to be coming from deeper down a corner alleyway.

“-- in good faith. And now? Look, look what you’ve done. -- Ah! Ah, no. No. That was all you, Cal. Do not try to assuage you and your boys embarrassment on account of my behavior. I was nothing but genial until they drew.”

That was a sense of familiarity. The voice and the confident attitude, and the 'genial' nature of it all.

Sarah crept closer, and turned to lean about at the end of the alleyway, within hearing distance, but around the corner so as to not be seen. She did her best to make it look like she was just another Freehold Free-person lingering about, wasting time outside of the building. She felt around inside of Merrick's pockets, trying to find something that could resemble a smoke. Not that she knew the foreman to smoke, but it would have been useful. Even just the gesture of searching for a smoke to discover she had 'forgotten' it elsewhere would do to any passerbys while she eavesdropped.

To her chagrin, there was no ‘smoke’. There was, however, a ringlet of measuring spoons. They still held the gentle dust of cinnamon from the last tray of muffins Merrick had baked at the estate. Indeed, there was also a bundled up tea-towel which retained the scent of whatever blend he had mixed together to help ease Graham’s hangovers. Curious man, their foreman.

Down the alleyway, there were a variety of peculiar shopfronts. Most were empty in the afternoon -- unsavory sorts, perhaps. But the end of the alleyway was a tavern. Or something approximating a tavern. There was a bar, and grog behind it, so -- tavern.

But in the briny expanse of ‘street’ ahead of that tavern, stood a man in quite a lovely charcoal suit. It was somewhat marred by apparent physicality. There was an imprint of dust on the rear, where a hand had apparently tried to take hold of him. He grasped a cane in his left hand, tip pointed downward at an angle befitting a fencing saber rather than a walking appendage. Five men lay prone around him.

A sixth man, quite unfortunate, was being held by his ankle by a mammoth of a man standing beside the well-tailored gentleman. He was stumbling over his words, bumbling and making some plea which amounted to, ’please, please-please put me down!’

Past the commotion, stood another man. Less well-dressed, but wearing the same sense of quiet confidence as the cane-wielder.

Sarah had to duck her head to hide her smirk as she heard something along the lines of someone pleading to be put down. She knew without looking-- that was Merrick's doing. Still, she listened, trying to gauge the rest of the scenario and whether or not she was needed or could even be of use. At least, she reasoned, it didn't sound as if either of them were harmed. Yet.

No one -- bar the five men unconscious, and the one held aloft -- appeared harmed.

“Now … is there a particular reason you decided to throw your goons at me, Cal? Or have you simply gotten so incredibly doughy in your old age that you rely on these upstart young gentleman to protect you from similarly ancient friends?” A quirk of a smile ate through the tone of Graham’s voice, loud enough to still be heard down the alley. He had lungs.

The man opposite him, ‘Cal’ apparently, spoke in a harsher tone. His voice was marred with the rasp common to habitual smokers. But in a handsome fashion, as if he had a long go at some back-room lounge singing. Not an untoward tone, all considered.

“Forgive me, Ellingham. When a ghost decides to come haunting on a sunny afternoon, you have to be sure its real -- you understand. My dearest apologies,” the man brought his hands up, fingers pinched together and wiggling in sincerity. “What can I do for you .. ?”

“Unfortunately my cause for visitation comes in two words, Cal. ‘Ignacio Mordrey’.”

That seemed to quirk the man’s brow.

“Oh. And here I thought I’d have a nice afternoon, enjoy a nap, slay a half-snifter of brandy. Alright -- come in. And I hope if that is your young man down the street, that you did not teach him to be so unsubtle.” From down the alleyway, ‘Cal’ threw a glance toward Sarah.

Young man?! Sarah had to bite on her tongue to keep from vocalizing that offense. Perhaps it was compliment that her attempt to be frumpy had succeeded so well.

Still-- young man?!

‘Thump!’

The man whom Merrick had been holding in precarious aeriality fell to earth. He scampered away quite quickly, seemingly afeared of the enormous man who once grasped him. At the mention of ‘young man’, the foreman peeked over to see -- Sarah.

A little frown colored his face, creasing them as he observed her. A mutter escaped, “.. Are’b that m’sweater? … “

Graham was not so unsubtle, merely casting a momentary glance over one shoulder. He beheld Sarah easily, well-accustomed to the glint of her eyes and the swell of her lips. As he came back around to look at ‘Cal’, he rolled his eyes.

“... Yes, unfortunately that is my young man. A ward of an old colleague, you understand. Have to take care of him. I promise he will not be a burden in your home. -- Please, lead on. You were just about to tell me about the recent state of affairs with the ‘Devil Ignacio’ .. ?”

As he spoke, Graham came forward with his cane finally utilized for its genuine purpose, rather than bludgeoning poor young men. ‘Cal’ and Graham went ahead and entered the tiny tavern at the end of the street, with Merrick hanging back and waving at Sarah.

“Young MAN?” Sarah mouthed to Merrick, her face scrunched up in offense.

@thegreatgrahamellingham

#The Tirasian Entourage

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chronicbatfictioner · 6 years

Text

JayTim Week 2018 - Day 7

Day 7: Soulmate // Space AU

Tim saw his soulmate through a camera lens.

He was only a few months into his tenth year of life, and by all account, thought his brain was making it up. Wishful thinking, he thought. After all, the supposed soulmate he had seen was Batman's newest Robin. How could a guy be his soulmate?

Times changed. The new Robin, Jason Todd, was killed. At age 12, Tim became Robin, his mother died, his father got remarried.

On a whim, one day in cool September in the kitchen, Tim decided to ask Dana, his father's new wife, if she'd ever seen her soulmate. She said yes, "the instant I saw your father's photograph in a newspaper - years ago when he wedded your mom. But not all soulmates end up together, you know? Plus, I was in Arizona back then - there was no way I could meet your dad."

"What was it like?" Tim asked curiously. "I mean, I think I've seen my soulmate, but I couldn't be sure, you know?"

"Oh, Tim," Dana sighed dreamily. "It would sound cheesy, and I think every person has different perception of their soulmates. What I saw was kind of a halo behind your dad's head, and I checked against several people - there was no halo behind his head at all. My college roomie saw wings behind her soulmate in a photo. Another saw flowers, trucks, a puppy... it's always different for everyone, I think." she explained.

"What is this about soulmate?" Jack Drake, Tim's father, wanted to know as he walked in to the kitchen.

"I've-- I've just read somewhere that you can see your soulmate through a photo." Tim told him.

Jack snorted. "Timmy, you remember that photography was not invented until the 19th century, right? It's simply illogical to say one's soulmate could be seen through a photograph. What about those in the 18th century? What about the Greeks? The Romans? How would they know if they married their soulmates?" he scoffed as he retrieved a newspaper and flipped it open directly on the economic section.

"Yeah, I just thought it was a romantic thing that people told," Tim hedged.

"Wishful thinking, that's what it is. How about those models whose photos were digitally enhanced? How could their soulmate know they were 'the one'?" Jack continued, oblivious to the exchange of amused glares between Tim and Dana.

"Well, I would say that when you found The One, you'll know it, you know? History is filled with the glorious stories of those believing that their spouse is The One; but it's also filled with as many heartbreaks, right?" Dana remarked, ruffling Tim's head as she went to the sink. "I think the concept of 'soulmate' is something that was created to give people hope. That they have someone, somewhere, waiting for them; that they will never be alone. Maybe some did end up alone, after all, but at least they have that hope, still, in their hearts. Maybe it's that hope that makes us human, you know?"

"--and yet humankind continued to thrive; soulmate or otherwise. As long as they can feed, procreate, I'd say we're all fine without the superstitious mumbo-jumbo."

Dana winked at him from over his father's head. Tim cursorily wondered what his mother would have said of the matter, or the matter that Dana believed that she has eventually wedded her soulmate that is Jack Drake.

The second time Tim saw his soulmate, was when Batman and Nightwing were reviewing footages of the Red Hood. Without the villain even removing his helmet, Tim knew who it was.

As it was, Batman and Nightwing were equally reluctant to reveal who the Red Hood was. More reluctant, even, to let Tim go and face him. Until, unfortunately for all - Tim included - the Red Hood decided to go find him and face him. In the Titans' Towers, no less.

It was hard and heartbreaking for Tim. His father had died, following the deaths of his two best friends. But his sense of self-preservation - some would argue that it was his lack of self-preservation - prevailed, and he fought. He fought hard. He'd lost, obviously. Fact is that Red Hood's - Jason's - arms and legs were twice the size of Tim's own. Fact is that - even at mere 18, Jason was nearly six feet to Tim's 5'5". Fact is that he was fueled by anger. And the biggest cause of said anger was Tim, who had replaced him - as he'd said.

Tim had always thought that he'd felt something soft, warm, and maybe a little wet, pressed gently to his forehead. But in his defense, he was a little unconscious, and maybe even concussed, by that time. Plus, the surveillance cameras in the tower had only caught Jason knelt by Tim's side after he'd knocked Tim unconscious.

There were more instances of their meets that ended up with a whole load of violence since then. But there were other instances where they had ended up side-by-side, or back-to-back, defending each other. Tim kept Jason at arm's length, while at the same time trying to figure out how to include Jason back into the ever-expanding family's fold.

Dana's words of 'maybe that hope is what makes us human' rang in his ears that night. Dana has long since gone, her psyche and memories forever ruined when Jack was murdered. Her sister in Tennessee had taken her over to care for her, and the only contact Tim had with her was the occasional texts from her sister, saying she's okay.

That night, he came in from his Wayne Enterprises office to find Jason perched on a windowsill.

"Long time no punching." Jason remarked.

Okay, that might or might not put Tim into fighting stance. Sure, Jason might have behaved generally fine. But it's Jason, really. Highly unpredictable, mostly volatile and combustible, generally hating the BatFam. Except maybe Cassandra - Black Bat.

"You're not here to fight me or anything like that, are you?" Tim had to ask.

"No," Jason replied, his voice sounding amused. Tim still could not see his eyes, or his ever-present helmet. He could see from the silhouette that Jason was not wearing said helmet. "Not looking for favors, either. I'm not wounded. Maybe a little battered and bruised, but not from today." Jason finally shifted from his perch, and Tim could see that he was - in fact - in casual clothing. Leather jacket notwithstanding.

"Okay," Tim sighed. "What do you need from me, Jason?"

Jason glared at him, a little too intently to Tim's liking, a tad making Tim wondered if the 'not looking for favors' or 'not planning on bludgeoning Tim' part of his presence were lies. When he tossed something toward Tim, he was almost ready to reach for the vase to throw back before his eyes caught a glimpse of the 'thing'.

A photograph.

A photograph of Tim, to be exact, in his Robin costume. In fact, if Tim's memories serve correctly - and they usually do, barring concussions - that photo had to be taken in the second year of his patrols with Batman. He knew each and every the alterations on his costume quite well.

"That's me," he noted.

"Yes." Jason's voice was flat. "The instant I saw the little robin behind your photo, I knew who you were."

"Who I was?" Tim asked, a little confused.

"Ra's Al Ghul has a graphite sketch of Melisande, Talia's mother, hung in his private chalet in Switzerland. Even Talia didn't know why it was there, since he had killed her. Or so she said. White Ghost said Melisande was murdered by an apprentice of Ra's. The other guys said he saw a lotus behind her that he didn't draw." Jason explained. "Back then, before the creation of a photography camera, people saw their soulmates when they paint them. There were so, so many painters back then who'd marry their models - not because they were exceptionally beautiful, but because the painter saw it."

"Oh..." Tim looked at the photo, and then it hit him. "Oh!"

"Yeah, 'Oh'. I took that photo. Imagine how I'd felt when I saw it and realized what it means, and that Talia practically had challenged me to kill you."

"Not good." Tim commented.

"Not good at all." Jason agreed.

They were silent for some long moments, before Tim gathered enough of his thoughts, and courage, to ask. "So what now?"

Jason shrugged. "Now, well, we're not killing and/or punching each other. And you know what I'm supposed to be for you and vice versa. How about we just live life one day at a time?"

He was actually standing near Jason, by the windows. Jason was still looking out the window, but Tim could make out the red flush on his face.

"Do you..." he started, waving his hands and inwardly cursing his eloquence.

"Just as a reminder that I'm still a dangerous person." Jason said, inhaling sharply.

"Yeah, that I kinda can't forget..." Tim deadpanned. "So you want to live up to the soulmate thingy and live one day at a time, see where it would bring us?"

"That's about it in a nutshell." Jason fiddled with something. Tim took a step back, assessing. Realizing that there was no more alarm blaring in him. "That is, if you're okay with it." Jason added hastily, as if an afterthought.

"Okay," Tim said, feeling a little proud that his voice didn't crack or waver.

"Okay?"

"Yeah, okay. One day at a time."

Jason suddenly brightened, his whole face sparkled - metaphorically, thank goodness - and Tim could remember clearly where he had seen such expression.

A long time ago.

On the first photograph of Robin - Jason in Robin costume - where Tim had seen his soulmate. In the same form that Jason had seen in the photo of Tim.

"Great!" Jason exclaimed. "Now, you had your dinner or not? 'Cause I've heard of this great old diner, one of Gotham's few that's not been destroyed by whoever villain-du-jour the Bat is facing, down at Tricorner. Wanna go and try it?"

"In costume or not?" Tim asked - just as precaution.

Jason huffed and scowled. "Eh, one day at a time, right?"

"Costume it is." Tim realized. It would be least awkward if their... extended 'family' has seen them if they were in costume.

"Costume it is. We'll get there next time." Jason agreed.

#Tim Drake #Jason Todd #JayTimWeek2018 #SoulmateAU #JayTim

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kyndelymage · 6 years

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A Violent Restitution (pt1)

A quick piece of writing I made up while it was in my head.

Kyndely slowly patted down her robes, smoothing out the wrinkles that had bunched up around her hips from her belt. There was a loud knock on the door and the blonde quickly spoke up; “Who is it?” she called. A deep, baritone voice rang out, rich with with the drawl of a sailor.

“It’s Marius. Lady Poenari, are ye ready to meet with your father? I hate to press the matter but ye know how yer father can be.”

“Yes... I know, Marius. It’s okay. I’m ready now...” Kyndely quipped in return. She glanced to her full body mirror, looking up at the deep sea-green robes shore wore. A large silver-threaded anchor stitched down the front hem of her dress, with stylized waves moving up her body on the sides that served as extra padding. The sleeves were long, and drooped down from her wrists, giving her a rather wizardly appeal. Different from the Tidesages but still similar in aesthetic. Kyndely quickly plopped a tricorne onto her head, a large blue feather sticking out the left fold. She gripped her wand, a large purple crystal bound in cedar wood that was carved into a tentacle.

“Let’s go, Rathune, we have work to do.” she called to her familiar. The feline aberration yawned, and stretched it’s back. The ghostly looking cat-like specter leaping onto her shoulder, weightless as per usual. Satisfied, Kyndely opened the door to her room, and quickly had her vision filled with the burly sight of Marius Weston.

Marius was a large lad - certainly the go to image of what every strapping Kul Tiran male should appear as. Nearly seven feet tall, with shoulders broader than a tauren and a certain meaty-ness that rivals orcs. His hair was jet black, and tied back into a proper ‘rogue’s knot’, with groomed facial hair. A heavy set of mutton chops with a bushy mustache, leaving his angular chin shaved. The man wore full plate armor, typical of the soldiery seen among the more elite forces around Kul Tiras with a blue coloring to the trimming of his armor, signaling his allegiance to Stormsong. His tabard was that of house Poenari, however. A similar blue color to House Stormsong with the actual eye displaced to the left, and a large owl clutching an anchor emblazoned on the front. House Poenari was subservient to the ruling house of Stormsong, and so most nobility under the enigmatic house bore the same eye on most of their heraldry. He held in his right hand a large polearm, with a Poenari pennant hanging languidly down the back of the axehead. He lifted a brow as he stared down at the comparatively tiny girl, and then offered a large smile. He turned and looked to his left, waiting for Kyndely to take the initiative. A gentleman at heart no doubt.

It was later that to two made it down to a large chamber in the Citadel to which they lived, where the two found themselves entering a heated debated. Marius being the dedicated soldier immediately stole his expressions and turned rather stone-faced. Kyndely, was unable to mask her emotions and quickly frowned. There were two men standing in front of a blazing hearth, a large octopus sprawling out of the stonework, it’s tentacles twisting downwards as if to swallow the fire whole. On the left was a man who stood around six feet in height, and wore a heavy leather duster that most Kul Tiran people of importance of wore. It was blue, but weather with age. Black trimmings over the straps, and the metal edges were also black; shaped in tentacles or waves. A heavy anchor piece on his back, his tricorne was similarly colored, with a few large blue feathers sticking out the left curl for plumage. Over his hip, but under the jacket was his cutlass, the blade hidden in a scabbard. The pommel was golden, and jewled with several amethysts that glinted in the dim lighting. His stature was proud, and his posture was nothing short of perfect. His face was bearded, the facial hair jutted down his face and pointed at the tip, with a slight outward curl like some ancient Djinn. His eyes were steel-blue, and his hair blonde as gold. This was none other than Kyndely’s father; Gothric Poenari. The man had a look of disdain, his white teeth gritting and his face pulled into a snarl.

The man Gothric’s ire was directed towards was an elderly man, who wore the heavy garb of the Tidesages from Kul Tiras. Blue, with heavy pauldrons and a large hat that would otherwise make him appear like a high ranking deacon. The man was also bearded, but the beard was much more wild, and longer than Gothrics. His eyes were hidden from sight, the hood he wore obscuring his upper visage. “Don’t think of this as me simply recruiting your daughter to be tossed away in a battle, Lord Gothric. But it’s what Lord Stormsong has asked of his subjects - that all able bodied magi be sent to Baradin Hold immediately. Unfortunately, your daughter is not exempt from this decree.” he stated in a cold, emotionless voice.

Gothric glared, and rolled his jaw. “You don’t understand. I need her with me on my ship to head further westward. This voyage has been planned for months and I cannot afford to have my daughter sent off suddenly for some prison break. It’s not my fault the wardens are incompetent. It will ruin everything.” he hissed. The tidesage sighed, and shook his head. He looked over his shoulder and noticed to the darkened forms of Kyndely and Marius. He looked back at Gothric.

“Your voyage will have to wait. Recruit another wizard not bound by the lands’ laws. I highly doubt you’re going to break the law here, Lord Gothric.”

Kyndely approached, ahead of Marius. The larger male seemed hesitant, but he followed after the woman he was sworn to protect. Gothric Poenari was about to speak up before he saw Kyndely approach. He deflated immediately, and ran a gloved hand over his brow. “Daughter of mine.” he says dryly.

“Father.” replied Kyndely, pushing up her glasses. There was a brief, awkward silence before the elderly sage spoke up.

“As you may have known, there has been a breakout at Baradin Hold. The situation requires those with... arcane aptitude to come and deal with it. This has been declared by your patron house, and signed off by the Admiralty itself. Will adhere to this call of duty, where you father refuses?” Gothric seethed, his eyes glaring into the back of the sage’s hood. Kyndely looked at her father for a long moment but nodded.

“I will... I can’t ignore what is asked of me.” she says sheepishly.

“Good. We will leave today. Boralus awaits and we have a ship waiting for you.” The sage looked back at Gothric, who looked ready to draw his sword. “We will take care of your daughter, Viscount Poenari.”

“It’ll be okay, Father. I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems and they are just overreacting. I’ll be back before you know it.” she offered a small, weak, smile to the man. Gothric grunt. He lowered a hand down to his sword, fingers drumming the pommel.

“If I find out she’s been harmed, Tidesage, you will wish you never stepped foot in my home.” he hissed. The man quickly turned away, staring into the fires. “Marius, I need not tell you anything. Make sure she’s fine.” he says. Marius quickly nodded his head, offering a slight and awkward bow.

“Aye mi’lord.”

“Good, well, I trust you have your things?” asked the Tidesage, as he slowly began to walk away from her father, and towards the chamber door. Marius began to follow as well. Kyndely paused, looking over her shoulder to stare at her father before biting her lip and nodding. “Ah.. y-yes I have it all...” she quickly scampered off to follow them.

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mychristopherstokes66world · 5 years

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The government has become the enemy of the people. No one can deny that they are colluding with social media to censor everyone on the internet. Both parties are calling for unconstitutional gun control measures from bump stocks to silencers to Red Flag Laws. How long are we going to pretend that our government serves the people? Or that the people really have any say? I for one will not abide tyrants and have every intention in engaging in open rebellion against Jews, pedos and traitors. They are clamping down hard on free speech, gun rights, going after "hate crimes" and pushing the idea that whites are domestic terrorists. Day of the Rope draws nigh. http://bit.ly/2JWUqOh You can call for violence and revolution as much as you want with ZERO legal culpability in the US. http://bit.ly/1B8OCb1 What this means: Unless your speech directly inspires some one to commit a violent crime in your immediate vicinity immediately after expressing your speech AND this was your intent, you are 100% protected. Here, let's try it out: You can even directly threaten some one online: Don't be afraid of being put on a 'list'. We are all on the list already. See: mass surveillance. They are just trying to intimidate you. Look at the legal precedents and firmly exercise your rights. Who are our symbols or important figures? I've made a small list but we should add more. We need to develop a year-round schedule of events and people to remind the public of what we are fighting for. Ted Kaczynski Brenton Tarrant Seth Rich Aaron Swartz Reddit founder Marvin Heemeyer The Killdozer Julian Assange Gary Webb We must win the infowar before we can fight the race war. A fuckton of people have woken up the the Jewish agenda but we still need more to reach that oh-so-essential critical mass. We also need to start getting organized IRL in "friend groups" that meet and train and discuss tactics. Don't openly call yourselves militias or white nationalists but work towards those ends regardless. Symbols: Tricorn hat Revolutionary Figures New Figures: Ted Kaczynski Brenton Tarrant Seth Rich Aaron Swartz Reddit founder Marvin Heemeyer The Killdozer Juliana Assange Gary Webb Terry A. Davis Symbolic events Waco Ruby Ridge POSSIBLE ALLIES: Amish Japanese Hindu Indians Mormons Ethnic Europeans THE ENEMY: Jews Pedos Traitors Muslims Jews Chinese Socialists Should Terry A Davis be considered? I believe he holds a special place in this Pantheon. He is the most Chaotic of the bunch.

the revolution you speak of is already underway - there is no putting it back into the box - there are tens of millions of people that have “nothing left to lose” they’re fukin pissed and ready to kill - they’re not rednecks but 18 - 35 yr old’s who have lost hope - they work at wal mart and ready lubes and starbucks who spend 1/2 their income to degenerate hypocrite boomer landlords who will feel the full wrath of their anger - sonif yer legit pray for a carrington event - it will make it much easier with the comm system down...

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves, and the House? Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with these war-like preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation; the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask, gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy, in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us; they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves. Sir, we have done everything that could be done, to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned; we have remonstrated; we have supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne. In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free2 if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending2if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, we must fight! I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts is all that is left us! They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? hall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance, by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitableand let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come. It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death! The truth and violence, but it MUST be in that order. Most importantly though, whites need to start viewing each other as blood-brothers and allies. (((Individualism))) has poisoned out society and eroded community bonds. This damage must be healed but I'm not exactly sure how other than pointing at a common enemy. We need to start organizing into small, unofficial militia groups with similar agendas. Jews are so powerful today because they ENJOY working together to cause mayhem and to further their own wealth and power. Jews almost never betray each other and seem to have evolved to mob together to get what they want collectively. It's literally instinct for them. We must emulate this to an extent but with waging an actual war rather than the soft-power games that kikes excel at. Also, JOIN THE MILITARY. We need lot's of allies embedded within the armed forces, because without their help we will never win.

I think you doth glow too much. But just in case you don't, you need to be realistic. The few hundred people here and the 'tards with their own militias are way too small to accomplish anything before getting mowed down by the national guard. You can't do it like this. You have to start with a militia, start in small towns where people see this kiked bullshit and grow yourself a movement. How did the revolution succeed? With wide support, like over 60%. You have like 0.6% and want to take down a heavily funded and well oiled machine. You can't. Build an "SJW" like movement and then we can talk.

We are going to take this seriously and go step by step. Create a list of grievances, a list of enemies, and discuss ways to move forward in ending Tyranny in the United States. We need a calendar of events to draw peoples attention and give us reason to make noise constantly. Ebba Aukerlund Waco Ruby Ridge Seth Rich Otoya Yamaguchi

We need the minds before the power goes out. That's why we need to start propaganda now. Detail who the problem is, what crimes they have committed, start a public discussion and demand change. We need another name for this besides Open Insurrection... so we can talk about it on other forums Organize and train in your local community. But don't just prepare for the day of the rope. If you bunker up with MRE's and guns you will be called a cult and the swat team will descend upon you. The proper course of action is to nominally engage with society as it is, while changing the communities you occupy. This doesn't mean riots or protests, it means starting projects to improve neighborhoods, and following through on them. The ONLY way to avoid being false flagged is to present yourselves consistently as above reproach. But the only way to cause bigger reverbrations is to be seen as better men. This means you and your lads must relentlessly pursue intellectual and physical supremacy. To be /fit/ and /lit/, one and all. By happy coincidence, lifting together and deb8ing each other will foster comeraderie, trust, and solidarity. THE WAY TO TAKE BACK OUR LAND IS INCH BY FUCKING INCH. This is my whitepill, and I hope it's yours as well, anons\\ word from the editor the only way to do this is to red pill as many as we can.. once people know what is going on no one will stand for it and they will all stand up... we have the right to take our country back remember that we can do this with out fighting or anyone getting hurt.. why destroy all we built https://thedevilman666.blogspot.com/https://www.facebook.com/groups/qanonreports https://twitter.com/CIACLOWN1 https://www.bitchute.com/channel/ciaclown16661/

#CIA CLOWN #RED PILL #REDPILL #ANON #HONKHONK

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cityandking · 6 years

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3, 7, 13, 39 & 45 for Branwen, Vesper, and Petra!

thanks!

03. What would be their favorite physical trait about themselves?

branwen: her eyes! her flashing eyes, blue as the sea with unknowable depths, and all that other stuff bards talk about (she just… has nice eyes)

vesper: her hands. steady and clever, with a handful of tiny scars from her tendency to play with fire and other old-and-dangerous projects. plus, they’re her livelihood. casting, drawing wards, writing, (and later fighting, and healing)––it’s all her hands. (losing one is… difficult.)

petra: mom used to say her freckles were the stars coming down to kiss her face and now she knows that’s ridiculous but she still likes them. (also, her hair, which she dyes blue, and looks v good)

07. Is there a catchphrase or sound that they tend to make a lot (likely without being aware of it)?

branwen: I don’t… think so. she’d try any, though. try them on like hats. (I think she’d be very pro bingpot tbh)

vesper: is… does sighing count? definitely a lot of sighing.

petra: oohs and ahhs at a lot of stuff. she’s an enthusiastic scientist type hiding beneath a soldier’s discipline. also, what the shit comes up a lot as they explore andromeda.

13. What are your character’s sleeping habits? Heavy or light sleeper? Blanket stealer? One that always rolls onto the floor? Pushes their lover onto the floor? Sleep talker or walker?

branwen: can and will sleep just about everywhere. easy enough to rouse. likes to be cozy™ so she will steal your blankets. be careful sharing a bed with her; you will wake up suffocating in her hair and also she’s an octopus

vesper: sleeps small and curled up as though afraid to take up too much space. hates feeling crowded, likes feeling safe. very I love you don’t touch me except for with a handful of people. (she’s like a cat: if she likes and trusts you, she will curl up with you anywhere, but everyone else can gtfo). generally an insomniac and a very light sleeper. likes to be up early

petra: tends to sleep on her back and not move around much (a holdover from her days serving with the alliance). enjoys the opportunity to stretch out. will let other people steal the blankets. sleep talks just a little, usually incomprehensible. a cuddler.

39. When people look at your character, is there some assumption they might make about them just by appearance? Is that assumption correct?

branwen: dresses as piratey as possible: big coat, cotton shirt loose at the collar, tricorn hat, sturdy boots, bandolier. there is no mistaking what she might do. (she’s the kind of person who wears band t-shirts, except instead of repping bands she’s repping the ocean or whatever.)

vesper: looks… well, she’s recognizable in her formalwear, but her appearance doesn’t suggest much, except that she’s been traveling a while. (she’s got an inner strength and power that shines through but she’s not particularly notable in appearance, except for her red hair, and her family’s eyes.)

petra: given the armor and the weapons most would assume she’s a soldier which is, y’know. correct. (out of uniform she tends to dress like a hipster art student which is also… I mean she’s no art student but she is definitely the kind of girl who hangs out at hipster bars and talks about earth oldies with her friends over a beer.)

45. Is your character the kind to hide their true emotions or do they wear their heart on their sleeve?

branwen: is open with her positive emotions and closed with the negative. she likes to think of herself as always on top of things, and cheerful, and charming, and all that stuff. she’d rather people not see her as anything less that that.

vesper: is pretty damn closed off. defaults to being respectful, and careful, and uses her dry sense of humor to put people at ease. more open with people she knows well and trusts. would rather eat her own spellbook than let anyone see her break down. intermittently prone to bouts of a fierce, fiery temper.

petra: does her best to be professional and levelheaded in formal situations but as soon as the uniform is off (or her superiors aren’t looking) she’ll be super casual. keeps her grief private but open with most everything else. especially her (terrible) jokes

get to know my character

#thewildmother #memery #thanks dear #branwen #vesper #petra

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