#arcitectural accents

[revgmh]

#doorknocker #arcitectural accents #brass

[johnandtracyslittleones]

World Tour: Couch Edition - England

This week we:

1. Spoke in annoying British accents all week

2. Crafted some Crown Jewels (which doubled nicely as Birthday celebration crowns)

3. Indulged in far too much chocolate from the Cadbury box

4. Learned quite a bit about tunneling from TEDEd videos about the Chunnel and the history of the London Underground

5. Sipped and snacked on High Tea from Babe’s Tea House

6. Explored Newton’s Laws of Motion with Science Max

7. Created a Shakespearean puppet theater and performed Kira’s interpretation of Hamlet, starring a ghost and a T-Rex

8. Unearthed the mysteries of stonehenge and recreated it with Spielgaben

9. Grabbed dinner from Pasty Republic and had Indian takeaway with the Barrows

10. Read lots of books about England

11. Listened to the Beatles, Classic English Countryside, British Invasion/ Great 60s and the epic Best of British Artists playlists

12. Enjoyed the Reading Bug podcast episode A Royal Adventure

13. Watched Ancient Arcitecture: Rise of the Super Castle, Rick Steves: The Heart of England, Are We There Yet: England, Great British Baking Show, And Peppa Pig

[laurentdefer]

preview of a canon au fic.... that is currently getting away from me, i have too many exams 

--

The palace at Arles does not so much rise into view as it does lift itself slightly from an elegant sprawl. Its spiraling towers and its odd occasional domed observatory sit above the surrounding city’s sloped, tiled roofs like a cat lounging on a sunlit balcony. It is fitting, in a way, that even Veretien arcitecture falls prey to decadance. Situated so far from any border, Arles’s fortifications have long-since withered, abandoning real protection for expensive decoration. Arles is no border-palace built for war. No foreigner aggressors have seen the capital let alone broke through its walls in over two hundred years; it comes as no surprise that Veretians have allowed their guard to fall.

With nothing to fear, the highest-flung parapets seek the clouds but fall short of them, silk flag bearing bright starbursts sent up after them like sparks from a fire.

Damen and his retinue ride through the main street, the only one wide enough to consider hosting them. Given the look of Arles’s narrow alleyways and side streets, it seems likely that the Court of Vere uses it with all its cobbled stones for festivals or for parading their own monarchy. The buildings lining it are well-maintained and bustle with life; the street itself sprawls out empty before them, the city’s populace thronging at the edges. This far up north, the crowds move in a patchwork tangle of ashen blond and ruddy brown, clothing adding flashing of color and fur. Most of the stores - Damen assumes them stores - distinguish themselves with pictures rather than words. Despite its relative cultural homogeneity, the Veretian language fractures into regional dialects and sister tongues outside the capital, where the preferred language reigns with the royal family. Where Akielos lacks in literacy, Vere lacks in unity - not that the Akielon tongue is standardized either.

Most of his band of advisors speak passable Veretian. At the very least, they are familiar with the forms of politeness, and should not cause great offense. Damen speaks it fluently, a skill insisted upon by his father. Once, he could even imitate several of Vere’s most outlandish accents. From the crowds, he overhears mumblings of incoming snow; his advisors have been saying the same since they crossed what the Veretians call the midi.

Overhead, the sky is flat and grey. Damen imagines it below crumbling cliffs, in place of the sea, still and quiet before a storm, or above, like the days-long drizzle that occasionally plagues Ios in the spring. Already Vere verges in freezing, breath fogging in front of the men and horses alike like sprayed sea foam; Damen does not look forward to any sort of concentrated chill. Snow seems like an arduous thing to deal with. When it was last described to him, he was sun-warm and sticky with ocean spray and sand, laughing at the idea of a cold thing like sheep’s wool with enough weight to snap trees, collapse ill-prepared roofs, and halt horses. The cold drives out of the last of that warmth in him, seeping through his more Veretian style clothes - Akielon styles are not made for snow.

A brief clattering of hooves, then: Nikandros, unharried, looking out of place in long pants, pale tunic, and furred mantle. Still, he is a welcome sight among foreign faces and foreign buildings and foreign weather. As kyros of Delpha and one of Damen’s closest councils, Nikandros was an obvious choice to bring with him to Arles. Nikandros does not look as bothered by the cold, or he does not show it. Damen half wonders if he is used to it now, having spent so much time in the northern provinces, until Nikandros sniffles like when he was sick as a boy.

Damen grins, unbidden. Nikandros, however, simply raises him an eyebrow, familiar dark eyes forcibly without expression.

“The gates are not yet open,” Nikandros says, toneless.

He isn’t wrong. In the distance, the palace gates are a solid, wooden form. Above the walls, little tendrils of smoke float up and curl to wedge in between mats of cloud.

“Relax, old friend, we come announced and invited,” Damen reminds. He offers a smile to a particularly fascinated group of children staring up at them like exotic animals in a menagerie. The smoke ahead promises warmth, and he feels something like life sneak back into his limbs; he looks at Nikandros, who visibly does not share his sentiments. “Don’t look so sour. Veretians minds don’t need much convincing to assume treachery.”

Nikandros makes no effort to improve his expression. He blows air from his nose in a manner not unlike that of his horse and mutters, “And you need too much.”

“I’m much more likely to die of cold than anything else should I die over the next seven days,” Damen says, half-fond. He flexes his fingers about the reins. After days on horseback, his leather gloves offer little real warmth, but he keeps them on regardless. “A marriage in the dead of winter. What was he thinking?”

#je dis #captive prince #fic #im kind of ?