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#forest history society
clvssicsm · 2 years
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the academic urge to run away in the woods once the realisation of exams approaching hits 
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headspace-hotel · 2 months
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The USAmerican imagination cannot consider land that is multi-purpose.
A corn field is Corn, an endless monoculture, and all other plants must be eliminated. A residential area is Houses, and absolutely MUST NOT!!! have vegetables or fruits or native plant gardens or small livestock. A drainage ditch is only a drainage ditch, and cannot harbor Sedges and native wetland plants, A sports field is for A Sport, and let no one think of doing any other event on that field, shops and storefronts must have their own special part of town that everybody has to drive to, which requires parking lots...and God forbid we put solar panels on roofs or above parking lots or anywhere they can serve an extra purpose of providing shade, instead of using a large tract of perfectly fine land as a "solar farm."
Numerous examples. But it is the most annoying with agriculture. The people who crunch all the numbers about sustainability, have calculated that a certain percentage of Earth's land is "Used up" by agriculture, which is troubling because that leaves less "room" for "Wilderness." It is a big challenge, they say, to feed Earth's humans without destroying more ecosystems.
Fools! Agriculture is an ecosystem—if you respect the ways of the plants, instead of creating monoculture fields by killing everything that moves and almost everything that doesn't. Most humans throughout history, and many humans today, sustain themselves using a mixture of foraging and agriculture, and the two are not entirely different things, because all human lifestyles change the ecosystem, and the inhabitants of the ecosystem always change themselves in response.
Even if you are a hunter-gatherer that steps very lightly in the forest and gathers a few berries and leaves here and there, you are being an animal and affecting all other parts of the ecosystem. By walking, breathing, eating, pooping, drinking, climbing, singing, talking, all of those things affect the ecosystem. If you gather leaves to sleep on, that affects the ecosystem...if you pile up waste, that affects the ecosystem...if you break a tree branch, that affects the ecosystem...if you start a fire, if you create a small shelter, if you cut a path, that DEFINITELY affects the ecosystem.
This idea, that human activity destroys the ecosystem and replaces it with something Else, something Not an ecosystem, is so silly. "But you just said that even the earliest most technologically simple human societies altered their environment!"
Yes, I did. Because we believe that "pre-agricultural" humans could have no effect on their "wilderness" environment, we ALSO believe another false idea: That when humans affect an environment, they destroy "Wilderness" and change it to something else, like Agricultural Land, that can never have biodiversity and never benefit many life forms.
I think it is the European idea of agriculture that it always involves people settling down and relying on a few special plants that are domesticated intentionally and grown in specially dedicated fields. After all, this idea of an agricultural lifestyle, is in contrast with the "hunter-gatherer" lifestyle, which is assumed to be what humans do before they "figure out" agriculture. The European mind imagines "pre-agricultural" folks ignorantly bumbling about, thinking plants and animals conveniently pop out of nothing for their benefit.
Bullshit! I shake my head in disappointment when I see websites describing Native Americans using wild plants as if those plants just-so-happened to grow, when those same wild plants just-so-happen to thrive only in environments disturbed by humans in some way, and just-so-happen to have declined steeply since colonization, and just-so-happen to be nonexistent in unspoiled "Wilderness" locations, and (often) just-so-happen to have an incredibly wide range where they either once were or are incredibly common, making it very...fortunate that they just-so-happen to have a wide range of uses including food, medicines, and materials for clothing and technology.
Accidentally of course, without any human impact from the humans that were impacting everything. /s
"But if it wasn't an accident, how did it happen?" Here is how to understand this idea: Look at the weeds! The weeds will teach you.
Look at the plants you always see growing without being planted around human buildings and roads, and learn their history. Often you will learn that these plants have many marvelous properties, and have actually been used by humans for thousands of years.
In fact, some of the most powerful and difficult to control weeds, were once actually some of the most essential and important plants for human civilizations to depend on. The dreaded Kudzu, in its home in East Asia, was one of the main plants used for clothing for over 6,000 years, and not only that, it has been cultivated for food and medicine for millennia. You can make everything from paper to noodles out of Kudzu! And Amaranth, the most expensive agricultural weed in all the USA, produces edible and healthy grains as well as several harvests of greens per growing season, and several species of the genus have been fully domesticated and formed a staple crop of Mesoamerica.
Meanwhile...some people have come up with this neat "new" idea called Polyculture, which is where you plant a field with two crops at once and somehow get better yields from both of them. WITCHCRAFT! Unrelatedly, there are other ideas like "Cover Crops" and "Agroforestry" that for some reason have the same beneficial effect.
Wow...It turns out, sterilizing the whole environment of every plant except one crop...isn't actually a good way to do agriculture in many places in the world.
Just think about it from an energy point of view...
We have some places used for "Agriculture," where we wring the land as violently as possible to squeeze green vegetation from light energy.
And we have other places for Other uses, where we spend massive amounts of fossil fuels mowing, chopping, poisoning and trimming to STOP the land from producing its incredible bounty of green vegetation.
And in the agricultural fields, we spend even MORE resources killing the unwanted plants that grow spontaneously
This system is hemorrhaging inefficiency at both ends. It simply isn't a one-to-one conversion of land and fossil fuels to food energy. The energy expenditure of agriculture is mostly going into organizing the vegetation's energy into the shape and configuration we want, not the food itself.
In the Americas, indigenous agricultural systems involve using the plants that exist in the environment to construct an ecosystem that both functions as an ecosystem and provides humans with food, clothing, and other important things. This is the most advanced way.
Most of our successful weeds are edible and useful. A weed is simply a plant that is symbiotic with humans. My hypothesis of plant domestication is that it was initiated by the plants, which became adapted to human environments, and humans bred them to be better crops in response. Symbiosis.
Humans did not pick out a few plants special to intensively domesticate out of an array of equally wild plants, instead they just ate, selected, and bred the plants that were best adapted to live near human civilization. That is my guess about how it happened.
Just think about it. Why would you try to domesticate teosinte (Maize ancestor?) It sucks. Domesticated plants in their wild form are usually like "Why would you put hundreds of years of effort into cultivating this?" Personally I think it's because the plant grew around humans and humans ate and used it a lot because it was abundant. So we co-evolved with the plant.
Supporting this hypothesis, there are many crop plants that mutated and evolved back into weeds, like "weedy" rice, "weedy" teosinte, and "weedy" radishes. Also weeds develop similar adaptations to crop plants to survive in the agricultural environment.
Consider Kudzu. Everyone in the USA knows it as an invasive weed, but since ancient times in China, it was a crop that provided people with fabric from its bast fibers, food from its enormous starchy roots, and many medicinal and other uses. Kudzu is not evil, it simply has a symbiotic relationship with humans, and just as any other species might serve as a biological control, the main biological control of kudzu in nature is the human species.
Think of the vast fields and mountain sides of the South swallowed by thick mats of Kudzu covering lumps that used to be trees. Think of the people toiling away to clear the Kudzu, while wearing clothes made of cotton that was grown in a faraway place using insecticides and depleting fresh water, using energy from their bodies that came from crops grown in fields far away.
Now imagine people working to harvest the Kudzu, to cut the new vines and dig up the starchy roots and use the plant the way it is used by the people who know its ways. Imagine the people using the starch from the Kudzu root to make flour and noodles and sweet confections. Imagine workers processing the vines into thread which is woven into fabric. The hillsides and fields flourish with plants that used to be suffocated, and hillsides and fields in faraway places also flourish with their own plants, instead of being made to grow cotton and crops to provide for the needs the Kudzu provides for.
Imagine the future where we accept our symbiotic relationship with the plants!
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suchananewsblog · 1 year
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Conservationists from India win The Habitats Trust grant for their ground breaking work
The rainforest canopy in Wayanad, Kerala, is a world unto itself, brimming with biodiversity. While climate change is threatening these canopies, the Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary in Wayanad (GBS), a success story on conservation of rare and endangered plant species of the Western Ghats, steps in with an ex-situ conservation strategy. The community of horticulturalists, naturalists and educators,…
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txttletale · 8 months
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i've gotten asks a few times on like 'how to do ''fantasy races'' without. like. just making race science true in the world'. and i think there's three approaches. the first is harkening back to tolkein and making it clear through framing device or format/tonal cues that you are writing in a mythic register--that you are writing about a world where the basic premises of positivism and empiricism simply aren't true. a world where 'biology' is like, not necessarily a salient premise--where there are things that just cannot be understood. (that's not to say that tolkein's orcs werent v. racialised in v. nasty ways--but it wasn't race science in the way a lot of more modern fantasy is.)
the second way i think is to go and actually understand the history of 'race' as a concept. 'race' has not always existed--it was an ideological invention birthed from / alongisde the enlightmenent and imposed onto populations through military force. in real life, it's less helpful to conceive of 'race' as an attribute someone has and and more as a relationship they have to society. so if you want to actually include scientific racism in your story as an element of your worldbuilding and not something decalred epistemologically true you should be thinking about why these people have been racialized and under what hegemonic paradigm--who, in-universe, invented & enforces the racial classification system that distinguishes between 'human' and 'orc' as taxonomic characters?
the third and final way is to simply think of the traits you understand as belonging to ''fantasy races'' (say, pointy ears and exceptional nimbleness and hundred-year lifespans for elves) as instead just being... more variations in the way people can be. like, in the real world, we do not consider 'tall people' or 'blonde people' or 'myopic people' a different species. in a world where sometimes people have wings or pointed ears or green skin, why should that be different? you've just introduced new types of variation within the population of people--you've just expanded the meaning of human. and of course, right, you can still roughly group these features, or note that some of them are more frequent in some ethnic groups--in much the same way as saying 'on average, people in sweden are taller, paler, and more likely to be blonde and blue-eyed', you can say 'people in these forests tend to be shorter and live longer and have pointed ears'--without having a hard taxonomy that classifies all these attributes as metaphysically different Types Of Person
obviously these are all very different approaches--and there are probably other ways to handle this too! i just get this question a lot whenever i do Orc Discourse and finally felt like getting these thoughts out. there are so so so many places we can take fantasy--let's move the horizon beyond 'magical race science' and imagine genuinely new worlds
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radiance1 · 22 days
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Inspired by @puppetmaster13u and various dragon aus they have.
BUT! This is also a bit of a fantasy/DnD au I guess...? IDK BUT HERE WE GO-
Okay now so, I'm imagining that that Danny, Tucker, and Sam create a pocket dimension for their game via the use of reality warping (via scepter) and something given to them by Pariah Dark before he went off on that whole honey moon thing with Clockwork.
For the record, Danny isn't the ghost king here, Pariah Dark is he's just the prince.
Sam created a garden from the barren earth, that eventually grew into a great forest and spread out to the rest of the world, which technically made her the creator of life but anyways. So, she's holed up in said garden turned forest.
Tucker bestowed upon his subjects (after they were made of course) knowledge and technology and is regarded as the greatest teacher in that world's history.
Danny? Oh yea he became that one that giant dragon that everyone knows is there, is afraid of, and just sleeps all day in this one specific place. You'd have to cut him some slack though, because no one told him creating a world and its laws would be so hard even with help.
That and him, as the one with basically the most knowledge and resident fanboy of space, created the stars surrounding the place as well!
Of course, they couldn't stay there all of the time. What with work (Tucker), high-society (Sam), and studying (Why the heck did Danny decide to go to collage again?). That entire place was just made to play around in before they had to go their separate ways and be, you know, actual adults, so it was easy enough to let go of it really.
Except for Danny. Not of any great reason, really, he just needed someplace where he could quietly study in peace, nap, think or just get away from the Ghost Zone before he had to go through all that princely nonsense again. Plus, none of their creations in that pocket dimension really wanted to mess with the giant fuck off dragon who was said to created the place anyways.
For the record, Danny is more of an eastern dragon in design with a long body rather than western. So that probably just added more into his intimidation with his sheer length.
So, you know, of course he would have been none too pleased when someone actually did disturb his solitude (as stated by the dimension's residents) as soon as the world was thrown off-balance by an outside force.
Meanwhile, Klarion the Witch boy is having the time of his life coming across a whole world that somehow hasn't been affected by Order or Chaos. So he's capitalizing on that.
Then he came across a place that was said to be sacred, not that he cared, and then came across a boy who didn't look a day over his teens (which frankly doesn't say much in regards to immortals) with a frankly long tail that looked longer than he was tall and very majestic looking horns.
Danny was annoyed yet curious, Klarion was surprised yet delighted.
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hwaightme · 3 months
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Impressionism
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🩸 pairing: vampire!gallerist/collector!seonghwa x art historian!gn!reader 🩸 genre: fluff, noir, soulmates, supernatural, strangers(?) to lovers, art nerding 🩸 summary: a post-graduate student specialising in impressionism, you were a regular visitor to the many art galleries in the city. who knew that among the paintings you would encounter your favourite, timeless work of art? 🩸 wordcount: 12.3k 🩸 warnings/tags: questionable editing, mention of blood, fangs, wounds, suggestive, many pet names (love, darling etc), art theory/history ponderings, time skips, mention of rituals, philosophy, hwa is centuries-old, yearning hwa 🩸 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🩸 a/n: happy birthday to @starrysvn!! lheo, ilysm, and i hope you enjoy this little rambling <3 hugs to everyone, all reblogs, notes and comments appreciated! 🩸 playlist: nfwmb - hozier, who is she? - i monster, keep on loving you - cas, la vie en rose - edith piaf, a l'ombre de nous - pierre barouh, les feuilles mortes / sous le ciel de paris - yves montand, moon over bourbon street / until - sting
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‘Love and Pain’ - an enigmatic masterpiece that was painted by Edvard Munch, the famous Norwegian artist, in 1895. In vibrant oil paints a dramatic scene interpreted by millions as something more sensual, darker, revealing was immortalised. Perhaps quite literally. You leaned back on one hand, feeling the coolness of the bench located in the middle of the gallery hall, careful to not let the notebook in your hands slip from your lap. ‘Vampire’ - first, it was a label for the woman with the alluring, long red locks that was leaning over her supposed lover, then it turned into a second name for the work. It was comical how Munch himself had initially stated the piece depicted nothing more than a woman kissing the neck of a man, and yet, the tale had told itself. What followed were six versions of this same subject, with a woodcut titled “Vampyr II”, followed by paintings titled ‘Vampire’ and ‘Vampire in the Forest’, and then through common acceptance that this indeed was the ‘submission of a man to the bite of a vampire’, if you were to paraphrase a critic who had been in an astoundingly similar position as you, except without the decades upon decades of other material to refer to. They had been the firstcomers, the initial perceivers to set the tone for society’s consumption of the artwork, the louder of the many voices in the artwork who often had the final say. In some senses, they were your long lost colleagues - they were there to create history, and you were there to study it.
While it was not exactly a part of the movement you had decided to specialise in, you nonetheless would never reject the opportunity to learn more about the stunning world of visual arts, trying to guess how the artist had felt in the moment, what did they see beyond what they presented to the world, how did they translate the heart into brushstrokes. You were taken by all forms of art since you were little - having grown up surrounded by items that were far removed from what you called your air, you were intrigued by anything that was external to your version of ordinary. In your case, it just so happened to be the little private gallery that you had spent almost all of your monthly allowance to visit when you were a school kid - you had been so dedicated, in fact, that the elderly guard who had often also acted as a guide to the visitors had become your first friend in the art world, something of a grandparent figure, and on multiple occasions - when the lack of eyes would allow, simply let you through with a grin and glance out of the entrance doors.
And so here you were, many years later, many hard decisions and conversations behind you, regarding artworks with an unprecedented soulful closeness that you had initially thought was unattainable. Had you believed all those who remained outside of the walls of your personal paradise, you would have been immersed in the same cycle that had been drilled into the majority of your family members, except maybe a handful who you had never met for the exact reason that they had chosen something for themselves. But you regarded your dream as the thorned path - undoubtedly more challenging, not immediately fruitful, but in the long run leading to the heaven of your design. What more could you ask for?
It was enjoyable to be alone with the paintings surrounding you, portals to new realms that any visitor could have the pleasure of exploring. And what was even more inspiring, was that in the eye of every beholder was a different universe, and no matter who one would speak to, their version of the painting would be different, even if just slightly. You huffed, amused. When was the last time you had visited a gallery with anyone else? You could not quite recall - it was likely that you had never seeked company from another because you were more than satisfied with the company of the legendary works that were regarding you from the many walls. It was possible to compose oneself, spend limitless time on every piece, study the details, and drift into one’s own musings when there was no one to ground them. This was when you dared to say you got your best work done. Even though you, of course, conducted research within university and ventured out to galleries, museums, collectors or auctions only within professional bounds, the bulk of the thinking process was carried out in times such as this. When it was just you, your notebook and pen, and a new point of focus. However, this time, you could not say you were fully attentive to the painting that you had decided to focus on, as a certain someone was appearing to share your level of interest in ‘Love and Pain’ too. 
A gentleman who could not be much older or younger than you, at most a couple of years, stood off to the right of the bench, unmoving, gaze fixated on the painting. Dressed in a pinstripe navy suit, light blue dress shirt, lacquered dress shoes and a matching navy tie, he was nothing short of being a moving work of art. Hints of a glimmer from his thin framed, elegant silver spectacles gave the man a scholarly aura, while the slicked back dark hair - evidently a lot longer than the styling would suggest, added notes of business, entrepreneurship, perhaps leadership. Nothing was out of place, not a crease, not an exposed thread in sight. Needless to say, your curiosity had been sparked.
Much like you found joy in exploring creations in the realm of the visual arts, you were fond of crafting stories about the people who were strangers in passing. You could not help it; perhaps this affinity for creative internal ramblings had come as a package with studying the degree you had selected, or perhaps this was a naturally occurring guilty pleasure that you simply had not had the chance to entertain before you cut yourself off from expectations and predetermined patterns of thought. But now, you had the full pleasure of wondering, letting your mind travel to lands far away as you took the real life masterpiece in, and pondered why the man could be here, what he could be thinking as he studied Munch’s work, and what resonated with him, and only him. 
There was a melancholia with the weight of centuries resting upon his shoulders, that much you could decipher in the stranger’s stance. Even then, there was a gentle burning flame within his heart judging by just how dedicated he was to inspecting the artwork. Like he was seeing an old friend for the first time in years, and was attempting to memorise them anew and recognise each change, bit by bit. You suppressed a chuckle, entertaining the possibility of this man finding a kinship with the painting, but chose to set the idea aside for the time being, instead focusing on sketching his emotional landscape. Was the stranger remorseful? Lonely? Perplexed? You could not quite pinpoint the answer, at least not before you noticed the man’s head starting to turn, and soon enough, his eyes were peering into your own.
They were two pools of deep chocolate, an all-consuming shade that, due to the ever so slightly dimmer lights than in the general halls of the gallery, appeared to be approaching a captivating onyx. The gaze that originated from behind the glasses, and glided across the room that was suddenly too small for two struck you, and you could feel heat starting to rise on your face, blush threatening to reveal the effect of the man’s spontaneous act of confidence. Lowering your head, you gave the stranger a sheepish grin, and pretended to make a random note, pen erratically scribbling over a filled page. He continued to regard you with that same unwavering expression, and only when you looked up again did he seem to catch himself and give you a closed-mouth smile, equally as bashful as yours, and crossed his arms. One step, another, and he was right by the painting, though careful to not obstruct your view - instead, he took his time to read the brief paragraph on the information plaque that had been stuck to the wall off to the side of ‘Love and Pain’. With the same familiarity that is common among those grieving, or in a state of existential sorrow. A bittersweetness prevailed in his aura, one that reminded you of autumn - the falling leaves in red and gold, twirling to join a magnificent carpet, but nonetheless, making a departure, albeit a nearly unnoticeable one. Had he seen many fallen leaves? Was he himself approaching the season? You gasped, but even though the sound was barely audible, you caught the stranger making a minuscule turn in response. 
His footsteps were louder than your thoughts, his departure an irrevocably impactful act that left you breathless. You did not know him, and yet you felt as though you had gotten a glimpse at multiple lifetimes, and were part of a moment that was greater than yourself. In the wordless exchange, question after question had found its root, and something told you that you should not dare attempt to craft him a backstory, and choosing to believe in anything but what would be declared by him would be a gross misinterpretation, much like one that was carried out by those who did not wish to reflect on art and look beyond a first impression. For the first time since you had made your initial discovery of the arts, you felt like you were not alone in the gallery, the other visitor’s presence remained so intense that he could be sat right next to you, scrutinising the same painting, entertaining the same thought. Was the woman with the bright tresses indeed what she had been declared to be over the many years she had been introduced to many venues, many variations of public, and finally finding a home on this wall? Did she settle with her lover, or perhaps a carefully selected victim? Would the man have an answer?
______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ . It was unlike you to retrace your steps a mere few days after a visit and return to the same gallery, amble down the same halls, and seek for a new source of investigative inspiration among the same selection. This obviously did not mean that you would never return, definitely not, that would be almost criminal of you to possess such intentions, but you tended to try to cleanse your palate with alternative movements, contemporary takes and avant garde interpretations between searches which were more directly related to your studies. And yet, for the first time in a while, nothing was stopping you from your return. It felt only natural, and so right. Moreover, you felt no unease when you headed straight towards the section that housed the impressionists. An individual with an unspoken, mysterious mission, you were on the hunt for the creative streak, something that would help you ponder the next section of your hefty dissertation, and you could sense that it had to be somewhere here. And, like always, you were right.
‘Bazille’s Studio’, one of the most famous works painted by the so-called ‘tragic artist’ of the impressionists, Frédéric Bazille in 1870. In fact, it had been a collaboration between him and Édouard Manet, another gifted artist, though more renowned as a figure leading modernism, and depicted a scene of discussion and creative collaboration in the studio that Bazille had shared for a certain period of time with other spectacular figures of the visual arts, Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, who could also be found in this painting. On the walls were works rejected by the Salon, which at the time had been the one of the most influential, famous art exhibitions in the Western World, administered by the Académie des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Interestingly, above the piano on the right hung a painting which Bazille had purchased from Monet, potentially hinting at the material ties between them, and the importance the young artist had because of his familial wealth. In a sense, Bazille expressed his support, as well as showed an intimate, platonic scene of the art world where there was a moment of calm, of mutual appreciation, despite the financial troubles and tensions due to character that had been experienced in those walls.
You stepped closer to the painting, trying to detect the transition from Bazille’s to Manet’s hand, the latter of whom painted in the former to take ‘centre stage’, palette in hand. Truly seamless work, though what else could it be? This painting had been a new addition to the permanent collection, and after strenuous, detailed restoration work to give the oil paints their original vibrancy and for impeccable strokes to forget the burden of time, you had the pleasure of seeing it in person. You were an arm’s length away from yet another work essential to history, culture and the arts as a societal colossus.
While it was easy enough to appreciate the technical detail, you found yourself halting to remember the names of all those depicted in the painting, failing to finalise the list in your head. Starting from Bazille, you had determined for yourself the presence of Monet and Manet in his vicinity quickly enough, however where Renoir was, or what were the names of the two other gentlemen in the scene, slipped your mind. You rocked to the side to lean closer to the plaque that was meant to provide you with the information, however you only found the name of the painting, the artist and the medium, much to your misfortune. Clicking your tongue, you returned to studying the faces of each individual, and furrowed your brows in agitated concentration. It was simple to take out your phone and search for the answer, though you knew that just as neutral that action would be, so would be your reaction unless you were to remember, or somebody were to-
A presence to your side caught you off-guard, and you felt a shiver run up your spine. One glance was enough to determine that it was the same man from yesterday, only the outfit revealing a change. Other than that, he had the same impeccable posture and stance, as well as a thoughtful look towards the painting in front of you both. His arms were crossed, though not in a defensive manner; instead they offered an interpretation of philosophy, as though this man was carrying centuries of wisdom with him, history having pummelled down on him and yet needing to support it like Atlas; the titan carrying the world.
Today, he was dressed in a mahogany coloured suit, with a white top underneath and some black boots with thick white rubber soles - quite the transition from last time, when he had been a manifestation of a sleek and pristine office gentleman. Hair, now let down and wavy, neatly framed his face, accentuating the regalness of his features. It was astounding how you were still sure that it would be more likely to find a man of this fashion in a painting, rather than standing beside you. You kept quiet, not wanting to interfere with his musings. Perhaps it was just a silly coincidence that the two of you were at the same place and at the same time again - how else? You did not know him, and you hoped that he did not know you. Though, you truly did not mind his company, and maybe it could serve as your motivation to figure out the rest of the characters in the painting. Once again, your attention returned to the task at hand, but before you could even begin to list off prominent figures of the art world during the era of Impressionism, a deep, honey-like whisper halted you and made you hold your breath. 
“Auguste Renoir is the one seated, Emile Zola, the writer, is on the stairs, Monet, Manet and Bazille are, as you likely know in the centre, and that,” he paused to raise his hand, gesturing in the general direction of the far right of the piece, “is Edmond Maitre. Pianist, art collector, and Bazille’s closest friend.”
“I- uh- thank you. How did you know I was trying to recall? Pardon me, I must look so clueless-” you trailed off, eyes finding the floor, an action which seemed to be your automatic response to being under inspection of the man, though this time, he captured your gaze quickly by stepping closer towards you. Looking up, you found concern and apology in his eyes.
“No! Not at all, I… sorry if I misunderstood and I am sorry for forcing you into such erroneous conclusions,” he gave you an ever so slightly crooked smile, charming, very disarming and so suiting this beautiful stranger, that you were instantly prompted by your instincts to return it, dismissing doubt. 
“You saved me,” you joked, though the phrase contained within itself an unlikely compassion. Two people, alone in the same gallery, sharing a precious dialogue was something to cherish, and with all your might you wanted to make it last.
“Just as you made me regard the painting in a new light, for which I thank you, greatly,” he bowed his head, the smile not leaving his face for a moment. There was a recognition in his gaze, as well as an inexplicable admiration. What did he discover?
“I guess it might be true that no matter how many times you see a painting, every viewing brings something new,”
“Well said. Are you an artist? A critic, perhaps?” He inquired, moving closer to stand level with you, head turned slightly in your direction to spare the occasional glance. You shook your head slowly, wondering if in a retelling of your destiny you could have pursued either of the careers he had mentioned.
“I am in the arts, though rather than looking at the present I remain in the past. Art historian, well, a postgraduate. Nothing too fancy.”
“Oh? But that is marvellous, and what are you focusing on?”
“I like to call it the painting in plenair during the turn of the century. I focus mainly on impressionism, though do sometimes stray into its interplay with post-impressionism, modernism and expressionism.”
“Ah, no wonder I have been seeing you here often. Enjoying the new collection?” he asked, eager to hear your opinion. There was excitement in his voice as though you were a renowned expert and were about to bestow upon him a priceless evaluation. And this was without considering the technicality of you having only half-met. Just crossing paths twice in one week.
"Yes, of course… The collection is unlike any other I have seen. I keep wanting to return and stay here for ages." You explained, glancing at the stranger while he nodded along.
"Incredibly happy to hear it. I swear I have seen you around quite often during the past month that the exhibition has been open? Am I correct?" evidently, your rapid blinking was interpreted rather quickly as perplexion, for the man gasped ever so lightly, as if to catch his own speeding thoughts.
“I- how do you know? I do believe this is our… second time meeting?” you uttered, one eyebrow raised in suspicion, which, to your disbelief, revealed something akin to fear in the beautiful stranger’s features. Nervously, he adjusted a strand of hair that was threatening to cover his right eye.
“Not quite… you were present at the opening event, right?” he quizzed.
“Indeed, my depar- wait. But how? Respectfully, I am starting to think you know me.” you enunciated with newfound caution, while the man pursed his lips. One second, another passed in near total silence, until a chuckle escaped him and he shook his head. It appeared as though he was mentally scolding himself - his eyes held no malice, instead glinting with hope, that melancholic wisdom, and something unidentifiable, ethereal, supernatural.
“I think it is high time I introduce myself before this gets out of hand. See, in some sense I work here, and most of my days are spent in the gallery or labouring for it-”
“Ah, I see-”
“Park Seonghwa, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” with one arm folded behind his back and the other on his chest, he bowed to you like how you imagined princes in the numerous portraits you had studied would bow. And the most enthralling part was how the gesture flowed, and was so befitting. Quickly, you bowed in return, but while raising your head, you froze. It hit you why he would know. And know a lot. And would remember you, and likely anyone and everyone who visited. In a low whisper, you asked:
“Am I… correct in assuming that you are ‘the’ Park Seonghwa?” quickly enough, you realised that it was a mistake to find his eyes again - clearly, you were not ready for the intensity, nor for the intrigue that was contained within them, nor for the fact that he moved another step closer to you, the rubber of his boots dampening any sound produced.
“I never knew that there was a ‘the’ attached to my name. I simply love art.”
“Well that love translated into the creation of what is possibly the greatest gallery in the nation, if not worldwide,”
“Oh you flatter me too much, ah, your name-”
“L/N Y/N, and I, too, love art.”
“Elated to hear it,” he gleamed, and you swore the room exploded with the illumination of a thousand stars.
Stunning, awe-inspiring, ever so elegant. He was a walking dream. In that smile was concealed a certain something that had been taboo, a well-kept secret until a couple of decades ago, when those like Seonghwa had started to be fully integrated into society, and no longer had to hide, changing identity from one century to another. With that came Seonghwa’s success - you had read in an article that advertised the permanent exhibition a short blurb of his story, and how for many turbulent decades, the man single-handedly collected masterpieces, crafted a meticulous network and introduced genius artists to the world, and the world to the artists. The gallery was a magnum opus for Seonghwa - a presentation of what he had achieved as a collector, as a patron of the arts, and a celebration of his personal culture. 
You could not help but hone in on the fangs, and recall the original reason why it was even possible for Seonghwa to obtain such legendary works and have as much influence as he presently did. It was not spontaneous; submerged in turmoil, he had personally approached artists who, previously abandoned by critics and other prospective buyers, had never considered a future beyond a mysterious tomorrow. Hiding his own true nature, he crafted the tale of a ‘Park’ dynasty, and rose again and again to continue his work. Perhaps, now, some might argue that once he had revealed himself as a vampire the velocity of Seonghwa’s developments had fallen, but you would passionately argue the opposite. It was challenging to believe that any move by this stunning artistic mastermind was not strategic - the announcement had given the gallery more partnerships, more donations, and in turn, an even greater prominence in the community both among professionals and enjoyers. 
“Thank you,” the phrase spilled from your lips inadvertently. It seemed to be the only thing that was reasonable to say in that given moment. You pondered the pains that must have been suffered to make the world that you were consumed by come together, and the painting in front of you, aside from what was contained within the frame,now shined in a new light externally too, possessing its own story, resembling a search for a kindred spirit, a true home. 
Seonghwa remained quiet, the words of gratitude echoing in his heart. It was endearing, encouraging to hear such warmth from you. So, you did know him, at least the parts he had shown to the public - as was expected from someone so deeply ingrained in visual arts and history, but he could not help but identify it as something much greater than mere awareness. The openness with which you had welcomed conversation with him, the kind charm that radiated from you as you engaged in the careful verbal waltz reminded the vampire of times long, long ago when all that existed for him was drive, enamourment and art. Oh, how your eyes glimmered. His heart clenched into near unbearable agony as he read your expressions, and wondered how much you have seen, what have you yet to see, who you were in this temporary life. If only he could ask fate to tell him how much you remembered of who you had been before. 
“No, thank you, for giving this,” he gestured to the gallery around him, graceful hand unfurling as though revealing a delicate flower, “meaning, and reason to exist.”
“I highly doubt I am of much significance, Mister Park,” you responded, a soft smile on your face.
“Would anything hold the same meaning if there was no one to behold it?” he responded. You chose not to answer, catching onto the rhetoricism, “and please, call me Seonghwa. I’d like to say we are to be good friends.”
______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .
Sitting across from Seonghwa in the cafe that was located on the top floor, above the main halls of the gallery made you feel strangely serene. Today he had foregone the straighter hair styles that you had begun to get used to, surprising you with a head of tousled, almost curled locks that embodied the world’s softness, though remained to be quite the contrast to the more formal and highly fashionable attire that adorned his stature. A suit, tastefully oversized with a buttoned double breasted jacket that was simultaneously serving as a shirt, the plunging v-shaped neckline revealing perfectly smooth skin, and what you noted to be a solitary freckle right in the centre of his collarbone. The trousers, at least from the glimpse that you had allowed yourself when you had met at the entrance to the cafe were of a loose fit, defining his waist at the top and falling to form an almost skirt-like silhouette should he stand how he usually stood: the echoes of what would be called the ‘third position’ in ballet, more relaxed, but still retaining an elegance that only he could carry. The biggest shock to you, however, was Seonghwa’s choice of shoes - a refreshing point to the visual, he had selected to contrast the formalwear with a pair of limited edition, geometrically intriguing Converses. You could catch a glimpse of one of them from over the edge of the table whenever his slightly shaking leg, positioned over the other, would rock forwards just that tiny bit stronger. 
While the setting was meant to be casual, the circumstances in which you found yourself were nothing short of miraculous. Never in a million years would you have imagined for it to be possible to be sat across the table from, quite possibly, one of the most legendary contributors to art restoration, collection and exhibition. On top of that, Seonghwa was a figure who actively bridged the gap between disparate communities, finding a common language, and using the arts as a salvation. You were in awe, and could not hold back on regarding the handsome vampire as he quietly reported your and his orders to the waiter who had floated to your table.
“Are you sure you do not want anything else?”
“Yes, I am sure. I do not wish to exploit your kindness-”
“-Not at all. I hope you do not mind that I… must make a rather unconventional order,” he smiled sheepishly, clearing his throat so as to attempt to hide his doubts, though you were uncertain as to how much of such emotions could possibly be left after what had to have been centuries. 
“An unconventional order is pouring a sugary energy drink into a triple shot espresso and calling it dinner,” you answered, eyes travelling from Seonghwa’s face to the mural on the wall a few tables away that wrapped behind him and to your left, disrupted only by the occasional floor length window that provided city vistas - rather gloomy, compared to the optimistic illumination of the restaurant. Perhaps out of pity, or out of genuine entertainment, Seonghwa chuckled.
“That does sound like an acquired taste, indeed. Thank you,”
“No need. Thank you for inviting me,” you turned back, nodding a polite bow as he softly waved your gesture off.
A silence settled across the table as you waited for your respective drinks. Your hand, had you not consciously restrained yourself, would have probably reached for the phone that you stored in your purse, but now was fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt, finding the buttons to stress test the threads that had them sewn tight to the fabric. You were not bored, in fact, far from it. You needed a barrier. The grandeur of this man’s presence was almost overwhelming. He was not a mere individual in a room, he consumed it. Had you just walked in, you were certain that your gaze would still settle on his form. Just like the concrete outside was grey, and the pause retained a divine ambiguity, Seonghwa was unforgettable. In an attempt to calm your clouded thoughts, you studied the mural once more.
“May I inquire into your thoughts on the decor?”
“The choice of ‘A Sunday on La Grande Jatte’ is wise. I am guessing you were the one to make the decision?” you heard an exhale, and once more your attention was captured.
“Alas, I cannot take full accolades for this. This stemmed from a discussion that a good friend of mine and I had one late night. Seurat just so happened to make an appearance amidst the chatter, and so… this was born,” he gestured at the surroundings. Clearly, the interior was picked carefully to fit the theme of the legendary painting. 
From the colours to the textures and the greenery that had been intricately set up across the restaurant, every detail had a meaning and a place, and did not take away from the spaciousness of the hall. It was breathable, while still giving the illusion that you were stepping into a whimsical impressionist paradise. Perhaps that was another reason why you could not quite contain your disbelief firstly in your encounter, secondly in its progression, and thirdly in your interlocutor’s warmth. 
“Spectacular, truly. I have heard you have an eye for detail, however this surpasses all expectations.”
“Oh? There is more you have heard?” he interjected, leaning closer to you and placing an elbow on the table, simply to rest his head on his hand. While this could potentially be seen as slightly unceremonious, it hinted at well-kept confidence, ownership, control. A healthy undercurrent of motivation that came with indirect praise.
“I-oh y-yeah of course,” you did not mean to stutter, but some part of you was grateful you did, for the smirk that had threatened to burst on Seonghwa’s lips was enough for you to feel ignited to elaborate, “if my memory is not failing me, you were the one to distinguish a reproduction of a piece some time ago, no?”
“Ah- yes. That was a Degas reproduction. I must say, the attempt was sincere, however when I saw the-, hm, you will not be startled, will you?”
“Please,” you urged him to continue, intrigued by the story. 
“When I saw the original, as it was being made and when it had been finalised, it would be shameful of me to not spot a fake,” he fell back into his chair, just in time for the drinks to be served. 
A coffee for you, and a non-descript beverage concealed by a semi-opaque, tall glass for him. Though, you did not need to be a detective to guess what it was that Seonghwa was bringing to his lips, and what he took a tentative sip of. The only mystery that was remaining for you was what ‘type’ he had picked - was it O+? B-? Whatever else? You joined him in the tasting, lifting the mug and indulging in the wonderful aroma of your americano. It did not strike you as necessary to opt for something fancier and lie to yourself - so you settled for your regular order, much to your joy. Familiar taste and the reliability of the caffeine hitting your system painted the scene in more comforting colours, and gradually, you found yourself easing into the dialogue more and more, until life stories, musings and a surprisingly large common ground came pouring. 
You discovered that Seonghwa possessed a unique sensitivity and attunement to those around him. Focused on the emotional experiences, he felt through time and could recount emotions like the memory was from a mere few days, rather than decades ago. He was well-spoken, eloquent, intelligent, polite in every right as he navigated through the linguistic landscape and guided you like a partner in a dance. You were spiralling oh so quickly, intrigue catching up to you and prompting you to sacrifice all of your senses to the man and the pleasantly intoxicating atmosphere he captured you in. He was enchanting, and it was far too easy to give in. 
“May I reveal something?” in a hushed tone, he inquired, a finger absent-mindedly tracing the rim of his glass. 
“Oh, a little secret?” you raised your eyebrows in jest, lightening the initial seriousness with which Seonghwa uttered the question.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Depends on how you take it. A confession might be more accurate,” he waited for you to take the final sip of your coffee before continuing, unphased by your unwavering focus, “if I were to be honest, I have been meaning to approach you.”
“Pardon?”
“As you know we have a… common awareness of each other thanks to what is housed under this roof, but ever since we first unknowingly crossed paths… I wanted to speak to you.”
Confused, you did not speak, though the words contained an unparalleled affection within them. What could he possibly mean? You chose to refrain from commenting, your hesitation prompting the vampire to continue.
“Do you remember the most recent opening night? Of the exhibition? I believe you were with someone…” he trailed off, hoping you would continue for him.
“Ah, yes, a friend of mine from university. So?”
“This might sound strange but, I distinctly remember you mentioning a name. An artist from the same era, dubbed as L/N Y/N?”
“Goodness, you overheard that? I am so sorry, it is just that said artist has intrigued me for some time, and I was half-hoping to encounter their work. Maybe it is because our names are the same but still….”
“Elusive, aren’t they?”
“To put it softly, yes. I only vaguely recall seeing… maybe one piece in my lifetime, when I was little, and then… nothing. And there is barely any information on the artist online, let alone libraries and archives.”
“Hm, indeed. I guess that makes two of us…”
“Two of us who are searching?”
“That’s right. It brought me happiness to know that I am not alone in this endeavour.”
“Then we can keep searching together.”
While you were positive that you could not conceal your interest, Seonghwa’s did not go unnoticed either. It was of course possible that he was simply well-versed in political correctness, but the burning depth of his pupils told you otherwise. Enthrallment, the discovery of a kindred spirit, recognition, the rekindling of a bond that had existed at some point long ago - all fantasies that played out in your mind as you returned that look with subtle fervour. You wondered how many people he graced with those charms. How many had succumbed to his influence, becoming a marker on his infinite life path, a fleeting second? How many had his lips known, how many had turned into a decadent treat for a genius man with natural peculiarities? While the researcher part of you was perplexed and aching for answers, the you that was caught in the moment simply let it go on, and the feeling of Seonghwa’s leg brushing against yours, and the pride blooming in your chest as he praised the few articles and papers you had published upon having claimed that he ‘knew some things about you too’ preoccupied you in the most magnificent way.
Naturally, you agreed to meet Seonghwa again. On your journey home, in the privacy of the anonymous metro, immersed in the cacophony of deafening rails and the millions travelling to anywhere, you pressed your phone to your racing heart as the vampire, the man, the beguiling Park Seonghwa sent you a message confirming so. Who knew a simple selection of words could be so captivating?
______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .
Under the comforting thrum of raindrops on the large umbrella, you walked down the streets of the grey-coloured city, your hand lightly holding onto Seonghwa’s arm while he ensured that both of you were protected from the elements. Despite the dull light and bitterness of the cooling season, Seonghwa appeared radiant, truly timeless with every gesture and stride. The elegant angles of his face that you could tirelessly study stood out against the monotone buildings and overcast skies. His voice drowned out the sound of droplets racing one another to the ground. A miraculous gentleman who appeared in your life much like a portrait, or a landscape - a masterpiece you wanted to explore in every spare moment, and better yet, this masterpiece was equally as open to you as you were to him. 
“...essentially, yes. It is like another nationality. A marker of species isn’t too far isn’t it? Just another line on a stack of documents. Nothing more,” Seonghwa concluded his explanation, pursing his lips for a moment before letting an exhale turned dragon’s breath escape into the afternoon.
“Makes sense. So would that mean there are separate medical papers and treatment too?”
“Well… when regeneration fails us or when a given case is severe enough… yes. Though it is handled by private clinics run by other vampires.”
“There are private clinics?”
“Of course. Often they are connected to donation points too, and that is how we remain on the right side of the law and stay alive,” he nodded to himself, giving you a bittersweet smile when he noticed confusion overtake your gaze. “Blood,” he stated as-a-matter-of-factly, “I mean blood.”
In a nervous stupor, you cleared your throat and focused on a droplet that was hanging onto the edge of the umbrella, right in front of you, all the way until the gentle motion of Seonghwa’s amble provoked its abrupt descent onto the stone under your feet. 
“Ah, yes, I see-”
“If you find this disturbing, we can forget the conversation ever-”
“-I want to know you better, Seonghwa, truly-”
“Careful-”
“Sorry wha-” 
With an extraordinary swiftness, you were tugged abruptly by the arm. Not registering your surroundings, you merely went with the inertia, caught off-guard by the proximity of your face to the vampire’s as he held you against him with the arm that you had previously been resting your own on. A hand that you raised on instinct went limp and landed on Seonghwa’s chest, feeling the thick felted wool of his coat. The ringing of a bell, going farther away from you by the second, incessant but at least waking you up from the blur, was enough for you to put two and two together - a cyclist who thought they owned every part of the street, like always. You sighed.
“Reckless… my apologies I did not mean to-” Seonghwa tried to detangle himself, refusing to remain in your personal space for longer than necessary no matter how much he did want to, but his efforts were reduced to nothing when your hand moved to a hold on his upper arm - reassuring, comfortable, accepting.
“Thank you,” you interrupted, “that bike would have definitely run into me…”
“It’s nothing,” a low chuckle echoed in your ears as Seonghwa peered into your pupils, confidence that had previously wavered out of habitual caution now restored, growing into a pride as you continued to hold onto him, “the man was slow enough for there to be no risk of harm. I hope you are not too startled though.”
“Oh? You have super powers too? Do elaborate,” you jested, resuming your walk.
“I would call it more like… being a finely tuned machine. Can’t say I have bad reaction speed. Though I must say, it was a little challenging pulling you out of the way,” there was an evident intent behind the words. However, you were too curious to pay it any mind, instead preferring to find out their meaning live.
“How so?”
“I think this,” dropping his arm, Seonghwa’s hand reached for yours, and without a moment of hesitation, his fingers were intertwining with yours, his palm pressed against yours, “would be better. You know, for safety.” As if you could ever reject him. This was a fact you had established for yourself with an unprecedented certainty. His gallant disposition, attentiveness all confirmed a care for you that was impossible to ignore. 
There was something picturesque about the present after meeting this wonderful, infinite pool of art and humanity. You found yourself leafing through articles, art books and biographies with a more wistful and sentimental perspective, imagining what it would be like if it were you who was immortalised in the thousands of brushstrokes, or if you were on the other side of the canvas, how would you go about depicting the scenes unfolding before your very eyes. Timelessness - a quality shared between the art you so adored, and the man you had encountered and over the weeks, let your intrigue be transformed into a shy flame of infatuation. Perhaps it was the underlying reason why you did not reject his advances, nor cower in fear of his true nature with which he was upfront. The other, of course, was the search for the mysterious artist, an adventure that fuelled many of your dialogues, and prompted you to spend more time in the library and the archives of your university than you had ever done before - to the point where Seonghwa himself had encouraged you to take a break from your intellectual expeditions and step into the world as a casual observer. So, you let yourself drift; it finally hit you, what scenes your once again tranquil stroll reminded you of, and you smiled to yourself as you recalled the intricacies of the not quite commonly discussed representation of the Impressionist movement. 
‘Rue de Paris, temps de pluie’, painted by Gustave Caillebotte; his most famous work. Not quite as widely discussed, despite still technically being created in the Impressionist era, perhaps due to the meandering through form, realism and reliance on stronger lines rather than broad brushstrokes and the study of light. You did find it fascinating how Caillebotte’s passion for photography had seeped into this piece, however. Much like how, in recent days, you could easily find a way to mention Seonghwa in conversation, be it related to the arts or not. From the subjects in the foreground being slightly out of focus while the middle ground was crystal clear, to how the shapes of some passersby were cropped were all characteristic of photos, rather than paintings, making this particular work all the more dear to you. It was a reflection of life, of behaviour and of what had been daily back in the late nineteenth century.
Was it any different from now, aside from those grand, global topics that historians dedicated their lives to studying? If one were to whittle down to the intricacies, the miniatures that ornamented the span of a human existence, was it so terribly far away from what you were born into, and Seonghwa saw develop and had adopted? How people shielded themselves from the rain with umbrellas, and then used them as a tool to isolate themselves from other urbanites who were in a rush to take a day-long route out of their homes… and back again. The latest silhouettes of dress and accessory; the same rush to be with the times as now.
You felt your companion’s arm move, prompting you to let go and leave your hand hovering as though you were awaiting some kind of change. You bit back an unprecedented sliver of disappointment, only to be caught by surprise once again as you felt the hand settle on the small of your back. Cautious, like you were going to melt from any more pressure than the brush of a feather. A quick glance was enough to determine that you were being studied intently for any sign of discomfort - Seonghwa was ready to pull away at any moment, any sigh, and most definitely at any word. A meek smile settled on your lips, and you shyly used an oncoming stranger as an opportunity to affirm the gesture, stepping towards the vampire, and sensing the confidence of his protective measure be solidified. With glee he followed your every tilt and turn, angling away from the passing form that neither of you could focus on. The touch was electric, somehow monumental despite being so common and barely present. Your mind was on fire, pondering what it would be like to put your head on the elegant man’s shoulder, and let yourself be carried away into a terrific fairy tale.
“This really is a rainy day,”
“Seems quite sunny to me,” you respond with sarcasm, realising only after the fact that your phrase still did retain an element of truth within it. 
Sunshine did not have to be literal. It was easy to see, you just needed to return Seonghwa’s gaze, and watch as another spring flower blossomed in the soul of one you had initially assumed to be so cold, so distant. In the darkest winter was a safe haven that you could not help but lean into, and regardless of what you had initially thought, with him, you felt more human, more safe and alive than ever. He listened without fail to your ramblings, and could easily pick up the ball and balance it with his own musings that you could listen to for many lifetimes.
Lifetimes; immortality, the one concept you couldn’t quite wrap your head around. Well, the latter was technically not true, as Seonghwa had elaborated some few days ago: vampires did age, albeit at such a slow pace that to the run of the mill human being, it was impossible to notice, and if they did, it would be someone very close, and only over a matter of decades. Maybe it was this exact inability that made you want to stay and learn all there could be about the gallerist - you thought that would make you feel like you have been living forever. His wisdom was beautiful. The kindness with which he treated you, akin to that of how a spouse treats their long-time sweetheart with a mellow and comfortable affection, was not something you asked for nor expected, but something which he introduced himself with through every action, progressively more amiable when you allowed him to advance.
“Mm, no wonder I can’t quite look at you,” he mused out loud, dramatically looking off into the distance. You raised an eyebrow, curious about what was going to come after his theatrical pause, “your brightness is unparalleled,” Seonghwa chuckled, satisfied with your sigh and the way in which you pretended to be annoyed, only to dissolve in a mute giggle. “So, I do suggest we get out of the rain for a moment and stop by that book shop over there, shall we?”
Following his hand, you spotted an antique bookshop a few doors down, marked by an iron sign and ornate shop window decorations that glistened with each hit of the dancing droplets. A warm golden light emanated from the inside, the hue comparable to a summer’s day. An odd feeling of deja vu washed over you, as though you had been in this store before, even though this was quite the distance away from your home, not on any of your usual commutes and in a part of town you barely visited aside from the occasional brisk walk. It had been established over a century ago, sporting a historical plaque and detailing original to the era the date on the sign suggested. Suppressing your internal monologue, you simply nodded, fond of Seonghwa’s excitement as he pushed lightly against your back and walked on ahead. If you were any more of a romantic, you would have assumed that the shop was a representation of his heart, but you couldn’t allow yourself to think that way, at least not when you felt heat rise to your cheeks as he whispered your name, openly planning what you could look for amidst the rare editions together. You and him turned into a ‘we’ so naturally, you barely had time to blink. A new brushstroke on a canvas, brave, bold and bright. Impressionist.
______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .
The hypnotising improvisation on a semi-acoustic guitar, followed by a launch back into the theme of a well-known jazz song had you tapping on the counter, unknowingly following every drum beat. The bar turned cosy music venue that Seonghwa had invited you out to was proving to be every bit a wonder of the world, and paradise inside of the otherwise gloomy city which had been plagued with miserable weather and lack of daylight for atrociously long. The classy establishment was a well known favourite among the vampires residing in the city, especially those aligned with a more bohemian and art-focused lifestyle. Critics, painters, collectors, musicians, poets alike all gathered to share ideas and energy, and reminisce days long gone, while the band - one that had not changed since the bar’s establishment, revived legendary pieces one after another. 
With ease, Seonghwa had ordered your favourite drink, having memorised it after your many outings that had smoothly transitioned into dates and shared nights. He remembered every detail about you, holding each one tenderness. Your lover gazed at you as he ended a conversation with a fellow collector who had recently come to town for a few days, stretching out his hand until it just touched yours, guiding it to lie flat on the counter. Seonghwa’s palm, still retaining a pleasant coolness despite him having had a couple of drinks of his own, was another reassurance that in the buzz of the venue, you still had your person by your side. Feeling his digits tap and then proceed to brush the back of your hand, you hummed in contentment, and let your eyes travel over the beautiful vampire, who leaned back, tempting you just for fun, knowing full well that you were wholly his, and even when you turned to look elsewhere, it was his face you saw in the crowd, it was his voice that rang in your ears, it was his touch that ghosted over your skin. 
The bustier from Alexander McQueen, the gorgeous flowy shirt with ruffles and cuts so tastefully sewn and executed, the statement necklace that was worthy of being displayed at a gallery and must be the envy of many, the high heeled boots that were concealed by elegant trousers - Seonghwa was your favourite work of art, and you could never deny it. Each one of his gestures was worthy of marvel, and the care with which he approached everything - even the tending to the items which he painstakingly selected and matched for tonight made your heart skip a beat. It was boggling how each garment and accessory was either an original, or a one of a kind piece. But at the same time, you did not expect anything less of Seonghwa.
He must be impossible to depict in paintings, you concluded, shamelessly staring at your lover’s face, from the shape of his nose, to the plushness of his lips, to the waviness of his night-like inky locks. You bet many had tried, but judging by the lacking evidence in the art world, they must have failed, miserably, to create something more immortal and invincible than the model and muse. You understood them, and Seonghwa gave no signs of being perturbed. 
“So, was that the intent behind our spontaneous trip to this bar tonight?” you gestured at your surroundings, taking another sip from your ornate glass. A sharp exhale accompanied a contrasting soft answer:
“Not at all,I had the business sorted a couple of days ago, and tonight was a lucky crossing of paths to secure the deal,” cryptic as ever, Seonghwa only alluded to the matter at hand.
The matter, or how he had referred to it as ‘business’ was a particular artwork that he had been hunting, by the elusive artist you had been investigating, first in your lonesome, and then joining forces with Seonghwa. Apparently, one of the pieces, by some stroke of unimaginable luck, had been kept safe in the private collection of a ‘Mister Kim’, at least that was how he had been initially introduced to you. Until you put two and two together, and when the very well dressed and styled character had entered the bar and made a beeline towards your partner in artistic musings and romance, recognised the man as a world-famous designer and fashion icon, Kim Hongjoong. And of course, another vampire and kind soul in one. 
Their conversation had happened outside of your earshot; whether it was on purpose or just so happened to unfold that way was for your ruminations to determine, but you did overhear enough to figure out that this was a portrait, a never seen work, and was completed by the artist who as it had turned out had been closer with Seonghwa than you had initially thought. 
“Seems to be very important, and not just in a ‘collector’ sense…” you trailed off, watching as the ice in your drink cracked, “is this why you were interested, you know, back then?”
“If I were to be honest, darling, I was, and still am, a lot more interested in you. The artist was something of an excuse to get a conversation going. And I do hope,” Seonghwa turned and sauntered towards you, “this conversation does not end.” 
Even though you were sitting on one of the bar stools, the heels and stance still left him some room to look downwards, and his sultry expression, orbs glinting at you through dark lashes left you transfixed. In moments such as this, you hated to be mortal. There were so many things that you could not possibly know, and no matter how hard you would try to comprehend the vastness of the angelic man’s mind, you would always remain theoretical, and accept the grand majority of intricacies as axiom.
“I hope so too,” your voice barely rose above a whisper as his gloved hand landed on your neck, gliding upwards to caress your jawline.
“I’m so glad I found you,” his thoughts were elsewhere, you were sure of it, and yet, his gaze remained unwavering, “my eternal love”. Lips stained with bittersweet worship, the words stumbled from them to strike you repeatedly in the heart, forcing it to lose its rhythm. He was regarding you like he had stumbled upon a priceless treasure, a divinity, a paradise. Something far from you and from this planet, but by Seonghwa’s careful selection, etched in your features.
Were you the embodiment of something greater for him? You would not consider yourself to be a model example of a human being, neither were you a pretty statue to display in an exhibition. You were you, but Seonghwa kept on convincing you that it was exactly this that had captivated him and showed him a new beginning. Did you wish to believe that? Of course. But a vampire who was hundreds of years old could keep a grand variety of secrets beyond your understanding, even if he were to exclaim them right in front of you and sketch them out. His eternal love - your version of eternity, or his? A life the duration of a butterfly’s abstract dance to the heavens.
“Love?” he called out to you, eyebrows knitted in concern due to your prolonged silence. You had set your drink down, and were staring at the shine of the glossy chrome silver and pearl on Seonghwa’s necklace. “Talk to me, say anything.”
“I- hm. I think I am just tired. Yeah, that must be it. Tired so I am overthinking, no worries. I’ll just be right here and-”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” you tilted your head, noting how Seonghwa immediately straightened out, and instead of attempting to tower over you stepped over to the side to set a protective hand over yours.
“This is a majority vampire bar, full of unfamiliar individuals, this whole deal with the artwork is up in the air and-”
“First of all, I don’t care. Second, you are here with me. And third, I want to trust in the fact that you would not do anything foolish nor harmful. Am I right in my evaluation?” you uttered, still not quite able to look into Seonghwa’s infinite pools of brilliant sienna and dark brown.
“I- I am honoured, but that still does not detract from the fact that we can go get some air and come back. Shall we?”
“You don’t have to-”
“I want to. Hell, need to. Let us have a quick wander?”
“...I’d like that.”
In no time, the winter air hit your cheeks and you were wrapping yourself as tightly as you could in your oversized coat. In your ears the pleasant sound of the vampire’s heels rang out, echoed by the stunning road onto which you were spat out by the heavy black front door of the bar. Warm-toned streetlights liberally decorated the sidewalks and painted the night in honey, gold and copper accents. Reflections of an artificial summer in the puddles and winter chill. Downright magical. Seonghwa seeked out your hand, holding it tight and guiding it into the pocket of his own coat, smirking when you raised an eyebrow. 
“What?”
“Nothing at all.”
You were certain that you were walking through a landscape painting, every element captured by your vision falling into its rightful place, harmonising with the rest. The mumbling and music was long gone, only to be replaced by conversation of other late city explorers and the occasional rumbling of a car lazily rolling past. 
“Pissarro.”
“Hm?” Seonghwa kept looking ahead, but squeezed your hand to ask for you to continue.
“Boulevard Montmartre at Night. Painted in 1897, no?” you pointed at the surroundings with a tilt of the chin.
“Ah, indeed! Your perceptiveness never ceases to amaze me.”
“Well, thanks to you I got to see the original, so how could I not make the visual analogy?” you nudged his shoulder, earning a chuckle.
The painting was the only example of a landscape at night from the artist Camille Pissarro, making it all the more special despite it being part of a series of 14 views of the same location. Snow, rain, fog, morning, varying seasons, but only one glimmering night. It was one of the works that Seonghwa had managed to provide for your studies, resulting in a more than impressive academic outcome. Like Pissarro kept on painting the vista, your lover kept on giving, never asking for anything more than for you to share your hours with him, something you did not need to be prompted to do anyways.
“...I’m sorry I cannot reveal more than I do, at least not just yet,” he apologised, as though what he was committing was the greatest crime known to humanity and the supernatural.
As you looked up at the starry night sky, you swore you had heard these words before, uttered by the same voice, the same fingers interlocked with yours. A stabbing sensation in your cranium made you gasp, but you regained your composure quickly enough to not make it a priority for either of you. At the same time, Seonghwa’s expression altered to a semblance of… hope? Longing? You could not pinpoint it, but one of the many glowing dots above you clearly landed in his shining orbs, and he eagerly waited.
Waited for longer than you could realise in your present state.
On their own accord, your lips moved, forcing out a subconscious acknowledgement, previously suppressed. You swore the phrase belonged to another being, but it was as refreshing as the breeze tousling Seonghwa’s locks.
“I know. I can wait too.”
“Soon, my love.”
“I-I know.”
“I miss you.”
“I-” vision growing hazy, you reached to the vampire for support, which he readily provided, “I- too.”
One blink - oil paints decorated your hands, and those alluring eyes were staring back at you from a canvas. Another blink - Seonghwa was repeating your name, pressing his cheek against yours as he shielded you from falling into darkness with his strong arms.
______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .
Your office was inviting and offered a secure haven: a collection of neutral and wooden tones, with dashes of greenery to relax the eyes. From a potted ivy plant settled on the top of a large wall-length shelving unit to an indoor palm tree enjoying the rays in its designated corner, the room was a miniature paradise. You ran your hands over the thick birch desk, cautiously avoiding the stack of documents you had arranged for yourself to go through this day. Artwork restoration reports, contracts, exhibition plans for years to come… everything you thought you would never see, and yet it was right here in your palms.
Time moved slower, or at least that was how you began to perceive it now that it was in abundance. A fountain that did not cease to bestow gifts upon you - again, something you would have never imagined prior to the curious series of events that were your previous life unfolding the way they did. One fateful meeting, and you were a changed person, staring into the horizon and labelling it as a continuation rather than as a termination of all you could achieve. The world was your oyster, and loving dedication was the price. But when the price was so sweet, and so easy, who were you to say no? If you had to pick a concern, it would be the bandages and binding on your right arm; friction from the sleeve of the turtleneck and blazer you had worn today applying uncomfortable pressure to the delicate wound concealed within. 
You stood up from the leatherbound office chair, adjusting your clothes and stepping to the window behind you to look out at the garden belonging to the gallery - a recent expansion. Grand, regal, and as the papers had emphasised, now returned to its rightful owner. You wondered just how much of the city had belonged to vampires at least for a portion of time, and you had no doubt that you would be making more discoveries soon, but for the time being, you were happy with the re-acquisition, or as Seonghwa had called it: your ‘turning’ gift. A particularly strong shift of the arm made you wince, and your other hand shot to nurse your sore arm.
“I’m so sorry darling, does it still hurt?” Unbeknownst to you, Seonghwa had slipped into the office, and immediately rushed towards you, concern painting his beautiful face through furrowed brows and a tiny scowl.
“N-no, barely. The sweater is silly-”
“Let’s not disregard ailments, shall we?” your partner gingerly lifted your arm, and after gaining permission through a few lethargic nods, pushed the sleeve upwards to reveal the bandages, “I- really, we need to apply the ointment again, that must be it-”
“Seonghwa-”
“Work can wait, I just need to-”
“My love-” Seonghwa paused his ramblings to stare back at you, puzzled, “it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Literally just a bite, isn’t it?” you smiled, the action instantly being mirrored, albeit with a tinge of remaining worry.
“Mm, perhaps I am overreacting, I can’t help it,” your thoughts were numbed by the silken touch of his lips on the back of your hand, wool against cotton as he pulled you into an embrace, “it should heal well once you get used to your new form, I am sure of it,” his tresses tickled your nose, but you ignored it, instead letting your head fall against him.
You stood almost completely still aside from the rocking side to side that was habitual for you both. A lulling motion, one that either of you revealed only to each other. A secret reserved for intimate, loving moments such as this. You shook your head in amusement and buried your nose in Seonghwa’s sweater, inhaling the aroma of his sweet perfume, recalling ‘Love and Pain’ - the painting that had marked the tightening of the invisible string tying you together. Or was it? Coincidentally, on the wall behind your lover was the real inception of your union, one that you had forgotten from one lifetime to the next. A portrait. The one that Seonghwa had been chasing, and what had been his decades-long mission came to an end.
Signed with your own hand, were initials of your name and the year of completion of the painting. None other than the beloved collector and muse, Park Seonghwa, who had posed for you, or rather a version of you, and ever since then, you were the only one on his mind. You had been the master both of the arts and of his fate.
“Please, I am embarrassed…” your partner mumbled, settling for futile attempts to position you in such a way that you would be looking out at the garden, but to no avail. Poking him playfully at the side, you induce a halt, and question him:
“What is there to be embarrassed about? That’s you. Painted by me.”
“Exactly. And you have it in your office, of all places.”
“Well I can’t exactly have you, in the flesh, on display all the time and I would like a work of art around here-”
“Shh-”
“Don’t shush me, Park. Be grateful I don’t keep the sketches out too.”
In all honesty, He would not mind if you did. You could do anything, and the vampire would adore and honour it. Whether it was in your blood or in his nature, he had never regretted almost losing himself in your favour. In your last life, he had gone against all rules set up by vampires, playing against what he swore was the devil in order to have the sliver of a chance to start again and, this time not lose you. Had his plan not succeeded, it was highly probable that he would have been erased from this planet too. But he would rather call himself a masochist than be law-abiding when it came to you.
“Next, you’ll be threatening me with a showcase of just my face-”
“What if I do?” you quipped, pulling back to boop his nose with yours, “I think it would look very pretty. Besides, now that I remember my apparent mastery of the visual arts, can’t I be a tiny bit proud, hm?”
“I would be terribly disappointed if you weren’t. Now, may I put that ointment on you?”
As if you could refuse those sparkling eyes. Promptly following him to the loveseat, which unfortunately for Seonghwa was situated right under the portrait, you sat down and waited. Your partner rushed to the medical cupboard - another new addition installed exclusively to support you as you were getting used to the vampiric nuances in your day to day. With well-practised motions, the required kit was in his hands, and in a blink, set down on the plush cushioning of the miniature sofa. You held back a chuckle as you saw the pout you so loved appear as he focused on unwinding the bandage with utmost care. Before you could feel any hurt, Seonghwa would already let go, or alter the angle at which he was tugging on the material. As soon as the plaster was peeled, you were met with the reason for your eternity and reawakening.
Two deep punctures, still a little irritated, not quite healed, but nevertheless a marking of your future and something you regarded with fondness. Wounds did not hurt when they were merely physical, especially not when you had someone who had bound their immortality to yours to tend to them. Seonghwa bit his lower lip, discontented with the ache as though he could feel it too, and took numerous pauses while cleaning up the wound to glance at you. 
“I’ll be applying the ointment now, tell me if it stings, okay?”
“Okay,” you knew it wouldn’t. You had never heard a man be so adamant on checking ingredients at an apothecary before following Seonghwa after your first appointment as a vampire. But just to appease him, you followed this small spoken routine. 
“You know… I was scared,” his voice was barely audible, and he could not look at you.
“What were you scared of?”
“Losing you again.”
“Well, I am here, aren’t I?”
Even before you were aware of Seonghwa, let alone the truth behind the portrait, all the roads still led to the same resolution. The arts, art history. Virtually synonymous, for without creation, there would not be the past, and without the study of the past, there would not be the celebration and respect of creation. Finally, you understood the beauty of evolution that Seonghwa had undergone all while remaining the same vulnerable yet legendary figure, dedicated to his vision of the arts, having recollected your own. 
“So many things could have gone wrong,” Seonghwa’s mind was reeling from the sheer terror of possibility. He had taken advantage of his high social standing as an aristocrat and pulled rank to avoid waiting for any ritual guides to step in - it was not the first time, but still only the second. And both cases were related to you. 
The first time might have been a foolish decision in retrospect, but considering the dire circumstances the extreme solution was the only one. With one foot crossing to the afterlife he was combatting the reapers, and was not going to let go of you even if it meant being pulled in. This time, when you had approached him a number of nights ago with your final agreement to his tentative proposal and kissed his ruminations away, he was ready. Years of study were not going to waste, after all. And yet when he studied the same irises as those from a time long gone, when he held the same hands, his blood ran even colder. What a gambling man he had been back then. The procedure to regift life to you had been risky, and Seonghwa, having never practised those elements of the dark arts bestowed upon his kind, had been taking shot after shot in the dark. How dare he play with your being like that? How dare he hold your existence on a sinful scale?
“But they didn’t.”
No they did not. Your confidence in him had aided considerably, he had to admit. The positioning of his fangs was perfect, and he had memorised all incantations down to the inflections. Second time a charm, but much more anxiety-inducing. Turning was not the same as revival, either. He could not stop himself from imagining the many scenarios of where he would have gone wrong, and cemented your identity only as a name on manuscripts, dissertation, paintings and reports. 
“Even the ritual, what if you did not remember-”
“I would love you just the same. Whether I had all my memories or not. That much I can assure you of. That is why I trusted you in the first place, Seonghwa.”
You did not need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. All you could do was suggest a brighter palette, and be by his side no matter what colour scheme he were to decide on. It was an artist’s duty to know when to set the tools aside and consider a painting finished. The luxury of a collector was to live through many paintings, unify the souls contained in each and sustain a chronology of expression. The keepers, the scholars, made to observe change rather than induce it directly. This was why you were all the more grateful for Seonghwa daring to change your mortal fate not once but twice, risking himself and his image in your favour.
When your partner was satisfied with his medical care, he hummed to notify you and began to clear up, at least until you placed a weak hand on his leather-clad thigh to gain his full attention. He searched for a hint in your features, eyes darting across your face at lightning speed. Relief came when you grinned brightly, whispering sincere gratitude.
Impressionism - the movement and path made by legends. A rejection of traditional practice, a new vision and interpretation of the outside world in the hues of the soul. Light, reality, immediate action. A breath that reset the arts, magnificent and radical for the time, and now, much adored. From its conception to its establishment, you were there to witness and fall in love, and now could look back at the beauty that had bloomed. His irises, your favourite colour. The speckles of various shades, your favourite details. You stared into Seonghwa’s eyes and did not dare blink. Your favourite impression.
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ezlo-x · 10 months
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hi I have thoughts to implement to my au maybe sorta I just thought the idea was cool. The Zonai were a Minish Tribe that were established in the Faron region when descending down from the skies
The Zonai were architecturally advanced as their structures and monuments were massive compared to their small size. It was at a point lead to believe that Hylians from a long ago past created those structures that are in the Faron region. Zonai don’t have a third eye in this, only highly respected Zonai would create these headpieces in form of a third eye. It is only a wild coincidence that the Sheikah and Zonai use eye symbols. However the Zonai in my au use more hand symbolism as they connect it more to into their architectural history and skills.
The Zonai established their own society in Faron, being the first to create a monarchy way before Hyrule was established to have a kingdom. That is the Zonai tribe of the south region, as a handful of the Zonai started to embark to the upper north side of Hyrule. There were two siblings in hopes to create their own society just like their cousins, Rauru and Mineru. They first settled in the upper north of the Woodland Region now known as the Thyphlo Ruins, until the discovery of the Great Lord Deku Tree in the Deku Woods (this is before the Koroks appeared). Rauru and Mineru decided to focus on the magic of the forest with the help of the Lord Deku Tree. Making Rauru hone the power of light and Mineru the power of spirit.
With these powers they have and their wisdom through experimentation and with Lord Deku Tree's blessing, was the creation of the Moth Fairy. Healing Fairies that transformed into Moth Fairies in their pupa stage. Who absorb the wisdom and story of the Zonai. As the Zonai wanted to keep their traditions alive the moth fairies were there as to archive their stories.
This magic came in handy when a threat of evil emerged in Hyrule as the Master Sword only being a few centuries old. And the incarnate of Light in a need of help to stop this force of evil from consuming Hyrule into darkness. The Zonai with their powers of magic that were obtained through the forest, gifted the Master Sword an enchantment to strengthen the sword and vanish the evil from Hyrule.
As centuries and many millennia passed by and the threat of evil being handled by child of light and courageous hero. Zonai tradition slowly diminished as also the Minish started to expand across Hyrule. The Zonai culture and tradition slowly faded as new cultures and traditions formed reestablishing as the Woodland tribe. People from Hyrule slowly forgetting about the Minish tribe. Leaving only the Moth Fairies to be the only remnants to know the origin of the Minish. The Zonai from the Faron region never really vanished however just like their Woodland cousins they became the Faron tribe as many things changed. However they had it slightly unlucky as not a lot of Moth Fairies know much for their history aside from the origin. Leaving many things behind and to be left a mystery.
The Master Sword's enchantment slowly diminished mostly as the threat of evil came back in long periods of time. In the current stage the Master Sword is weak due to the absence of maintenance and the enchantment is completely gone. The Master Sword has slowly become a rusted sword from a legend that is 10 thousand years old
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apas-95 · 2 months
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I think a lot of the basis for anarchism's common 'How would we deal with that? Well, it simply wouldn't happen,' problem is the notion of human behaviour 'in a vacuum'.
In reality, we're not building society in a vacuum. We're building it in the real world, out of our real society. We're not imagining some scenario where a bunch of generic people appear in a forest clearing and build a town, we're planning how to improve the society we actually exist in, a society populated by our real neighbours, with all their social dependencies and baggage. Maybe, indeed, a human being in the abstract would have no reason to steal from common stockpiles, or behave antisocially, or refuse to work when able - it is vacuously true. We can't care about supposed innate human nature, all human behaviour is dependent on context and environment. You need to think through the question of 'what happens when someone does anyway?' - because the answer might not be a comfortable one. Refusing to acknowledge the hard questions and their implications doesn't make you better than those that have openly stated what difficult measures and compromises they will navigate. Most of the time, when pressed, the answer to 'what happens' from those who have attempted to ignore the question, is 'death squad', or 'nobody owes you anything'.
Necessarily, whenever we look ahead to a planned future, we also need to look at what it requires to go from here to there. Instead of just appearing, history-free in a settlement, we must make our own way there, fighting against every force that would intend to keep us where we are. We can definitively say this about our future: the organisations and institutions that will build it will have to be ones that have not only survived but also won a revolutionary civil war, against the forces of police and military technology and equipment. That immediately precludes what directions we can organise towards. We have a fixed basis: our present society; and we have now, too, a fixed direction: a fighting organisation that can survive, grow, and organise an entire society around itself. Critically, we also have a wealth of historical experience as to how such things are done - how to fight, how to win. Those are the key things - how do we, tomorrow, today if we're free, start working towards the total military defeat of our enemy, and the preservation of ourselves, in the real world? 'How will we deal with that?' is an incredibly important question to answer now, when we're not yet in a muddy hole shooting fascists and bleeding.
Fundamentally, this is not a thought experiment, this is not a ponderance on the nature of man, it is a matter of practical planning, for when our strikes are dispersed by armed force, and when our breakfast programs are assaulted by fascist thugs. Anything less can only reveal a lack of actual revolutionary aims.
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steveyockey · 4 months
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While some of both Davis and Crawford’s work could arguably be described as camp (for the former, King Vidor’s Beyond the Forest; for the latter, later-era films such as Strait-Jacket and aspects of the wondrous Nicholas Ray film Johnny Guitar), that their entire careers and places within film history are defined as such does a disservice to their artistry. But they aren’t alone in representing what has become a troubling trend when it comes to women’s work. As camp entered the mainstream lexicon, especially after Susan Sontag’s landmark 1964 essay, “Notes on ‘Camp,’” the term has been increasingly tied to work featuring women who disregard societal norms. Camp is often improperly and broadly applied to pop culture that features highly emotional, bold, complex, cold, and so-called “unlikable” female characters. I’ve seen films and TV shows such as the witty masterwork All About Eve; the beguiling Mulholland Drive; the stylized yet heartwarming Jane the Virgin; Todd Haynes’s Patricia Highsmith adaptation Carol; the blistering biopic Jackie; the deliciously malevolent horror film Black Swan; Joss Whedon’s exploration of girlhood and horror, Buffy the Vampire Slayer; the landmark documentary Grey Gardens (which inspired the 2009 HBO film starring Jessica Lange and Drew Barrymore); and even icons such as Beyoncé and Rihanna be described as camp. Look at any list of the best camp films and you’ll see an overwhelming number of works that feature women and don’t actually fit the label. Usually, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, the film whose behind-the-scenes story provides Murphy’s launching pad for Feud, will be at the top of the list.
While camp need not be a pejorative, that hasn’t stopped it from being widely used as such. In effect, being labeled as camp can turn the boldest works about the interior lives of complex women into a curiosity, a joke, a punch line. The ease with which camp is applied to female-led films and shows of this ilk demonstrates that for all the (still-paltry) gains Hollywood has made for women in the decades since Davis and Crawford worked, our culture is still uncomfortable respecting women’s stories.
That major Hollywood icons such as Marlene Dietrich, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford (and, more recently, Natalie Portman, thanks to Jackie) have been roped into this lineage isn’t surprising. Society doesn’t know what to do with women of this ilk without discrediting their very womanhood. Take artist and filmmaker Bruce LaBruce’s offensive description of Mae West in an essay on camp: “[She] played with androgyny to the degree that her final performance — her autopsy — was necessary to prove her biological femaleness.” In his 2013 essay “Why Is Camp So Obsessed with Women?”, J. Bryan Lowder expands on Sontag’s most well-known line: “It’s not a lamp, but a ‘lamp’; not a woman, but a ‘woman.’ To perceive Camp in objects and persons is to understand Being-as-Playing-a-Role.” Lowder writes, “‘Woman,’ the concept within the quotation marks, is not the same thing, at all, as a real woman; the former is a mythology, a style, a set of conventions, taboos, and references, while the latter is a shifting, changeable, and ultimately indefinable living being. Of course, there may be some overlap.” But if all gender is a performance, where does the “real” woman begin? And why does the presence of camp hold more importance than the actual work and voices of actresses such as Crawford, who have come to be defined by it?
At times, camp can feel like a suffocating label. Its proponents often misconstrue the fact that recreating oneself as a character is not merely an aesthetic for women, but rather, for many, a matter of survival. Living in a culture that profoundly scorns ambition, autonomy, and independence in women, girls learn quickly the narrow parameters of femininity available to them. When they transcend these parameters, life can get even more difficult. Women often pick up and drop various forms of presentation in order to move through the world more easily. Performance as a woman — in terms of how one speaks, walks, talks, acts — can be a means of controlling one’s own narrative. Camp often limits this part of the discussion, focusing instead on the sheer thrill of watching larger-than-life female characters cut and snark their way across the screen. How these works speak to women, past and present, becomes a tertiary concern at best, and the work loses a bit of its importance in the process; it either comes to be regarded as niche or, if it still has mainstream prominence, as abject spectacle. In turn, the conversations around these works become less about the women at their centers and more about how those women are presented.
Much of Baby Jane’s camp legacy comes down to how more recent audiences have interpreted Davis’s performance. She’s ferocious, frightening, and grotesque. But framing Davis’s performance as camp, as Murphy does, doesn’t take into account how dramatically acting has shifted over the course of film history. In some ways, camp has become a label used when modern audiences don’t quite understand older styles of acting. Modern actors privilege the remote, the cold, the detached. The more scenery-chewing performances that make the labor of acting visible — such as the transformative work that Jake Gyllenhaal did in Nightcrawler, or most of Christian Bale’s career — is typically the domain of men. (Or, at least, it’s only men who can get away with it without being called campy.) As Shonni Enelow writes in a marvelous piece for Film Comment, “[Jennifer] Lawrence’s characters in Winter’s Bone and The Hunger Games don’t arrive at emotional release or revelation; rather than fight to express themselves, her characters fight not to. We can see the same kind of emotional retrenchment and wariness in a number of performances by the most popular young actors of the last several years.” Davis’s work as an actor was the antithesis of that; she painted in bold colors. Even her quietest moments brim with an intensity that cannot be denied.
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writing-with-sophia · 6 months
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30 writing prompts about dark magic
Write a story about a young apprentice who becomes entangled in a forbidden form of dark magic.
Explore the consequences of a character who uses dark magic to resurrect a loved one.
Create a world where dark magic is the only means of survival, and the protagonist must choose between embracing it or resisting its allure.
Write about a cursed artifact that grants immense dark magical power to anyone who possesses it.
Imagine a society where practitioners of dark magic are feared and hunted, and a protagonist must hide their abilities to survive.
Tell the story of a character who unintentionally unleashes a powerful and malevolent dark force upon the world.
Write a tale of a group of individuals who use dark magic for noble purposes, challenging the conventional notions of good and evil.
Explore the psychological toll on a character who delves too deep into dark magic and loses their sense of self.
Create a magical academy where students are taught both light and dark magic, and follow a student's journey as they grapple with the temptation of the dark arts.
Describe a character who discovers an ancient book of dark magic and becomes consumed by its power.
Write about a protagonist who must make a pact with a dark entity to save their loved ones, at the cost of their own soul.
Imagine a world where dark magic is the dominant force, and a small group of rebels fight to restore balance using light magic.
Explore the origins of dark magic in a mythological world and the tragic events that led to its corruption.
Write a story about a character who is wrongly accused of practicing dark magic and must prove their innocence.
Imagine a character who uses dark magic to exact revenge on those who have wronged them, only to discover the consequences are far greater than anticipated.
Create a protagonist who possesses the ability to absorb and manipulate dark magic, struggling to control their powers and resist its corrupting influence.
Write about a character who discovers a hidden society of dark magic users and must decide whether to join them or fight against their destructive ways.
Explore the moral dilemma of a character who uses dark magic to save lives but must sacrifice their own humanity in the process.
Describe a cursed forest filled with dark magic where a group of adventurers must navigate its dangers to retrieve a powerful artifact.
Write a story about a character who seeks out forbidden knowledge of dark magic to gain immortality but finds that eternal life comes at a cost.
Imagine a world where dark magic is outlawed, and a character becomes an underground practitioner, fighting against oppressive forces.
Create a protagonist who is born with an uncontrollable dark magic that threatens to consume them unless they find a way to harness and control it.
Write about a character who becomes possessed by a malevolent spirit and must find a way to break free from its control.
Describe a character who uses dark magic to manipulate time and alter the course of history, leading to unforeseen consequences.
Imagine a protagonist who discovers a hidden society of benevolent dark magic practitioners, challenging the notion that all dark magic is inherently evil.
Write a story about a character who accidentally curses themselves with a dark spell and must find a way to reverse it before it's too late.
Create a world where dark magic is a natural force that must be balanced with light magic to prevent catastrophic events.
Describe a character who must navigate a labyrinth filled with dark magic traps and illusions to reach a coveted artifact.
Write about a character who is born into a prestigious family of dark magic practitioners but rejects their heritage, choosing a different path.
Imagine a character who discovers a hidden library of ancient dark magic spells and becomes obsessed with mastering their power, regardless of the consequences.
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reasonsforhope · 1 month
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"[There is] fantastic news for species conservation after new populations of the gorgeous ‘Skywalker’ gibbon, known to science for only 6 years, were recently found living in the politically chaotic nation of Myanmar.
Also called the hoolock gibbon, this dainty vocalist was first described in 2017 living in the extreme south of China on a mountain in Yunnan. Classified as Endangered by the IUCN, the population was estimated to number a paltry 150 individuals, but others were believed to live in Myanmar.
Even before the recent military junta usurped the president and plunged the country into civil war, Myanmar [was a difficult place to conduct field studies, especially extensive or ongoing ones, due to ongoing conflict.]
[Although they are] now in open revolt against the military junta, [the Myanmar states of Shan and Kachin] were nevertheless destinations for an intrepid team of scientists from the Nature Conservation Society Myanmar, Fauna & Flora International–Myanmar Programme, the IUCN’s ape specialist group, and field researchers from universities in England, China, and the US.
Together, they conducted acoustic surveys, collected non-invasive DNA sampling, and took photographs for morphological identification at six sites in Kachin State and three sites in Shan State. With the help of the Myanmar conservationists, the team also interviewed locals dwelling in rural forested areas, small conservation programs, and timber companies about the frequency of sightings and the hunting pressure.
Population estimates of unknown quality and scientific rigor conducted in 2013 suggested there might be 65,000 hoolock gibbons in Myanmar, but the matter became much more complicated after the classification of the Skywalker gibbon as a separate species from the eastern hoolock gibbon—where before they were confused as the same.
“We were able to genetically identify 44 new groups of Skywalker gibbons in Myanmar,” said senior author Tierra Smiley Evans, research faculty at the UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine, and contributing author. “This is a huge resource and success story for Myanmar.”
These gibbons sing to each other at dawn for around 22 minutes, and consume 36 different plant species; choosing fruit first, and flowers later. They seldom sleep in the same tree two nights in a row to avoid predation, and can’t swim so are often confined to territories by river systems.
The team that discovered them in China in 2017 loved Star Wars, and called them tianxing which is Chinese pinyin for “heaven movement;” a nod not only to their favorite sci-fi franchise, but also to China’s ancient history. In the famous Book of Change [aka the I Ching] of the Zhou Dynasty [1046 BCE to 265 BCE], a divination poem refers to gibbons specifically, and uses tianxing as a verb to describe their movements.
The interviews were a source of great data for the scientists. For starters, nearly all individuals in both the Kachin and Shan states could identify a Skywalker gibbon by sight and by playback of its singing, lending the exercise a good degree of reliability...
“Biologists did not believe Skywalker gibbons could live in the small remaining patches in Southern Shan State before we started this project,” Pyae Phyo Aung, executive director of Nature Conservation Society Myanmar, told the UC Davis press.
“I am delighted with our field team members who have done an excellent job, within a short period of time, building community trust for further conservation actions. This area is degraded forest. It is really important for Myanmar and China to consider extending conservation approaches for the Skywalker gibbon to this new geographic area.”
Nearly 32,000 square kilometers, or around 8 million acres of forestland in Eastern Myanmar are suitable gibbon habitat, and while existing forest reserves like Paung Taung and Mae Nei Laung are quite large, they remain unprotected. For this reason, the survey team recommended they remain considered ‘Endangered’ on the IUCN Red List until habitat protections improve."
-via Good News Network, February 21, 2024
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noctivagantpodcast · 1 month
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I Live On Stolen Land
Consider donating to one of these wonderful charities dedicated to preserving the cultures, livelihoods, rights, and dignity of Indigenous peoples.
First Nations Development Institute. Information taken from their 'Our Programs' page: Grantmaker dedicated to addressing financial inequality and its many, many negative impacts. In additional to financial aid, FNDI provides job training and participates in policy-making and advocacy, often focusing on environmental concerns, food insecurity, and tribal sovereignty. Some examples of current projects include "Fortifying Our Forests" AKA restoring and protecting sacred land in partnership with the Forest Service, Native Language Immersion Initiative AKA ensuring the survival of Native languages, and Native Farm To School AKA connecting Native youth with traditional means of growing and harvesting food.
Native American Rights Fund A registered non-profit that provides legal representation in matters of Native interest, be that a single individual or an entire tribe. Since their inception, they have won cases that made critical contributions to the advancement of Native rights in the United States. Their efforts have helped uphold tribal sovereignty, compelled museums, universities, and other institutions to return the remains of Native ancestors, and protected the voting rights of pretty much everyone.
Redhawk Native American Arts Council This organization's primary focus is on the preservation of Native American arts through educational programs. We can also thank them for granting scholarships to Native students seeking higher education, and for running a youth program which aims to help Urban Indigenous youth connect with their heritage through the arts.
Seventh Generation Fund A "fiscal sponsor" for smaller community groups that are run by and for Native tribes/individuals, with the focus of preserving heritage and defending tribal sovereignty, as well as continued survival post-genocide. One example of their work is the Flicker Fund, a disaster fund dedicated to supporting Indigenous communities during times of crisis, be that a pandemic, extreme weather, or a severe drought. Another is the Traditions Bearers Fellowship, which provides financial support to tribal community members who carry on pre-colonization traditions.
Quiluete Move To Higher Ground Stephanie Meyer committed a serious of egregious acts of cultural appropriation and exploitation, and made a very large fortune off a very real tribe. This very real tribe now finds themselves living in a tsunami zone and unable to afford a move to a safer area. As of 2022, the move of the Tribal School, the most important phase, is complete, but there's much more work to be done.
Indigenous Women Rising Abortion Fund A fund to provide Native individuals and family access to abortion care, menstrual hygiene supplies, and midwifery. Here are two separate articles verifying their status as the ONLY indigenous specific (and Indigenous led) abortion fund. For more information on how the destruction of Roe V Wade has negatively impacted Indigenous women, look here and here.
South Dakota Historical Society Foundation So, this isn't a Native led or Native specific organization, but, they work closely with Indigenous communities in South Dakota to preserve their heritage alongside the state's history. I recently had a lovely conversation with one of their representatives about the Ghost Shirt their society is sheltering until such a time as the tribe it rightfully belongs to can house it safely. Article about the shirt's repatriation with some cool info on the shirt's history is here.
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shakespearesdaughters · 4 months
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What kind of books by Dark Academia do you suggest to me? At the moment I’m on Tolstoj but I wanna to know much
The Secret History by Donna Tartt anything by Donna Tartt (praying we get another book in the next 5 years)
Maurice by E. M. Forester
Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh
The Patrick Melrose series by Edward St Aubyn
Confessions by Kanae Minato
In the Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco
Piranesi and Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
Dead Poets Society by N H Kleinbaum
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
An Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice
A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara
The Idiot by Elif Bautman
The Talented Mr Ripley by Patricia Highsmith
Babel by R F Kuang
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Stoner by John Williams
The Queens Gambit by Walter Tevis
The odyssey by Homer
Carmilla by J Sheridan le Fanu
We Have Always Lived In The Castle by Shirley Jackson
Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsay
Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges
The October Country by Ray Bradbury
Inferno by Dante Alighieri
Just to name a few!
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sunandsstars · 1 year
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SPIDER THE MATCHMAKER
Recom!Miles x Na’vi!Reader x Spider (Platonic)
Summary: Spider finally had enough of Quaritch’s oggling and decided to help encourage his advances towards the reader, he has a ship, and he’s determined to let it sail. Warnings: Brief mentions of abandonment/murder/existential crisis, Swearing Word count: 1.8k
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It was different, being accepted into Na’vi society. He was so used to being the bad buy, the killer among men, yet now he’s just..him. After becoming a recom he felt as if he did not belong, a human mind in an aliens body is something he had to get used to. He definitely had a lot of existential crisis up until now.
The last fight he had with Jake Sully in the reefs left him severely wounded and he had to retreat back to base to seek help, his men where gone and his morale was becoming low. Luckily his son, Spider, decided to join him. His reasoning was that while the Sully’s where kind to him growing up (especially kiri who he will miss dearly) he cant ignore the fact they never went after him when he got kidnapped by the RDA, he cant ignore how Neytiri was so willing to kill him after he showed the family nothing but loyalty and he cant ignore how he felt as if he never belonged with them as human. 
So there they are, holed up in the Tawkami Clan, learning their way of life and becoming part of the people.
Surprisingly they where quick to welcome them in despite them not having a good history with men kind, Spider said they where a peaceful clan with a persistent quest for knowledge and lore keeping, they were studious and make it their mission to preserve Eywa’s ecosystem. ‘So they wanted to study me, the human turned Na’vi, how could I say no to being the centre of their learning’
Quaritch was certainly liking the attention from the people, back at base he was oggled at yes, but for different reasons. Usually the looks he received where ones of admiration for his effort in the war all those years ago, or was disgust for his newly blue tinted skin. In Greenhome it was of great wonder, oh how her yellow eyes looked into his in fascination while talking about his past planet Earth, how she spoke about the plants and the forests of Pandora with great love, how-
‘’Hey man, you good?’’
Spider waved a hand in front of his face and looked around to see what could be stealing the man’s attention, once his sights fell on the beautifal Na’vi woman picking some fruit not that far away he smirked cheekily. ‘’You know you could always go and talk to her right? She wont bite’’. Quaritch blinked and scowled, grabbing his son into a headlock and rubbing his knuckles along his head at lightning speed. Spider laughed loudly and struggled in his fathers hold, wriggling and shouting for help, and when help did come the blue mans grip became limp embarrassingly fast.
‘’And just what do you think you’re doing to him hm?’’ ___ pried the boy gently from Quaritch’s arms and placed him on the floor to run around ‘’hurting children is not something we take lightly you know’’
Well shit.
The recom felt his face flush a cute lilac shade, it spread from his nose and across his cheeks, even going to the tip of his pointed ears. How did he become so weak in the presence of a lady? The old Quaritch would have never blushed at the sight of one. But then again he isn’t the man he once was. If ___ noticed the fluster of his face she didn’t mention it, instead she grabbed the hand that was rested on his lap, intertwined their fingers and pulled him towards the fruit she was picking. 
‘’Come, I will show you how to pick yovo fruit’’ she spoke in English. Spider has been a fantastic teacher.
If the purple on his face could become any darker, it certainly has. Her hand was so warm and small…
Spider could only follow and wiggle his brows to the man discreetly. He is determined to get this ship going.
Standing at the base of the large bush ___ started to show him how to pick the berry’s, ‘’they are delicate and must be handled with care, you must not squeeze them too hard when picking’’ she picked a couple of them into her hand, threw some into the basket with the rest and gave some to both boys. Spider lifted his exopack and quickly devoured them, sliding the mask back on and chewing loudly ‘’these are good’’ he stated matter of factly with a mouthful. The outside of his lips turning purple from the pigment.
___ giggled at his antics and looked to see Quaritch’s reaction, he rolled his eyes at the boy and slowly munched on a berry. Once deemed not poisonous (he has trust issues ok) he threw the rest into his mouth. ‘’Yea, these are fucking fantastic’’ the woman could only smile in glee, happy to share more of her planet with him.
That smile..it sent his heart beating incredibly fast. He was falling in love and he knew it. How couldn’t he? When she was just so gentle and sweet with his son, when she was one of the first to help them get comfortable within the clan. He needed to invite her out, fast. He wasn’t the only one with eyes on her. He mused, eyes glancing at a small group of hunters around a fire, some of which turned their heads away quickly as they got caught.
‘’I was uh wondering’’ he coughed. This is gonna be a pain in the ass.
‘’would you like to come out with me tonight?’’ Spider swallowed the last of the fruit and blinked up at his father, smiling wide. Finally. It’s not like he’s been waiting for months.
___ blinked in surprise, not expecting this sudden offer. She wondered if he was finally asking her to be mates. Could you blame her?  A 9 ft 5’’ Na’vi warrior, recently accepted as part of the clan and was a fantastic hunter. And those muscles…
Eywa give her strength.
Her tail swished in gradual hope ‘’yes. Of course I would Miles’’ she grinned, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth in sweet shyness, the same purplish hue coating the recoms cheeks starting to spread across hers. 
Quaritch let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Fuck, why was it so hard to ask for one simple thing. Never in his life has he felt like this, not with previous hookups, not with past girlfriends and certainly not with Paz – the deceased mother of his son.
‘’alright sweetness, meet me here tonight, after eclipse’’ ___ could only swish her tail at the nickname and nodded oh so cutely. Picking up her basket she patted Spider on the head and bid them a good rest of the evening, needing to go back to her chores. 
Miles Quaritch, former human, now Na’vi, was the ultimate womaniser. He puffed his chest out and smirked to himself. He deserved a pat on the back.
Like two peas in a pod, Miles Socorro read his mind and pat his lower back (the only part the poor kid could reach)
‘’well done dad, well done’’
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The sun hid behind the planet known as Polyphemus and casted darkness, but Pandora never truly sleeps.
Two blue figures where seen jumping across branches and leaping from root to root, the bioluminescent glow of the moon never ceased to fascinate the man who has never known fresh air and real plants. He looked around in awe at his surroundings and himself, lifting his hands in front of his face and taking note of all the little white dots speckled across his skin. 
___laughed joyfully and turned around ‘’Miles come’’ she beckoned him to carry on, wanting them to get to their destination as soon as possible. The recom dropped his hands and sprinted to catch up with the female, her being much more experienced with the terrain and therefore had the upper hand in their little race. 
On the way they both came across fan lizards and proceeded to disturb them, watching the light of the animal as they flew cross their faces and up into the air. Giggles sounded out throughout the forest, joyful laughs and quick inhales of breath as they finally arrived to where ___ wanted to take them. 
The tree of voices.
Both slowly crept towards the sacred space, their steps leaving glowing footprints in the grass. The tree shone beautiful pinks and purples as the hanging branches swayed ever so softly in the wind, it wasn’t the only thing that took his breath away.
There she stood, with the biggest grin on her face, eyes twinkling in the light of their surroundings and tail swinging happily. She moved to the centre of the tree ‘’this is Ultral Aymokriyä, the tree of voices’’ she whispered softly, ‘’you are a man now Miles, one of the people, you are able to hear our ancestors’’ she grabbed his hand and brought him closer to a cluster of hanging branches and connected her queue to them, inhaling as the voices of the past filled her ears.
Quaritch followed her actions and his pupils dilated at the newfound sounds, he never really believed in Eywa before, taking it up as some sort of false goddess. But this, this proves whatever he thought was wrong. ‘’They live. Within Eywa’’ the woman facing him sensed a change of air and looked up as atokirina fell slowly to land on their shoulders. She gasped and disconnected her queue, never has she thought that the great mother would bless them both tonight.
This is a sign.
Miles looked towards the atokirina and then to the love of his life and decided that she was the one for him. He walked closer to her until they where chest to chest and grabbed her face in his overly large palms ‘’___. Now that I am one of the people I am able to choose a mate’’ he felt her tense under his touch and looked straight into her eyes to look for any uncertainty ‘’you have helped me and my son in a time of need, despite us being humans, you have seen past our faults and accepted us into your arms with love’’. ___ started to tear up, not expecting this heartfelt speech.
And in such good Na’vi, thank you Spider.
‘’___.. oel ngati kameie”
The woman suddenly took his face into her own palms and connected their lips, it was soft and sweet. Both leaving them breathless and wanting more.
“Ma Miles, I see you’’
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Just couple of bushes away, a little boy with blue stripes was caught lurking, watching the two blue aliens as they confessed their everlasting love. He held his breath and lifted his mask, wiping a singular tear from his eye.
His ship has finally sailed.
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bonefall · 2 months
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BB!TPB Titles
Having some fun just absentmindedly thinking of titles for the BB overhauls of main arc books. I think I'm gonna do it for all of them, because I actually really like renaming these and explaining my thought process
But here's TPB for now, because it's on my mind after that little scene bundle I wrote
Below the cut;
Arc Rename: The Prophecies Begin -> The Forest Four
Into the Wild -> Into the Clans
Fire and Ice -> Thermal and Undertow
Forest of Secrets -> Forest of Flowers
Rising Storm -> Rejected Rites
A Dangerous Path -> The Hunting Trail
The Darkest Hour -> Before the Dawn
The Forest Four
It's the intro to the original four, y'know? Plus, I use this term all the time in Clan Culture entries to specify when something is different about SkyClan from the "Forest Four." Makes sense it's the arc title.
Plus, there's a bit of a thing going on, especially in the later books, where the number of the Clans comes up a lot. Three Great Clans, but only four modern ones, River and Shadow combine to make TigerClan leaving three, BloodClan would make four, LionClan's alliance leaving two...
In BB, they know about SkyClan in history lessons, but Firestar doesn't think about it much until after this arc is done. More importantly, his choice to spare Scourge at the end of the arc suddenly means there's a Forest Four, and a Town One. I just think that's interesting.
(for some reason I also just love Scourge's insult where he calls Firestar a "forest fool" lmao. four forest fools.)
Into the Clans
The book with the expanded intro to the culture of the Clans. I feel like it's more fitting for BB to not call it "into the WILD" because... well, Clan cats DON'T see themselves as ""wild"" like animals. They're in Clans, with culture. They have ranks, politics, family, and even cooking and little kitty tools. It doesn't really make sense to me that they define themselves as "wild" just because their home has nature.
To them, loners are who's "wild," y'know? Rusty isn't totally coming to the Clans because it's wild, he's coming because of the community. Friendships and bonds with cats like Ravenpaw, Graystripe, Frostfur, Spottedleaf, Bluestar, and the sense that he could belong here. That he matters to these people.
This title's the one I'm actually waffling the most on, though. I don't like it very much yet. I don't feel like it captures the feeling I'm going for. It's also really close to a field guide title.
Thermal and Undertow
I've always interpreted "Fire and Ice" to be about how differently Graystripe and Fireheart are as people, and how that starts pulling them apart. The thing that people focus on is their "reconciliation" at the end of the book, but what stands out about it to me is that this is the book where Fireheart's TRULY integrated into the Clan.
His friendship with Graystripe is strained because of the HalfClan relationship Gray gets in, and he starts looking back to his roots for comfort because he doesn't feel like he's completely part of ThunderClan. I love this irony; they're BOTH struggling with loyalty in this broken system, experiencing types of xenophobia that prevent them from having happiness, but not yet wise enough to recognize they have a similar problem.
They're both breaking the law to talk to outsiders. Their forbidden love, both familial and romantic, makes Clan life harder. They're BOTH not doing anything wrong, but the STRUCTURE of their society is setting them against each other.
Graystripe responds, eventually, by leaving. Fireheart thinks he can make a home where he is. They're both wrong. The STRUCTURE needs to be challenged.
And meanwhile, they must go to fetch WindClan after it was driven out. They have to face RiverClan AND ShadowClan when Crookedstar and Nightstar show that power acts through them, as leaders. All the while, they experience the simple truth that love for cats in other Clans makes cruel, bloodthirsty battles like these too difficult to be sustainable.
And that's just canon!! I fucking love this book!!!
So in the rename, I'm putting emphasis on the natural flow, above and below. A wind is controlled by the temperature, rising up into a warm thermal. An undertow is a ferocious current that will pull you into the cold depths. They're not so different, in the end.
Forest of Flowers
And that leads right into canon's Forest of Secrets, where we learn that the older warriors also struggled with those pressures. Fireheart and Graystripe were never alone, cats have been suffering under this cruel system for GENERATIONS.
In BB, this is where I'm dropping the flower symbolism for the three major branches of politics in Forest Four society, which persist and are expanded on for the rest of BB;
Traditionalism, represented by the Honeysuckle, is used to justify the current system. "The Clans are branches of a honeysuckle bush. We fight and strangle each other for the light, and this prunes the weakest sprigs and rewards the fittest. When the winter comes, the strongest branches ensure the survival of the bush."
He also learns, much earlier, of Tigerstar's mentor. He hears the Parable of the Thistle, a story about how a young apprentice was forced to attempt to uproot a bull thistle, only managing to spread its seeds across a clearing, and won a trip to the Cleric's den for the trouble. How Tigerstar, and others, believe the honeysuckle must be challenged.
And meanwhile, he uncovers the story of the Forget-me-nots. A friend group even stronger than his collection of allies, with cats of every Clan, and how ambition drove it apart. How Bluestar looks back at it with both silly shame and deep appreciation.
The kindling ember in Fireheart's chest as he realizes he is the heir of a Forget-me-not, and that surrounding the obvious slash across Tigerclaw's nose, are the subtle pockmarks of thistle thorns.
Rejected Rites
I feel like Rising Storm is the "weakest" book of TPB, because it's where canon's cracks begin to show.
There's still a lot I love about this book. I love the way that Bluestar's cruelty arc begins with her grace and altruism towards other Clans not being returned without a catch. I adore the rescue of Bramblekit and Yellowfang’s guilty, harrowing death insisting she deserves judgement as Fireheart insists she is a good person. Its harsh ending revealing Tigerstar as leader of ShadowClan is a gut punch in an already brutal book, making an excellent mid-arc climax
But I feel its sudden turn towards suggesting the status quo was actually good drags it down.
For example, Cloudpaw is constantly arguing with Fireheart, in ridiculous fights Fire started. He's abducted by humans and returns in the same book, suggesting his uncle was totally right all along and he Totally Promises he won't mess with humans any more. The fact Fire was projecting on his young nephew and denying him answers when he questions their way of life, in a way very similar to the shame Firepaw himself went through, is not addressed.
A lot more of this book than you remember is also dedicated to Fireheart and Sandstorm arguing because the writers think a good romance is when you hate each other but stay together anyway.
So instead, this book in BB focuses more on what I DO like; Fireheart learning to be a LEADER. He's young, inexperienced, and has acted mostly alone up to this point. The Clan is in a moment of SERIOUS tumult as it reckons with how no one saw ANY signs about Tigerclaw.
As he loses his mentor Bluestar to paranoia, he has to learn which warriors are truly trustworthy, and try to win back those whose loyalties might stray.
In this way, Rejected Rites is about the WHOLE Clan. It's Whitestorm throwing his reputation and experience behind Fireheart. It's Goldenflower and how her disgust with her ex-mate blows her mind open and she shifts into Fire's most ferocious champion. It's Mousefur deciding that Tigerclaw was a uniquely bad person and refusing to admit fault with a Clan that supported him.
And of course it's about Cloudpaw, grappling with how Fireheart insists he's his mentor, not his father, not his friend, going back to how he botches the Queen’s Rights on bringing him to the Clan. Fireheart, too, is a flawed person capable of being complicit in damaging systems.
The Hunting Trail
The dog plot barely needs a recap, it's this fandom's bread and butter. But there's a small, VERY popular misconception about; in canon, Tigerstar only uses the dogs at the END of this book with a rabbit trick. Before that, the dogs are practically a natural disaster he has nothing to do with.
There's a reason why it's misremembered. It works better if he's more involved with them the whole time, showing how DANGEROUS he is, how Bluestar's fixation on her war with StarClan is blinding her to reality, and adding to the tragedy and madness by having Swiftpaw getting wrapped up in his father's/stepfather's quest for revenge.
So in BB, Tigerstar's involved MUCH sooner. He freed the dogs.
The title change reflects that. There's a hunting trail and the cats of ThunderClan are its prey, but it doesn't specify who the predator is. In the end, it was Tigerstar's scheme all along and Bluestar sacrifices herself to save her apprentice.
(I also want to take the moment to highlight how short-sighted and impulsive Tigerstar's plans actually are, something I find fascinating about him as a character. He's malicious and intelligent enough to make some incredible schemes, taking advantage of every opportunity. But he never accounts for details like... "what if my dogs don't go right to where I want them to go?" or "what if I'm not picked as deputy after I kill Redtail?" or even "what will i do after my demons kill all the living cats?")
TigerClan is also forming earlier. It begins in THIS book. Stonefur and Mistyfoot are "detained" after leaping into the ravine to rescue Fireheart and Bluestar, it's all the "evidence" Tigerstar needed to accuse them of divided loyalty. To finally start his persecution of HalfClan cats.
Before the Dawn
...In spite of its iconic moments, I'll be honest; Darkest Hour is actually the book that makes me the angriest about the original series.
All arc long, we are shown that the Clans are flawed. They have been, long before Rusty set foot in the woods that day. It NEEDS bigotry to exist the way it does, fostering xenophobia between Clan cats so that love and friendship won't get in the way of violence, encouraging and even rewarding extreme Jingoism, and even setting clanmates against each other for these senseless problems instead of the STRUCTURE of Clan society.
Darkest Hour SLAMS the breaks on that theme, and brings the message to a screeching halt.
FIRST of all, this is the book where it's explicitly stated that StarClan "doesn't interfere," even giving them a moment where they yell at protagonist about free will or whatever while simultaneously barking a vague, ultimately useless prophecy at him. The first of many scenes like it in later arcs. It feels completely and utterly out of left field, instantly turning StarClan from a mysterious, possibly not even fully benevolent force, into THE most annoying plot device ever.
Secondly... BloodClan.
BloodClan is introduced as a TRULY EVIL group of horrible atheists who hate love and friendship, to the point of banning families, and are now here to destroy our glorious society and steal our home. They're depicted as being ruled by fear and brutality, unbound by concepts like "honor" or "loyalty." You cannot reason with them or spare their lives, the barbarians must be killed and kept out, lest they replace us.
(there is even a moment where it's implied that if the soldiers lose the war, BloodClan will come and murder the elders and children too.)
It is SO bad and SO egregious, and it's played completely unironically. It bothers me so badly I've talked about it before. Multiple times, actually
After Tigerstar gets his well-deserved grallocking like a 10-point buck, the endgame villain of TPB is a foreigner and his army. Scourge is a foil of Firestar himself, but THIS one hates the clans and doesn't worship the right god, which makes him dangerous. Firestar is textually stronger than him because of his faith in StarClan.
At the end of the day, TPB, and the rest of the series that follows, doesn't refute Tigerstar's ideology. It even agrees. Weakness IS abhorrent. Outsiders ARE to be distrusted. Split loyalties ARE detestable. It just didn't like that he challenged the status quo.
Foreigners and their leaders ARE less trustworthy and more villainous than Clan cats. Wariness and even violence towards them is necessary, "justifying" the isolationist structure of the Clans. Scourge is only the first in a very long chain; then comes Sol, One Eye, Slash, and Darktail. Even Hawkfrost and Willow Tail can fit into this pattern.
With the death of these evil, troublemaking cats, the Clans return to the status quo. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The Darkest Hour frames this like a wonderful, triumphant thing, with Firestar noting how the now-leaderless BloodClan fighters look so inferior to Clan warriors, Scourge's evil will never haunt them again (Tigerstar gets to be grieved though), and that with LionClan disbanding, they will all return to their petty bullshit squabbles.
So, BB's renaming.
I had a lot of ideas. I really liked the name "Moment of Truth" because it's the book that really brings together the theme of the arc, ending with Firestar realizing Scourge is right to distrust the Clans and that change is DESPERATELY needed, but the more I thought about it... the more I liked Before the Dawn
Reference to the phrase "The darkest hour comes before the dawn" BB is a much more optimistic story than canon, by tweaking the themes and details while following the major beats. Something is just... idk poetic? About picking the more uplifting part of the idiom. It feels right, like it's almost too perfect to go with any other title
It's a new era for the culture going foward It IS right before a "new dawn." It's the start of major changes to Clan culture, setting the events of the rest of BB into motion. The years and generations that follow are going to see major changes to the code, territory, culture, and philosophy in the universe. The choice that Firestar makes here is going to bring the Clans into a new epoch. Plus the cats are crepuscular now so I can literally have the final battle take place just before dawn because subtext is for CHUMPS
I like the idea of opening up the next arc with Dawn Just because that's really funny to me lmaoo. Something is cute about titles that reference each other. Maybe the first book of TNP could be "Dawn of the End" since the destruction of the forest starts early. Maybe add in some apocalyptic prophecies and such...
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abandonedography · 4 months
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Vacant Sentinel
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Nestled within the embrace of an enchanting, forested realm, a Château stands tall. In the late years of the 19th century, the visionary minds of the canton's general councilor and the village's mayor converged to give rise to this architectural gem.
Since its creation, time has woven a rich tapestry around this magnificent structure, placing it under the protective mantle of history. In the annals of French heritage, the Château finds its hallowed place, designated as a cherished "historic monument".
Its purpose, initially conceived as a haven for social receptions, bore a more specific and thrilling mandate – to serve as a venerable hunting lodge, where the elite of society could commune with nature in all its untamed glory.
For now, it remains vacant. A silent sentinel, waiting to reveal its next chapter.
By Jeroen Taal
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