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ms-gallows · 4 years

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Astrological signs for Obi-Wan Kenobi!

I know astrology can be a divisive subject for some people, but I’m into it and I’ve been studying it for a bit. I mostly just focused on the signs and planets, not on the houses that they fell into, so there may be some inconsistencies! I might change these later the more I learn, but this is just for fun! Here is my take on Obi-Wan! (Anakin is here!) Before I get into this, I want to explain the elements and the modes:

Air = thoughts/intellect Earth = materialism/pragmatism Water = emotion/spiritualism Fire = Action/Instinct

Cardinal = initiative Fixed = stability Mutable = adaptability

Obi-Wan has mostly Earth and Air, making him practical and intellectual. He has just enough water to give him emotional understanding of others and a sense of spirituality. He is also Cardinal and Mutable dominant, which gives him initiative and adaptability.

Libra Ascendant: Oh, charming Obi-Wan. The ascendant is considered a mask and filter. It is the ‘mask’ we unconsciously show to the world, before people get to know us more personally. Obi-Wan gives the first impression of a Libra, there is a ‘lightness’ to how he conducts himself with acquaintances, charming them, approaching with friendliness and wit. This doesn’t mean he isn’t friendly inside, this is just the part of himself he is comfortable with showing first. Having a Libra Ascendant lightens up his serious Virgo interior. Libra gives him both his cheeky and intellectual demeanor. Cue Obi-Wan’s Ascendant being cheeky here:

The Ascendant is also a filter, meaning Obi-Wan interprets the world around him through the lens of a Libra. Libra makes him see things in terms of balance and harmony. Libra also has the air of a leader and is a very attractive sign to others. I originally had Obi-Wan as a Libra Rising, changed it to Gemini, and now it’s at Libra again because he just has this aura of a leader. There’s a reason why people look to him for guidance. As a leader he is very focused on fairness and equality. It makes sense with how he views the clones as equally important life, and not as tools.

Virgo Sun: I made Obi-Wan a Virgo Sun instead of a Libra Sun because he appears very charming, but we can see Obi-Wan from the perspective of someone who knows him very well: Anakin. Anakin sees what Obi-Wan hides from everyone else. The way Obi-Wan acts around Anakin when he is alone suggests that he is a Virgo to me. He is diligent, dutiful, pragmatic, and likes to be of service. These are traits that Obi-Wan is well-known for, giving his life to the Jedi Order and to others. That is the very core of who he is.

Virgos can get very critical of others as well, and Anakin is no stranger to that. He is prone to over-analysis and anxiety, but he projects a calm, charismatic veneer (the Ascendant). The mutable mode of this sign makes harmony a priority for him. His Ascendant and Mercury are compatible with those aims as well, which makes him seem very consistent personality-wise. Obi-Wan would like nothing more than to have a nice, calm space to meditate (mostly, anyway, he’d probably get bored after a while thanks to the cardinal Libra/Capricorn influence.) Virgo makes him keenly aware of his health, and he takes special care to consume healthy foods and take care of his body. Because it rules the stomach, Obi-Wan may have a sensitive stomach that gets upset when he is nervous.

Cancer Moon: The moon is where we express our emotions, our vulnerabilities, and our maternal instinct. Moon in Cancer is in the sign of its rulership, so it is particularly potent. The Cancer Moon shows Obi-Wan’s adherence and value for tradition. It’s the core of Obi-Wan’s emotional self, the only water sign he has in his inner planets, and it’s a side that he only shows when he is completely comfortable. It isn’t a side that he has much experience with either.

With the moon being a maternal planet and Cancer being a feminine sign, there is a distinctly maternal energy in the way he cares for his loved ones. The way Obi-Wan is described on Mustafar as trying to tire Anakin out so he can cuddle him sounds like Anakin is his baby. In a deleted scene of Clone Wars, when Anakin asks how Obi-Wan would sleep knowing that he’d failed, Obi-Wan replies with “Not very well, but luckily that isn’t true, and never will be.” That sounds like a Cancer Moon Momma if I’ve ever heard one.

His Libra Ascendant and Mercury also square his Cancer Moon (cardinal signs all square each other), so he has a lot of difficulty talking about his feelings or showing his feelings.

Even though he can be overly-critical or put on a flirtatious facade, he is deeply sincere and patient towards his dearest. Cancer is emotionally intuitive, so he has a keen sense of when someone is lying. He knows there’s a lot of emotion under Anakin’s surface. He feels deeply for Anakin, but being mostly comprised of Air and Earth make it difficult for him to communicate in a way that Anakin would understand. This is the part of Obi-Wan that Anakin feels starved of, the part that he clings to, and Obi-Wan doesn’t often indulge in it because it feels like he is losing control (and Virgos like keeping control of themselves). He’s worried he would become too attached (More on this with Anakin’s chart). Cancer has a hard shell and claws, so if Obi-Wan feels like someone is trying to dig into his vulnerabilities, he’s going to snap. I feel like this is probably what happened when Darth Maul was taunting Obi-Wan about killing his master.

Mercury in Libra: Mercury is all about how we understand things, think, and communicate. Mercury in Libra values balance and fair negotiation where everyone benefits is ideal. He is fluid and adaptable, without being overly emotional. He wants to make sure people are comfortable. (Which is why I think he still might be Libra Ascendant). Libra values fairness and equality above all. Libra is both intellectual and relationship oriented. He intellectually knows that he has to continually reach out to Anakin in order to maintain their good relationship.

When giving criticism, he tries to be patient and gentle, however his Virgo Sun (the ego) may get frustrated and that’s when he gives sharp criticism.

He will start with “perhaps the problem is [blank]”, which then becomes “Anakin, just do what I tell you”, when he becomes exasperated (which is often with Anakin).

His Libra Mercury is where we get more of his wit and flirtatious attitude. I didn’t go with Gemini here because it’s mutable and known to flit from one subject to the next, while Obi-Wan seems to be more linear in the way he communicates. And I didn’t pick Aquarius because he prefers keeping harmony over bucking convention. This what Obi-Wan’s Sun/Mercury look like when he’s double-checking that he’s reading things correctly:

(Obi-Wan’s Libra Mercury trying to assure Cody that everything is fine.)

Venus in Virgo: Venus rules romance, aesthetics, and taste. It is considered ‘debilitated’ in Virgo (I don’t believe in that stuff), so he doesn’t express love in an overly romantic sense. However, with having Libra in his personal planets (as well as a Cancer moon), he is not unfamiliar to those things, and they probably color his Virgoan affection. The Libra Ascendant and Mercury make him flirty, and the Cancer moon gives him a need for giving/receiving emotional care.

One word to desribe Venus in Virgo is practical. Obi-Wan’s Venus is effortlessly meticulous and pays careful attention to the cues of people around him. He will express love in small, practical gestures: making Anakin a cup of tea with his favorite blend, organizing things for him, making sure he slept enough, etc. It’s also mutable, so he’s malleable about accommodating what his loved ones want, even if he finds it a bit irritating. To him, love is less about romantic gestures than practical, day-to-day reality. It’s very grounded and realistic, and he knows when someone isn’t going to be a good match for him. He can visualize what will work with his life and what won’t.

Virgo Venus makes him susceptible to focusing only on his partner’s needs, and not thinking about his own. Obi-Wan probably doesn’t even know what his needs are, aside from practicality! If someone isn’t serving him the way he would serve them, he might come to the conclusion that they don’t love him, because he would have done that for them. He does not want to be the one doing all the work, and if he feels he’s the only one pulling the weight, he’s going to drop the relationship, because it isn’t practical, he knows it’s not going to work long-term. But even then, he has trouble letting people take care of him or show him love! Then, when it doesn’t work out, he’s going to blame himself, because Virgo puts a lot of pressure on itself!

(Obi-Wan’s Cancer Moon/Virgo Venus picking up on Anakin’s mood.)

He holds high standards for himself in love, so he can be bothered when someone doesn’t do the same in return. He needs to realize (like Anakin does) that people have different ways of expressing love.

As noted with his Sun, criticism can be biting here, however he means for it to help his loved ones improve. He chides Anakin often, sometimes meant as an expression of care, which is actually quite foreign to the way that Anakin expresses love. It would make sense that Anakin feels unwanted, especially since he knows Obi-Wan has a more gentle Cancer Moon. He mistakes Obi-Wan’s Cancer moon as his real expression of love, (when it’s really Obi-Wan’s vulnerable spot), and that Obi-Wan won’t give it to him.

In terms of taste, he likes things to be simple, clean, and tidy. Comfortable minimalism. Highly organized and space-efficient.

He needs to feel safe and secure before getting intimate with someone. Virgos, and Virgo Venuses, can also be very self-conscious regarding their appearance. Obi-Wan might not trust that a person actually wants him and finds him attractive, which would make it difficult for him to get intimate. He might even have body image issues. ‘Really? They think I’m attractive? Have they really taken a look at me?’ He prefers a clean bed, clean bodies, and clothes neatly folded on the floor. Maybe some gentle, pleasing scents. No photography allowed. Virgos apparently have a rep for being kinky, so there’s that too I guess.

Mars in Capricorn: Mars rules passion, war, instinct, and sexuality. Mars is exalted in Capricorn. Meaning that it is perfected. Capricorn is a cardinal sign, making it action-oriented like Aries, but it is tempered with practicality and a cool disposition. Obi-Wan is not prone to losing his head in battle and as a general (which is helpful because being a mutable Virgo can make him prone to analysis paralysis and anxiety). I’ve read it described that Virgo wants to be of service, Capricorn wants to be in charge.

Obi-Wan calls upon Capricorn to give him the precision and endurance for his fighting style and leading an army. He is a warrior, and he will do whatever needs to be done, when it needs to be done. That moment where he protects Cody from a projectile looks like his Capricorn Mars is showing. Aggressive, but sharply focused.

There is a ruthlessness to Capricorn, and his Capricorn Mars allows him to step aside and let one of his soldiers kill someone for him. This is the side of Obi-Wan that comes out when you’ve worn out all his patience and empathy.

There is the potential to be a workaholic, not surprising since Obi-Wan is clearly due for a nap. Or twenty.

In terms of sexuality, it is harmonious with his Earth-based Venus and Sun. Capricorn makes him confident, and he wants to provide the best experience possible for his partner in an overachieving way, and Virgo helps attune him to every detail of his partner’s needs. This is a perfectionist in the bedroom. At first it’s difficult for him to indulge in these things, but these Earth signs do make him a (reluctant) sensualist. Touch-starved and won’t admit it! It seems to me that touch is a way he shows affection, but he doesn’t indulge in it because he’s worried he’d get too attached, so he heavily abstains from it. It’s highly intimate for him. Combining his Moon, Venus, and Mars, his erogenous zones are likely his chest, stomach, and knees.

Capricorn could either make him want to be in control, or give up control. It really is a toss up with how he’s feeling. Although Obi-Wan has difficulty letting his walls down, the involvement of his Cancer Moon would probably make it a very emotional experience as well. Cancer/Virgo/Capricorn is a patient combination that wants a slow build. The best way I can describe Obi-Wan as a lover is very firm but gentle. A deliberate, loving undoing of himself and his partner. It may not seem like it, but getting intimate with someone is truly a baring of his soul, and even if he’s on top, he’s the one with the most vulnerability.

#Obi-wan #Obi-wan Kenobi #btw you guys can send asks if you're curious about anything!#kenobi #star wars #sw #clone wars #cw #swcw #star wars clone wars #anakin #okay i admit i got a little tired of doing this and I just hit publish haha #astrology #obi wan headcanon #obi-wan character analysis #anakin Skywalker #obi and ani #obi wan

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kaitintr2001 · 3 years

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The nude stripped bareThe history of the body DAVID RIMANELLI

‘To be naked is to be deprived of our clothes, and the word implies some of the embarrassment most of us feel in that condition. The word nude, on the other hand, carries, in educated usage, no uncomfortable overtone.’ So wrote Kenneth Clark in A Study in Ideal Form. David Rimanelli argues that some artists have blurred this distinction. From Félix Vallotton to John Currin.

Kenneth Clark begins his classic treatise The Nude: A Study in Ideal Form by making a distinction between the naked and the nude: “The English language, with its elaborate generosity, distinguishes between the naked and the nude. To be naked is to be deprived of our clothes, and the word implies some of the embarrassment most of us feel in that condition. The word ‘nude’, on the other hand, carries, in educated usage, no uncomfortable overtone. The vague image it projects into the mind is not of a huddled and defenseless body, but of a balanced, prosperous and confident body: the body re-formed.” It has often been asserted that Modernism begins with Manet, in particular with those paintings wherein the vexations of the unclothed female body burst forth with a power of disquietude that appalled the public: Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe 1863 and Olympia 1863. The former picture had been exhibited at the Salon des Refusés, “to that extent, officially beyond the pale of art”, as another Clark – T.J. Clark – remarks in his essay Olympia’s Choice, whereas Olympia was the shocker of the official Salon of 1865. Both paintings display an uncertainty about the status of the nude female figure, an uncertainty that points perhaps towards Kenneth Clark’s distinction between the naked and the nude. These women fail to sustain the idealisation of the nude, slipping decisively into the embarrassing (for some) terrain of the naked. In other words, Manet deprives his models of the acceptable academic veneer of classical nudity, forcing them into the modern age, a naked age, disturbingly and yet ambiguously contemporary.

T.J. Clark continues his analysis by examining the silence of the contemporary Parisian critics concerning the obvious source of Olympia (Titian’s great nude, The Venus of Urbino, 1538), compared with their open acknowledgement of the source for Le Dèjeuner sur l’herbe (a work of Titian that was commonly attributed to Giorgione in the nineteenth century and known as the Fête champêtre, c.1510–11): “Critics certainly came to laugh at its mistakes and incoherences, and yet the best way to do so was to point out what Manet’s picture derived from - and how incompetently… But in 1865 none of this took place. If the revisions of the Venuscould be seen at all, they could not be said.” He goes on to say:”The past was travestied in Olympia: it was subject to a kind of degenerate simian imitation, in which the nude was stripped of its last feminine qualities, its fleshiness, its very humanity, and left as ‘une forme quelconque’ – a rubber-covered gorilla flexing its hand above its crotch.”

The complexity of Clark’s analysis of the reception of Olympia does not bear treatment in a short essay. Suffice to note that a crisis in the depiction of the nude was already, in his view, well underway in the academic nudes of the Salons - the vacuous, silly, trashy Venuses and nymphs of Cabanel, Bouguereau and Gèrôme, to cite only three relatively more distinguished examples – and that the scandal of Olympia was indeed her modernity, a prostitute plainly and unapologetically, rather than a fille de la rue gussied up as Phrynè or Danaë.

Kenneth Clark’s remarks on Olympia are much more modest, but still adumbrate the radical break that Manet’s painting constitutes:”The Olympia is a portrait of an individual, whose interesting but sharply characteristic body is placed exactly where one would expect to find it. Amateurs were thus suddenly reminded of the circumstances under which actual nudity was familiar to them, and their embarrassment is understandable.” Those amateurs would be understandably embarrassed to see nakedness in such familiar circumstances: in a brothel, where they are paying clients.

If the naked and the nude as archetypes stand at the outset of Modernism, then both became thoroughly discredited and disposed of by Modernism’s end. And yet the unclothed figure persisted in certain forms. Félix Vallotton had been a member of the avant-garde Nabis group in the last decade of the nineteenth century, and in such paintings as Femme nue assise dans un fauteuil 1897 and Femmes nues aux chat c.1898 he subjected the nude to the flattening and the unnaturalistic colourations that were also typical of his compeers Bonnard, Denis Sèrusier and Vuillard. But by the first decade of the twentieth century, his nudes begin to change. From the vantage of Modernist criticism and art history, they degenerate, becoming, on the whole, more academic. Yet with hindsight we can discern in Vallotton’s later nudes – and there are many of them – characteristics that render them very contemporary. Nu assis 1910 is stunningly prescient with respect to John Currin’s nudes of the 1990s. This woman looks very much like a stout bourgeoise, and her no-nonsense hairdo attests to her conventional background: no glowing, flowing tresses here, no savage, Baudelairean chevelure . Her face is ordinary, her expression smiling and bland; at best she’s jolie laide. But Vallotton does play oddly with the colouration of her flesh, a hint perhaps of his Nabis past. The flesh tones of the body are those of the morgue, grey and purple; the face, however, looks flushed, reddened, desirous, horny. The Nu assis is a sexed-up corpse, a banal succubus. Were the trappings of the exotic or supernatural more in evidence – as they are, for instance, in the nudes of Gustave Moreau or Fernand Khnopff – Vallotton’s odalisque would appear more acceptable and less disconcerting, because she would belong to a readily identifiable fin-de-siècle feminine typology.

John Curin Bea Arthur Naked 1991 Private collection, courtesy Gagosian Gallery

Vallotton’s Nu assis wreaks havoc on the idealised nude, but she doesn’t quite adhere to Clark’s description of the naked. Instead, wavering between academicism and almost gross realism, she comes off as a sly parody. She appears comfortable and confident in the amplitude of her dead flesh.The Nu allongè au tapis rouge1909 likewise plays fast and loose with the conventions of the nude. Writing of Boucher, Kenneth Clark notes: “The Venus of the dix-huitième extends the range of the nude in one memorable way: far more frequently than any of her sisters, she shows us her back. Looked at simply as form, as relationship of plane and protuberance, it might be argued that the back view of the female body is more satisfactory than the front. That the beauty of this aspect was appreciated in antiquity we know from such a figure as the Venus of Syracuse. But the Hermaphrodite and the Callipygian Venus suggest that it was also symbolic of lust.” In the Nu allongè, Vallotton explicitly alludes to the hermaphroditic figure and the many nudes that borrow its pose; for example,Velásquez’s Rokeby Venus and Boucher’s Miss O’Murphy.”Freshness of desire has seldom been more delicately expressed than by Miss O’Murphy’s round young limbs,” comments Clark with the barest hint of prurience, “as they sprawl with undisguised satisfaction on the cushions of her sofa.” Vallotton’s nude is less fresh, more prurient. As with the Nu assis of the following year, his Nu allongè displays a visual incoherence in the handling of the flesh tones. In this instance, the torso and swelling buttocks are of a mostly chalky white hue, while the face and the hands are curiously flushed. The face and hairstyle again do not suggest the comfortable distance of antique references, but are very much of a contemporary moment.

This is the Venus of a weekday afternoon tryst, a Céleste or Marie of the Parisian banlieues, having just refreshed her maquillage and awaiting her paramour. The face itself is weird, deliquescent; one eye looks like it’s about to slip with slatternly languor from its very socket. Her feet are very heavily shadowed, but the effect is simply that they are dirty.

Vallotton’s loyalty to the nude as subject remains constant until his death in 1925. It comes as no surprise that these paintings have been largely ignored, compared with the works of his Nabis period. Sometimes they are just bad, as with the Vènus marine 1913, a clumsy, ludicrous blond on the half shell, her expression wavering between vacancy and, perhaps, bitchiness. She’s a spoiled mondaine who travesties the goddess she purportedly embodies. But paintings such as this presage the later works of the Modernist agent provocateur Francis Picabia. Indeed, while Vallotton’s later nudes have remained obscure, recently it seems that Picabia’s “bad” figurative paintings of the 1930s and 1940s have achieved a prominence virtually eclipsing his acceptable Dadaist travesties of the teens and 1920s.’Dear Painter, paint me…’, an exhibition mounted at the Centre Pompidou in 2002, bore the subtitle ‘Painting the Figure since late Picabia’. Alison Gingeras, one of the curators, wrote:”Beginning with Francis Picabia’s late nudes from the early 1940s, the question of painting as a filter of mass media’s impact on both individual and collective sense of identity has emerged as a key preoccupation of the artists in the exhibition.” Among them were Sigmar Polke, Martin Kippenberger, Neo Rauch, John Currin, Luc Tuymans and Elizabeth Peyton.”These notorious paintings - shunned for their ‘regression’ into realism and their embrace of kitsch - drew their pictorial source from tawdry black and white photographs culled from soft-core pornography magazines.”Picabia’s Portrait de Suzy Solidor (1933) is an early example of this kitsch revanchism. Anatomically bizarre, his Suzy Solidor, with her heavy blue mascara and smiling, parted red lips, also suspires an unmistakable prurience; the crude, dirty shadows outlining her legs and arms betoken a dirtiness of another sort. Suzy Solidor may yet be recuperated as a Dadaist travesty. The somewhat more competent albeit trashy technique of Femmes au Bulldog, Deux amies and La brune et la blonde (all 1941–2) if anything renders these pictures more scandalous: rude, crude and dangerous to know. Picabia’s lewd nudes may lend a certain contrarian Modernist lineage to the work of John Currin, but one wonders if Currin, so conversant in the art of the Old Masters, is at all familiar with Félix Vallotton? I’ve already mentioned the Nu assis as an extraordinary precursor for Currin’s own “bad” nudes, and I could easily add Le Printemps 1908, an especially ugly and stupid-looking evocation of Primavera. But the most astonishing comparison is between Vallotton’s Etude de fesses c.1884 and Currin’s Bottom 1991. The corporeality of the Vallotton buttocks is almost repulsive as he expends all his resources of painterly technique on the depiction of stretch marks and cellulite. Currin’s painting, on the other hand, seems relatively restrained, evincing an almost Cycladic elegance and symmetry. Scarcely the sort of conclusion one would expect? Even in the case of one of Currin’s most deservedly famous, or notorious, early paintings, Bea Arthur Naked 1991, the sitcom star preserves a certain restraint, dignity even, that militates against the overtly camp/kitsch (or possibly anti-feminist) readings of the picture that so readily come to mind. Perhaps the Arthur portrait is going rather against the grain of the Currin mode, even as it was only coalescing in the early 1990s – the exception that, maybe, proves the rule of perversion. This cannot be said for Vallotton’s nudes – distorted, freakish, moribund and whorish in multifarious variations.

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artificialqueens · 4 years

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Different Names For the Same Thing, Chapter Four (Trixya) - Pilandok

Getting drunk on ten cocktails is Trixie’s idea of facing the problem head on.

AN: Hi, thank you for reading! Katya is using female pronouns this chapter since she’s in drag.

Read in AO3 (also, for extra notes.) Read from Chapter One.

Trixie is here because he wants a drink and what other place in the world would never leave her with an empty glass other than a gay bar on a drag night? In fact, as soon as he steps through the back door, one of the local queens screams his name and hands him her own drink. Trixie graciously accepts it, fully enveloping this queen he didn’t know into an embrace. Who’s acting grand now?

He sits on the battered sofa that seems to be in the back of every bar he’s ever performed at, complete with a ripped out corner and a slight incline because of its uneven footing— he knows exactly how to make himself comfortable in it. The queen that greeted him sits beside him, talking animatedly. She has a million pounds of make-up on and a name that references something he doesn’t understand. Trixie can’t imagine how a would look like as a boy. He’s not the one to talk though, so he leans in closer than she probably expected him to and when he smiles like she’s the most entertaining person he’s ever met, he shows off his veneered teeth.

The music from the stage echoes as a faded bass line on the walls of the room. He recognizes it, a Top 40 song from about two decades ago but he knows he won’t understand the words— Katya once told him that with his abysmal French, he has zero chance of learning Russian. (Sweet gesture, though, Katya said. Trixie was obviously joking.)

Trixie is here because she can be— because in almost every gig, they tell the promoter that the other Brian might show up. Even when it was physically impossible for them to be. Still, there’s always that proverbial seat saved for the other. As soon as she walks in, give Katya a cigarette, Trixie would tell them. For him, a drink. This bar came through and now Trixie’s on his third glass of a random alcohol mix (his ninth if you count what he drank in the other bar before he mustered up the courage to go here, and his tenth if you count the one he had in the hotel.)

Trixie is here because Katya expected him to be, two weeks ago. Trixie said he could watch her, he’s playing the venue three days later. He should be able to make it before her set and that she would expect him here. But judging from Katya’s reaction when she spots him on the couch with the other queen’s legs resting on his lap, it looks like neither of those things are true anymore.

Trixie is here not because Katya has decided to stop making out with him nine days ago.

“Trixie,” Katya calls, a full mouth smile as if she’s excited to see him but he can see the confusion in her eyes, the slight tilt of her head. “You’re here.”

“We gave her drinks just like you told us to,” says the older drag queen that entered with Katya, probably the host of the show, “but it looked like she already had a few before us…”

The tone of her voice, Trixie imagines, is trying to suggest something. He recognizes a tongue that’s looking for drama and with his relationship with Katya so publicly ambiguous, he all but expects this to happen. He doesn’t give a shit anymore, honestly. They’re praying for my downfall, he thinks, then laughs to himself.

Katya’s smile barely falters but Trixie sees it. He watches her turn to the older queen and they converse in low voices that is easily drowned out by the music. He wants to tell them that he knows they’re talking about him. Instead, he focuses on the drag queen sitting on the other side of the couch whose legs are sprawled in his lap, he leans in as if he’s going to tell her something but he just flashes a lazy smile at him which she returns, equally buzzed. She’s about five years younger than him, easily excitable and eager to please.

“Trix, honey. Hi.” Katya kneels on the rug in front of him, ignoring the pair of legs strewn over Trixie. “I have to do my second set. Wait for me, okay? I’ll take you back to the hotel. ”

He expected as much, that his thinly-veiled attempt at making Katya jealous wouldn’t phase her so he moves his head into what he perceives to be a nod. Katya stares at him for a second and he could see that she needs to retouch her make-up. It’s kind of a hot, sweaty mess at the moment but in the way that everyone likes, with her hair sticking to her face and her lips slightly smudged. It takes a few numbers for Katya to be in her most flexible and sensual self. That’s when a strong, complicated, feminine energy exudes itself from Katya. None of these things he would have noticed before— before Katya made a mission out of making out with him every chance she got (or was it Trixie letting him?)— now the sight of it brings a stirring between his legs. Is he even gay anymore?

“Cut her off,” Katya orders the young drag queen.

A few moments after she leaves, they hear the explosion from the crowd.

Trixie lifts his drink to take a sip and the young queen makes a halfhearted motion to stop him. Trixie laughs, he knows that preventing people from drinking goes against the hard-wiring of a drag queen. When he raises his glass at her, giving her a mischievous wink, she can’t help but toast hers.

“Jesus Christ, you’re heavy,” Katya tells him.

“It’s muscle mass,” Trixie slurred “I’ve been working out, bitch.” He tries to flex his bicep but his arm is slung around Katya’s neck who was keeping him stable on the curb as they wait for the Uber.

“Sure, hon,” Katya mumbles distractedly, preoccupied with tracking the car on the app.

It’s not lost on him that Katya didn’t take her things from the club, that she’s standing empty handed beside him. He realizes that “bringing you home” meant sending him off in an Uber and leaving him to the hotel staff. It seems that Katya fully intends to continue her cold streak, barely acknowledging Trixie since that day in her apartment. What did Trixie do wrong this time? Why does she get to act this way? Before it was because he cared too much and didn’t let her kiss him. Now is it because he lets her kiss him and he doesn’t care enough? Damned if I do—

“Katya, you— Kat,” Trixie starts, because what’s the point of getting wasted if you’re not going to let the words vomit out of your mouth? Katya looks at him like he’s expecting a train-wreck. “You don’t have to remember, Brian. It’s fine, you dont have to tell me— You don’t have to be anyone. You don’t have to be him. I don’t care.” Katya looks at him, exasperated, like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Whatever, Trixie knows he’s not a fun drunk. “I know you know what I’m talking about.”

At this, Katya purses her lips into a hard line.

“But you do care,” Katya says in a whisper.

“Fine, if I do, then I do. But just because I care doesn’t mean it matters, Kat. It hasn’t mattered in fifteen years. No matter how much I wanted it to. It still doesn’t matter now. Nothing has to change.” Trixie has an idea of what he looks like to Katya, he’s always been a pathetic drunk, Kim would never let him forget that. Even sober, his mouth is always faster than his brain— all the fucking trouble that caused for him. “Katya— Brian just— don’t disappear on me again.”

It’s too much for Katya, he knows that, he can see the wheels turning in hehr head. He wants to do something about it but freshly digested alcohol is clouding his brain, probably the ones from the queen.

“Trixie,” she starts, her arm faltering on his waist. Katya doesn’t sound like she was going to say anything more, just saying his name for the sake of it, to test it out on her tongue. But it’s the most sure she’s ever sounded in weeks. Trixie can’t help but feel his heart climb up his chest, he can hear his pulse in his ears and the dizzying spell of the beat. He wants to swallow it down, the feeling rising in his throat, but it’s impossible. “Brian I—“

He stops Katya with a retching noise. He lurches forward, slipping his arm off of her neck, and heaves. He empties out the content of his stomach, the sound of him throwing up echoing on the empty street.

He’s always been a terrible interrupter.

Those are my feelings, he thinks, watching the sickly colored liquid flow into the gutter.

It’s the last thing he remembers from that night.

Trixie dreams of the world in Katya’s head.

The artist’s kisses drive him crazy— verrückt. That must be it, why else would he be watching him right now? He’s never met a man so… obscene. He kisses all his models, especially after they’ve opened their legs for him. Not for sex, no, but maybe something more intimate. He watches him kneel in front of the bed, staring intently at the genetalia that has been spread before him. He sees the furious sketches on his pad.

“Nicht fickstück,” the artist had told him, Russian accent heavy, and he blushed at the vulgarity.

It’s only his turn when it’s late at night and everyone has left. The name he gave was Byron and the artist had laughed at this. It doesn’t suit him at all and he can’t quite pronounce it right, but the artist never asked for the truth. He only replied, “dann bin ich Katya.”

Byron doesn’t take off his clothes, he is never asked to, only his jacket so he can roll up his sleeves. He sits on the piano waiting at the other side of the room. It’s damaged but it’s still better than anything he’s ever owned. The fact that he can play this late at night without anyone coming up to complain tells him the character of the place and the kind of residents there are in this building.

For Katya, he plays the pieces he learned in the academy— he doesn’t let him listen to any of his compositions. In turn, Katya never shows him what he’s painting while he watches him play.

But he does love Katya’s self portraits.

“Ich habe so etwas noch nie gesehen,” Byron tells him, and then in his best english, “beautiful.”

Katya beams and points to the canvas he hasn’t been able to see.

“I will make you walk in the most beautiful.”

In the morning, Trixie wakes up with a hang over so bad that he swears he’s lost feeling in his limbs. He was a mess last night, he knew. Katya knew, the queens in the club knew, and the night shift staff of the hotel knew. Hell, Kim probably knew, somehow. It’s fine, he can bounce back from it. He has the emotional and mental fortitude. But physically, he’s a goner. He’s thirty years old and a hangover can kill him now.

An hour later, he peels himself off the bed to trudge up the bathroom. The sound of the water hitting the sink helps him gather his thoughts and the water is refreshing to touch. But he catches himself before he washes his face. He leans forward to observe his face in the mirror, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. He touches his forehead like he can’t believe it. A red stain in the shape of a kiss. He knows what shade that is— hes’ making a lipstick in that exact color.

“This is so not fair,” Trixie says out loud. He wants to hate her, really. The gesture is stupidly tender. It’s the exact opposite of what Katya has been trying to prove to him for weeks.

#rpdr fanfiction #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #trixya #soulmate au #reincarnation au #different names for the same thing #pilandok #submission #canon compliant

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bluewatsons · 6 years

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Brian D. Earp, The unbearable asymmetry of bullshit, HealthWatch Newsletter (February 2016)

Introduction

Science and medicine have done a lot for the world. Diseases have been eradicated, rockets have been sent to the moon, and convincing, causal explanations have been given for a whole range of formerly inscrutable phenomena. Notwithstanding recent concerns about sloppy research, small sample sizes, and challenges in replicating major findings—concerns I share and which I have written about at length — I still believe that the scientific method is the best available tool for getting at empirical truth. Or to put it a slightly different way (if I may paraphrase Winston Churchill’s famous remark about democracy): it is perhaps the worst tool, except for all the rest.

Scientists are people too

In other words, science is flawed. And scientists are people too. While it is true that most scientists — at least the ones I know and work with — are hell-bent on getting things right, they are not therefore immune from human foibles. If they want to keep their jobs, at least, they must contend with a perverse “publish or perish” incentive structure that tends to reward flashy findings and high-volume “productivity” over painstaking, reliable research. On top of that, they have reputations to defend, egos to protect, and grants to pursue. They get tired. They get overwhelmed. They don’t always check their references, or even read what they cite. They have cognitive and emotional limitations, not to mention biases, like everyone else.

At the same time, as the psychologist Gary Marcus has recently put it, “it is facile to dismiss science itself. The most careful scientists, and the best science journalists, realize that all science is provisional. There will always be things that we haven’t figured out yet, and even some that we get wrong.” But science is not just about conclusions, he argues, which are occasionally (or even frequently) incorrect. Instead, “It’s about a methodology for investigation, which includes, at its core, a relentless drive towards questioning that which came before.” You can both “love science,” he concludes, “and question it.”

I agree with Marcus. In fact, I agree with him so much that I would like to go a step further: if you love science, you had better question it, and question it well, so it can live up to its potential.

And it is with that in mind that I bring up the subject of bullshit.

Bullshit in science

There is a veritable truckload of bullshit in science.¹ When I say bullshit, I mean arguments, data, publications, or even the official policies of scientific organizations that give every impression of being perfectly reasonable — of being well-supported by the highest quality of evidence, and so forth — but which don’t hold up when you scrutinize the details. Bullshit has the veneer of truth-like plausibility. It looks good. It sounds right. But when you get right down to it, it stinks.

There are many ways to produce scientific bullshit. One way is to assert that something has been “proven,” “shown,” or “found” and then cite, in support of this assertion, a study that has actually been heavily critiqued (fairly and in good faith, let us say, although that is not always the case, as we soon shall see) without acknowledging any of the published criticisms of the study or otherwise grappling with its inherent limitations.

Another way is to refer to evidence as being of “high quality” simply because it comes from an in-principle relatively strong study design, like a randomized control trial, without checking the specific materials that were used in the study to confirm that they were fit for purpose. There is also the problem of taking data that were generated in one environment and applying them to a completely different environment (without showing, or in some cases even attempting to show, that the two environments are analogous in the right way). There are other examples I have explored in other contexts, and many of them are fairly well-known.

An insidious tactic

But there is one example I have only recently come across, and of which I have not yet seen any serious discussion. I am referring to a certain sustained, long-term publication strategy, apparently deliberately carried out (although motivations can be hard to pin down), that results in a stupefying, and in my view dangerous, paper-pile of scientific bullshit. It can be hard to detect, at first, with an untrained eye—you have to know your specific area of research extremely well to begin to see it—but once you do catch on, it becomes impossible to un-see.

I don’t know what to call this insidious tactic (although I will describe it in just a moment). But I can identify its end result, which I suspect researchers of every stripe will be able to recognize from their own sub-disciplines: it is the hyper-partisan and polarized, but by all outward appearances, dispassionate and objective, “systematic review” of a controversial subject.

To explain how this tactic works, I am going make up a hypothetical researcher who engages in it, and walk you through his “process,” step by step. Let’s call this hypothetical researcher Lord Voldemort. While everything I am about to say is based on actual events, and on the real-life behavior of actual researchers, I will not be citing any specific cases (to avoid the drama). Moreover, we should be very careful not to confuse Lord Voldemort for any particular individual. He is an amalgam of researchers who do this; he is fictional.

Lord Voldemort’s “systematic review”

In this story, Lord Voldemort is a prolific proponent of a certain controversial medical procedure, call it X, which many have argued is both risky and unethical. It is unclear whether Lord Voldemort has a financial stake in X, or some other potential conflict of interest. But in any event he is free to press his own opinion. The problem is that Lord Voldemort doesn’t play fair. In fact, he is so intent on defending this hypothetical intervention that he will stop at nothing to flood the literature with arguments and data that appear to weigh decisively in its favor.

As the first step in his long-term strategy, he scans various scholarly databases. If he sees any report of an empirical study that does not put X in an unmitigatedly positive light, he dashes off a letter-to-the-editor attacking the report on whatever imaginable grounds. Sometimes he makes a fair point—after all, most studies do have limitations—but often what he raises is a quibble, couched in the language of an exposé.

These letters are not typically peer-reviewed (which is not to say that peer review is an especially effective quality control mechanism); instead, in most cases, they get a cursory once-over by an editor who is not a specialist in the area. Since journals tend to print the letters they receive unless they are clearly incoherent or in some way obviously out of line (and since Lord Voldemort has mastered the art of using “objective” sounding scientific rhetoric to mask objectively weak arguments and data), they end up becoming a part of the published record with every appearance of being legitimate critiques.

The subterfuge does not end there.

The next step is for our anti-hero to write a “systematic review” at the end of the year (or, really, whenever he gets around to it). In it, He Who Shall Not Be Named predictably rejects all of the studies that do not support his position as being “fatally flawed,” or as having been “refuted by experts”—namely, by himself and his close collaborators, typically citing their own contestable critiques—while at the same time he fails to find any flaws whatsoever in studies that make his pet procedure seem on balance beneficial.

The result of this artful exercise is a heavily skewed benefit-to-risk ratio in favor of X, which can now be cited by unsuspecting third-parties. Unless you know what Lord Voldemort is up to, that is, you won’t notice that the math has been rigged.

So why doesn’t somebody put a stop to all this? As a matter of fact, many have tried. More than once, the Lord Voldemorts of the world have been called out for their underhanded tactics, typically in the “author reply” pieces rebutting their initial attacks. But rarely are these ripostes — constrained as they are by conventionally miniscule word limits, and buried as they are in some corner of the Internet — noticed, much less cited in the wider literature. Certainly, they are far less visible than the “systematic reviews” churned out by Lord Voldemort and his ilk, which constitute a sort of “Gish Gallop” that can be hard to defeat.

Gish Gallop

The term “Gish Gallop” is a useful one to know. It was coined by the science educator Eugenie Scott in the 1990s to describe the debating strategy of one Duane Gish. Gish was an American biochemist turned Young Earth creationist, who often invited mainstream evolutionary scientists to spar with him in public venues. In its original context, it meantto “spew forth torrents of error that the evolutionist hasn’t a prayer of refuting in the format of a debate.” It also referred to Gish’s apparent tendency to simply ignore objections raised by his opponents.

A similar phenomenon can play out in debates in medicine. In the case of Lord Voldemort, the trick is to unleash so many fallacies, misrepresentations of evidence, and other misleading or erroneous statements — at such a pace, and with such little regard for the norms of careful scholarship and/or charitable academic discourse — that your opponents, who do, perhaps, feel bound by such norms, and who have better things to do with their time than to write rebuttals to each of your papers, face a dilemma. Either they can ignore you, or they can put their own research priorities on hold to try to combat the worst of your offenses.

It’s a lose-lose situation. Ignore you, and you win by default. Engage you, and you win like the pig in the proverb who enjoys hanging out in the mud.

Conclusion

As the programmer Alberto Brandolini is reputed to have said: “The amount of energy necessary to refute bullshit is an order of magnitude bigger than to produce it.” This is the unbearable asymmetry of bullshit I mentioned in my title, and it poses a serious problem for research integrity. Developing a strategy for overcoming it, I suggest, should be a top priority for publication ethics.

Footnote

There is a lot of non-bullshit in science as well!

References

Ioannidis JP. Why most published research findings are false. PLoS Medicine 2005;2(8):e124

Button KS et al. Power failure: why small sample size undermines the reliability of neuroscience. Nature Reviews Neuroscience 2013;14(5):365-376

Open Science Collaboration. Estimating the reproducibility of psychological science. Science 2015;349(6251):aac4716

Earp BD, Trafimow D. Replication, falsification, and the crisis of confidence in social psychology. Frontiers in Psychology 2015;6(621):1-11

Earp BD et al. Out, damned spot: can the “Macbeth Effect” be replicated? Basic and Applied Social Psychology 2014;36(1):91-98

Earp BD. Psychology is not in crisis? Depends on what you mean by “crisis.” Huffington Post, 2 Sept 2015 http://www.huffingtonpost.com/brian-earp/psychology-is-not-incrisis_b_8077522.html

Earp BD, Everett JAC. How to fix psychology’s replication crisis. Chronicle of Higher Education, 25 Oct 2015 http://chronicle.com/article/How-to-Fix-Psychology-s/233857

Earp BD. Open review of the draft paper, “Replication initiatives will not salvage the trustworthiness of psychology” by James C Coyne. BMC Psychology, 2016 [in press] https://www.academia.edu/21711738/Open_review_of_the_draft_paper _entitled_Replication_initiatives_will_not_salvage_the_trustworthiness_of_psychology_by_James_C._Coyne

Everett JAC, Earp BD. A tragedy of the (academic) commons: interpreting the replication crisis in psychology as a social dilemma for earlycareer researchers. Frontiers in Psychology 2015;6(1152):1-4.

Trafimow D, Earp BD. Badly specified theories are not responsible for the replication crisis in psychology. Theory & Psychology 2016; [in press] https://www.academia.edu/18975122/Badly_specified_theories_are_not _responsible_for_the_replication_crisis_in_social_psychology

Earp BD. Can science tell us what’s objectively true? The New Collection 2011;6(1):1-9

Nosek BA et al. Scientific utopia II. Restructuring incentives and practices to promote truth over publishability. Perspectives on Psychological Science 2012;7(6):615-631

Rekdal OB. Academic urban legends. Social Studies of Science 2014;44(4):638-654

Peterson D. The baby factory: difficult research objects, disciplinary standards, and the production of statistical significance. Socius 2016 [in press] http://srd.sagepub.com/content/2/2378023115625071.full

Duarte JL et al. Political diversity will improve social psychological science. Behavioral and Brain Sciences 2015 [in press] http://emilkirkegaard.dk/en/wp-content/uploads/Political-DiversityWill-Improve-Social-Psychological-Science-1.pdf

Ball P. The trouble with scientists. Nautilus, 14 May 2015 http://nautil.us/issue/24/error/the-trouble-with-scientists

Marcus G. Science and its skeptics. The New Yorker, 6 Nov 2013 http://www.newyorker.com/tech/elements/science-and-its-skeptics

Earp BD. Mental shortcuts [unabridged version]. The Hastings Center Report 2016 [in press] https://www.researchgate.net/publication/- 292148550_Mental_shortcuts_unabridged

Ioannidis JP. Limitations are not properly acknowledged in the scientific literature. Journal of Clinical Epidemiology 2007;60(4):324-329

Earp BD. Sex and circumcision. American Journal of Bioethics 2015;15(2):43-45

Bundick S. Promoting infant male circumcision to reduce transmission of HIV: A flawed policy for the US. Health and Human Rights Journal Blog, 31 Aug 2009 http://www.hhrjournal.org/2009/08/promoting-infant-malecircumcision-to-reduce-transmission-of-hiv-a-flawed-policy-for-the-us/

Ploug T, Holm S. Conflict of interest disclosure and the polarisation of scientific communities. Journal of Medical Ethics 2015;41(4):356-358.

Earp BD. Addressing polarisation in science. Journal of Medical Ethics 2015;41(9):782-784

Smith R. Peer review: a flawed process at the heart of science and journals. Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine 2006;99(4):178-182

Smith R. Classical peer review: an empty gun. Breast Cancer Research 2010;12(S4):1-4

Roland MC. Publish and perish: hedging and fraud in scientific discourse. EMBO Reports 2007;8(5):424-428

Scott E. Debates and the globetrotters. The Talk Origins Archive. 1994 http://www.talkorigins.org/faqs/debating/globetrotters.html

Brandolini A. The bullshit asymmetry principle. Lecture delivered at XP2014 in Rome and at ALE2014 in Krakow. 2014 http://www.slideshare.net/ziobrando/bulshit-asymmetry-principlelightning-talk.

#science #criticism #peer review #bullshit #validity #research

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conflictcrafter · 3 years

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Black April: Art is Dead

Art is not a mirror held up to reality but a hammer with which to shape it. —Brecht

I. Art for Life’s Sake

What is Worse than Art for Art’s Sake?

For years, art events—such as workshops, exhibits, performances, etc.—have unfolded sporadically across Mindanao yet Mindanao as a whole has not yet evolved as an artistic, creative, and philosophical hotspot.

With so much art, Mindanao should have been a locale of introspective and emphatic peoples but Mindanao, with its art scenes and events, which are attended by the same people who belong in the same social structures over and over again, remain to be a big island ignorant not only of art but also of introspection and of empathy.

Public institutions propagate art on the surface by commissioning designers but seldom we hear about programs that incorporate or hone the artistic tendencies of its constituents. In schools, poster making contests are staples during programs but once the program is done, art is again forgotten, even treated as inferior compared to academics. As a result, the art that comes out of these institutions are never “informed” or layered by experience but only by themes imposed by the organizers. What institutions produce, with their strict criteria and judges who never practiced the craft, are “correct” works of art.

These “art” works, which are shaped by these rigid terms and that make it out of institutions—if ever they do—become the ones we see in exhibits. If we are lucky, we see artworks that do not only show beauty but also say something important. And yet, because we are a society that never actually hones art, we say we agree or not with the artwork, and then, we move on and do nothing about it.

This is the same with literature, film, theatre, and other art forms that are produced in Mindanao. There is abundance of art in Mindanao but it seems that this accomplishes nothing.

Oscar Wilde said that art is useless. He did not mean that art has no value but rather art in itself is the value, and that it should not have to accomplish something aside from beauty. Along with others who believe that art is autotelic, they declare, Art for Art’s sake.

Art for art’s sake is a worm eating its own tail. This logically leads to death. But what happens in Mindanao is far worse. There is a veneer of empathy as a Mindanawon experiences art but everything ends after the sale. Everyone hears, sees, touches but nothing is perceived. The same problems emerge every day despite the loudest brushstrokes, the most forceful melodies, and the most wounding words.

With art for art’s sake, Art is dead. With the current state of art in Mindanao, Art is a victim of hit-and-run.

What is Art by the way?

Across time and cultures, art’s definition has long been many. In our immediate general experience in this island, art is about valuable aesthetic emotion. From the furniture and shoes one buys, to the paintings and poetry events that give people a sense of culture—art and its experience—for many of us, is but an event of aesthetic value. However, for many artist circles in the island, art serves an advocative vehicle as well though many are still on paper.

Brian Eno remarked that Art is something that you don’t have to do to stay alive. Eno noted that eating is something that we have to do and therefore is not art, but the way we present food or how we experience food or the food that we consciously choose to eat could be art.

While there is truth to this, one should like to ask: don’t we need art to stay alive?

Some people diagnosed with mental health concerns are advised by their therapists to paint. Are their paintings not art since they needed to do it to keep themselves alive? Are live performances such as live bands in drinking venues not art when they play as their livelihood, or do we rob the occasional drinker of the aesthetic value of these bands because he listens to the kind of music that gives him a break from the monotony of modern life? Does this not keep us alive?

But at the same time, are all songs art? Is the famous radio commercial Cagayan Parkview Hotel art, or Moira’s Paubaya, or the Lupang HInirang art? Do we see Budots as art or only the melodies of the kulintang ensemble or the classical music of the West, or the pop that is Kpop?

Art as Experience?

John Dewey advocated that anything is art if consciously experienced. This means that even the process of doing art is art in itself. But can we display the process? Are we not a culture that only appreciates the results and shuns the process since we only display ready-to-sell outputs? Why can’t we mount an unfinished play even though the experience is experienced by the actors, and therefore in the eyes of Dewey, art? Whose experience should one put premium to? And why has the Mindanao art scene have to linger on the experience of art patrons (as it is them who buy expensive artworks), and not gift the experience to people who belong in a different social layer?

James Turrell declared that art is a completed pass; that one should not just throw art out to the world—someone has to catch it. But in the art scene of Mindanao, who catches the artworks? Are they even thrown to the world or just to a small community who can afford to catch it? Whose experience then is valuable?

Is it enough for a theatre company to produce theatrical shows to be considered a theatre company? If one produces a one-hour play that features only silence and darkness sans actors and all scenographic methods, is this art? And why shouldn’t?

II. Form and Function

Function is the salt to the worm that is Art for art’s sake. During the 1920s and 1930s, Walter Gropius founded the Bauhaus. Soon Bauhaus became an art movement that aimed to bring art back to everyday life. Function is the emphasis of Bauhaus.

Form follows Function?

Any object’s shape should primarily relate to its function, declared the Modernists. Form is dictated by its function, nothing less. Louis Sullivan asserts that it is the pervading law of all things organic and inorganic.

It makes sense when one examines the shape of wings, the form of the trees, the structures of bones, the presence of roots.

Using this maxim as lens in looking at the current “form” of various Mindanao art scenes, one may speculate that there might be no solid, useful, and beautiful function that these forms perform.

One need not to look far. The current Davao dance-theatre scene participated by various “cultural ensembles” have produced nothing comparable in magnitude in their more than a decade of existence.

Aside from little performances here and there and the occasional attention given by the local and national government, no theatre organization or learning hub is built. Nothing to sustain the art form and provide career paths to learners who happen to love the art. Thus, any young learner who might be inclined to dance-theatre may opt to not choose the path since there are no career opportunities for them that the old dance-theatre “cultural ensembles” should have had paved the way.

By looking at the current forms of Mindanao art scenes, their functions can easily be deduced. And often, these art scenes serve no function aside from the prestigious pretense they offer to their members.

However, one may argue that the maxim form follows function may not be a “pervading law” contrary to Sullivan’s declaration, and that art should not necessarily have function. In this case then, we go back to the futility of art for art’s sake. This also endangers the current art scenes since most of them, if not all, serve an advocacy. The most common being to expose that plight of the Indigenous Peoples.

Function follows Form?

The overstated notion of form follows function works only in ground-up creations where everything starts from scratch. Form follows function crumbles when working with existing forms. Artworks and designs sometimes use the existing form and from there work around the function.

Function follows form indeed in assemblages, collages, recycling, and the like. Old buildings take new functions when they are converted for another purpose in a process called adaptive reuse.

Something that already has form but has its function used up may take a new life by embodying new functions.

Extending this to the art scene, art organizations and even art initiatives start from researching the “form” and from there, work out their necessary functions. This process is akin to an action research. Other art groups start by community immersion (discovering the “form”), converse with the locals and together design a sustainable art project or art-oriented social endeavor (that serves a “function”).

At first glance this seems noble but some communities would prefer not to be disturbed by immersing artists or social designers. Some established art enthusiasts, too, in their desire to influence the function of existing forms of emerging art communities, would force themselves into the young community and interfere with their organic processes. Such happened when Kaliwat leaders and other theatre practitioners decided to give a lecture (and in the process interfere) in the directing of an emerging theatre group in Davao. In this way, they have inserted their “function” in an existing “form” by virtue of being the oldest and most well-known theatre group in Davao.

Should art and its practice be governed by the maxim function follows form or the other way around? And why, by extension, the politics of arts in the locale should follow this pattern? Is art politics necessary to forward an art practice?

III. Law of Conservation

When a seed grows, it gets its energy from the heat coming from the sun and the soil, and from the nutrients from the soil it is planted. The energy from the environment is transformed by the seed which then enables it to germinate. This seed grows until it reaches its full maturity and dies either by being eaten or by other causes. The plant, from an active consumer of energy to a potential source of energy.

Such is the cycle of life. The same can be said generally to things, living or non-living. In this process, energy is a quantitative property that flows from one source to another, but never created nor destroyed.

When a twig grows and extends, and at its tip, forms a leaf—energy is transferred. Despite the movement of energy from one point and form to another, energy is the same in this whole system. In other words, energy is conserved. When this leaf is eaten, the potential energy from the leaf transfers to the consumer, continuing the transformation of energy.

Is art energy?

When a poet encounters a leaf, a flower, a forest, she could be compelled to get a pen and write down lines that allude to the beauty of nature. While there is no transfer of energy from the leaf to the poet as far as physics is concerned, nonetheless an energy enables the poet to articulate lines dedicated to the leaf.

In those lines, the poet has granulized all her learning about grammar and poetic elements as well as her learning about life. Her knowledge is conserved in those lines, compact and firm, ready to burst for any reader, and inspire movement. Thus, a leaf’s life never ends. Sometimes parts of its existence are transferred into poems with the potentiality of affecting not only the present reader but the ones who might take hold of the poem.

Energy is never created nor destroyed, only transforms usefully and dissipates in an open system. The universe is an open system and anyone and anything’s energy dissipates. Any work of art, being part of this universe, are formed using energy and are therefore bearers of energy—capable of doing or inspiring work.

IV. Art as Discourse

In sum, all art—physical or non-physical—should be capable of doing or inspiring work. Nonetheless, work may take different forms as well. The kind of work inspired by an artwork then determines the quality of the art. The quality of energy it gives off determines its value.

Should art have a purpose? It is inevitable whether it is intended or not. But the quality of its purpose, the richness that it contributes, the discourse that it facilitates—are hallmarks of good work.

It is this transcending nature of art that makes it special. It follows a path, seemingly skips some steps but actually seeps through the process, can be both subjective and objective, perceivable but subtle—then determines value. It is this nature that is respectable, even divine, about art; it is this that makes one take art seriously. One has to have quality in mind when being conscious about an art experience to merit this amazing transcendental process. And this quality is determined by the discourse it propels. For what then is the significance of following this universal process if in the end, nothing is discussed? When art reaches the senses and reaches the soul, art—with its inherent quality—inspires discourse. And from here, the life of the art extends from being a mere form to something more than itself.

Notwithstanding the whole process of art making, the end of art is discourse, and from this discourse come the understanding of the system where we belong or perhaps an understanding of a piece of the entire universe.

Therefore, anyone who has a camera cannot be a photographer; anyone who has a video camera cannot be a filmmaker; anyone who has a brush cannot be a painter; anyone who writes cannot be a writer; anyone who merely has the means to be an artist cannot automatically be an artist. One owes it to the previous conservers of energy and to its transcendental process to have an end in one’s work—and the end is discourse. Art then is never only ornamental. All of art’s methods and processes, and its intervening and non-intervening variables should have their energies converge in a manner that creates art as discourse. Anything short is never art.

As mentioned, the Mindanao art scene has been teeming with artworks ever since. Despite limited art events and venues, Mindanao has a surplus of artworks displayed in establishments and houses; has a surplus of art practitioners. The Internet has also made art accessible. While the democratizing of art is on one hand laudable, on the other, this only furthers the clutter.

While the diversity of art practitioners enables experimentation and facilitates the creation of new styles and voices, still, many established or emerging art practitioners have little to no discourse to offer in their artworks. Therefore, there seems to be a need to declutter. However, this is not currently realized by art practitioners and enthusiasts since galleries and other art venues show the same thing—in general, there seemed to be no problem.

But the problem is that our art scene is stunted because somewhere we failed to introspect and in the process failed to facilitate discourse. We take photos of artworks and post them on social media and feel that we are already cultured. Seeing that the general public seldom takes the discourse out of the art and seldom challenges it to form new understandings, artists tend to only have the veneer of discourse but actually ponders on shock value or on the current art style trend on Instagram.

This kind of atmosphere is rather concerning since this only encourages art practitioners to set goals that revolve only around attention, and robs them of the chance to dip into the universe of discourse.

Partly, this atmosphere of clutter and ignorance is maintained by educational institutions. Since time immemorial, their view on art has been rather passive, if not antagonistic. Many educational institutions discourage art despite having it as one of their learning areas. The bureaucratic systems as well make art practice difficult in these learning institutions, rendering artist-teachers handicap. Such unavailability for exercise robs learners the learning experience of experiencing art. Love for art discourse is stifled early on, and when they reach higher learning, when they are asked to make essays and reactions papers, learners rather feel obliged since the training of the soul was discouraged during their formative years.

Gerhard Richter once said that art is the highest form of hope. How then do the Mindanao art scenes provide hope? Or is hope, like other positive terms like “collaboration,” “inter-reflections,” “living,” used merely as glittering generalities to promote an art event? How do we know if these are sincere if after the event, the status quo is still unchanged?

Art as Discourse wills to have the greatest positive impact possible. With such impact, the road of artistic change or at least introspection is paved. This is achieved through highlighting local works that have strong discourse power—works that have strong potential energies—so that when they are thrown into the word, they make the greatest impact possible—they inspire discourse, and eventually change.

V. Art is Dead

Nietzsche declared that art is the affirmation, the blessing, the deification of existence. In terms of quantity, Mindanao is full of this. And because Mindanao art scenes have been one-sided since time immemorial (the side of the artist is always highlighted, little to no thematic disagreement happens among artists or consumers), everyone has been affirming their own deifications.

And because all of us are gods, Art is Dead. Because everyone agrees, Art is Dead. Because discourse is nowhere after the exhibit, Art is Dead. Because art is not yet back to everyday life, Art is Dead. Because form and function do not marry, Art is Dead. Because institutions see art as non-practical, even non-essential, Art is Dead. Because the divine process of art is not honored, Art is Dead. Because artists prefer attention rather than discourse, Art is Dead. Art is Dead and it is the Mindanao art scenes that killed it.

This April, we mourn. This April we reflect. This April is black. This is Black April—the zero point of the impact of our Brechtian hammer, this is, the “lagom” (deepening in Tagalog; bruise in Bisaya) moment of the Mindanao art scene. This is the shutdown.

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thesteveyates · 4 years

Text

‘F’ is for Uffa Fox

‘F’ is for Fairey Atalanta.

Blog time : well, it’s mid April and just going into week 4 of this strange life. As far as my own boat and sailing life are concerned the boss is keeping a good eye on WABI”’ and has had the hatches open to air the boat out for me. Obviously i’m not out on the water and not writing any new material based on my own boat. In blog life all i’m working on are the new posts for this series as all of the posts that i was working on in the spring are now out there. My own life is probably about to change radically if things work out as i expect they will ; that’s because i’m now back on the temporary/emergency register and it looks as though i might get deployed to the emergency Nightingale hospital in London…that’s obviously going to be the ‘hot’ zone. If that works out well then i’ll be working on my own next boating project while i’m away and i can take more time over the next designer in this series.

In this post for the design series i’m really just looking at one design from one prolific designer, sailor and all-round total English eccentric ; Uffa Fox. The boat is the highly unusual and funky looking Fairey Atalanta designed by the late Uffa Fox in 1955 alongside Alan Vines ; an executive of Fairey Marine. The boat was then mass produced using some radically new building techniques between 1956 and 1968. Many Atalanta’s still exist today, many have been restored and there is an active owners association.

Right at the start of this post i have to point out that all of the photographs i have used come from other sources and not my own files ; most of them appear on the Atalanta owners association website or found during a general image search. The title photograph also, is of a very modified deck/coachroof version which i think looks great and very different.

Uffa Fox…..Yachtsman and designer.

I regard the late Uffa Fox as the most important and influential small boat designer ever, at least from the narrow perspective of British designers : i place him above other brilliant designers of small sailing craft like Maurice Griffiths and William Fife for example because he took the design and construction of small craft in completely new directions. Later on in the design series i hope to be able to show how later designers like David Thomas and Jack Laurent Giles, and then modern designers like Keith Callaghan all owe a lot to Uffa Fox’s radical new designs.

As i re-read biographies of Uffa Fox he comes across as a brilliantly eccentric man who managed to be both at the centre of a very conservative and traditional yachting community based around Cowes on the IOW , at a time when it was an important ‘Royal’ yachting venue and centre of the English yachting world, and at the same time being a maverick and radical designer. He was for example closely connected to the British royal family at play, regularly sailing with or crewing for HRH Prince Philip and the young Royals , often in his or their Dragon class racing yachts.

In 1938 Uffa Fox designed the first of several International 14 racing dinghy’s, the most famous of which was ‘Thunder and Lightning’, the radical feature of the new designs being their ability to plane rather than just being displacement hulls. The International 14 class was then, as it is now, a development class and that same boat not only planed downwind in a breeze but could generate a lot more power upwind because of another new device….the trapeze…..instantly banned as being ‘unsporting’ until a few years later. Now of course the International 14 is a double trapeze boat and still very quick even when compared with more modern dinghy designs.

Fairey Marine and the Atalanta.

Fairey Marine Ltd, was a boat building company based on the River Hamble near to Southampton on the Uk’s south coast.. The company was created in the late 1940s by Sir Charles Richard Fairey and Fairey Aviation‘s managing director, Mr. Chichester-Smith. Both were avid sailing enthusiasts along with Chichester-Smith’s good friend and former Olympic yachtsman, Charles Currey. Fairey Aviation of course was the company responsible for designing and building wartime aircraft such as the Fairey Swordfish, which, even as an ‘obsolete’ carrier based biplane managed to stick a torpedo up the backside of the Bismark which led to that ship’s eventual sinking only 8 days into her one and only wartime mission !

As the war drew to a close Fairey and Chichester-Smith both decided that they should produce sailing dinghies utilising techniques that had been employed in the construction of aircraft. Charles Currey was recruited to help run the company when he came out of the Royal Navy. The world air speed record holder Peter Twiss joined Fairey Marine Ltd from Fairey Aviation in 1960 and was responsible for development and sales of day-cruisers. In 1969, commanding the Huntsman 707 Fordsport, he took part in the Round Britain Powerboat Race, and included among his crew members, Rally champion Roger Clark. Boats were primarily designed by Alan Burnard.

In the early years, thousands of dinghies were produced by Fairey Marine including the Firefly, Albacore, Falcon (dinghy), Swordfish (dinghy), Jollyboat, Flying Fifteen, 505 and International 14‘s along with the much smaller Dinky and Duckling. Later on in the 1950s they produced the larger sailing cruisers, the Atalanta (named after Sir Richard’s wife), Titania, Fulmar and the 27-foot (8.2 m) Fisherman motor sailer (based on the Fairey Lifeboat hull) along with the 15′ Cinderella (outboard runabout)/ Carefree (inboard runabout), and the 16’6″ Faun (outboard powered family cruiser).

By way of a side-line here, Fairey were using very similar techniques to the ones developed by the De Havilland company which used the extraordinary (for then) concept of building wooden framed and skinned aircraft…and that resulted in the fastest wartime fighter/bomber cum recconaisance plane ; the famous Mosquito.

Fairey Swordfish.

Personal interest.

Many readers will be aware that while i really like my little Hunter Liberty i could really do with a bit more waterline length, more space (volume) , more sailing ‘power’ and while keeping the Liberty’s ability to sail shallow rivers and dry out level at the end of the day. Some readers will also know, because i wrote several posts, that i did a serious search for a slightly larger and more capable boat and that one group of boats that i found were the post IOR designs of around 25 feet with lifting keels : the Dehler 25, Evolution 25 and Super-Seal 26.

Both of us went to see the Dehler and both almost instantly didn’t like the boat, the Evolution 25 that i had in mind disappeared off the market and i couldn’t afford the larger Parker Super Seal although i think it might have made a good boat. The boat that really might have worked for me was the again slightly larger Kelt that i photographed in Wareham :

There was however one complete outsider in the mix and that was the much older Fairey Atalanta and one did come up on Ebay at about the same time ; i don’t remember now why i didn’t go and see it because it was only ‘just down the road’…ie about a hundred miles away !. Going way back, at least 25 years, when i first started thinking about owning my own boat in my post Whitbread race era i was talking to a yacht designer about what i was looking for in a boat and he told me about an Atalanta sitting in the yard somewhere behind Proctor spars place in the Hamble.

I was greatly intrigued so i went and saw the boat and yes, it had a lot of what i wanted and it was just about inside my budget except that it was in poor condition and it smelled very nasty inside…..i’m pretty sure there was some unhealthy wood in that one. I spent some time working up a budget for the potential rebuild and what i came up against straight away is the huge base cost of having a boat like that in a shed anywhere in the Hamble where covered space seems to be charged out by the square inch !. On top of that i did some research about repairs to an Atalanta hull and it does seem to be a more specialist job than a ‘normal’ ie carvel, wooden boat. The reason for that being that the whole hull is hot-glue laminated from Agba veneers in a large oven !.

I liked the basic concept and the actual boat though so i always kept it in mind for ‘maybe one day’ : today i still greatly admire the Atalanta and iv’e since seen some very nicely refitted ones. The size would still be about right, i could live with the layout , especially by converting the aft cabin to a large double + berth and i still love the funky looking 50’s shape. Given that these boats were first built in the 1950’s iv’e always fancied having one that was ‘born’ in the same year as me (1958)…..not the most intelligent or logical reason to own a boat but hey ….it’s me we are talking about !

The Atalanta file.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Here’s one for sale via the Atalanta owners website .

https://atalantaowners.org/f14-noggin-sale-2/

Funky, Foxy, Fairey. 'F' is for Uffa Fox 'F' is for Fairey Atalanta. Blog time : well, it's mid April and just going into week 4 of this strange life.

#Fairey Atalanta #Fairey Swordfish #fairey titania #International 14 #Uffa Fox

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btsorpheus · 4 years

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THE HI-TOUCH

I like to joke that on February 14, 2020, I met the love of my life.

I didn’t, of course. But for a second, I fumbled my way through a half-high-five-half-handhold with the K-pop boy group Monsta X and absolutely did not cry, no matter what Rolling Stone attempted to imply. (Yes, that’s me in the foreground of the final photograph.)

The hi-touch is an extremely weird event, to say the least.

Anxious because this was the first time I’d ever attended a fan event, I’d managed to show up four hours early. About three of these hours were spent nervously reading Orfeo by Richard Powers at the Coffee Bean down the street, occasionally looking over trying to figure out when people queue up.

The final hour was actually spent in the line. I tried to make small-talk with the fan in front of me, but soon gave that up when she grimaced in disapproval after finding out I’d been a fan for “only a month” then literally took me by the shoulders and shook me while insisting, “MAKE SURE YOU MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH THEM! MAKE EYE CONTACT OR YOU’LL REGRET IT!”

It was while I was worriedly scrolling through my phone that Monsta X rolled in in sports cars.

Just as I began to recover from the absolutely mind-boggling spectacles I’d already been forced to face, I was ushered into the venue--which housed six enormous cut-outs of the members’ faces. Which, frankly, was terrifying.

(Photo: Michelle Kim. Two of the “six enormous cut-outs,” featuring Hyungwon and Joohoney, set-up at Tower Records for Monsta X’s meet-and-greet on Feb. 14, 2020.)

I’d probably been waiting in there for around 15 minutes when the employees desperately trying to hype up the room (mostly full of nervous young girls) introduced Monsta X, who suddenly burst through the curtains on the opposite side of the room and rushed up to the table before hurriedly taking their seats (Kihyun, their main vocalist, barely had time to shrug off his jacket) and sticking out their hands.

After that, it’s just a blur.

Writing this approximately a month after the event, all I can remember is the first member possibly smirking at me, the second holding my hand more firmly than I’d expected, the third smiling broadly, and the last two seeming tired.

And then I stumbled out of the venue and called an Uber and was back home, largely unchanged.

(Photo: Michelle Kim. Paul McCarthy, Dead H Drawings, 1968-69; graphite and ink on paper. Paul McCarthy, Dead H Crooked Leg, 1979 and Dead H Crooked Leg Maze, 1979; graphite and ink on paper. On display at the Hammer Museum in Los Angeles, CA. Photo taken Feb. 22, 2020.)

The Gaze

When recalling the original myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, the first thing that usually comes to my mind is Orpheus turning around to look at Eurydice and to lose her. It’s the climax of the story. And though that Orphic gaze is translated differently in different iterations of the myth, it always seems to be a focal point.

Gazing at something implies a strange binary--it reveals that there is that which you can see and that which you cannot. Paul McCarthy captures this in his Dead H Drawings, a series of sketches of said letter with the space in the center horizontal line highlighted. If you were to look through the legs, you would never be able to see the inside of that portion; you could only see out the other end of the leg like a tunnel. Hence, it’s a dead space.

Even when just looking at a specific object, it becomes clear that you can only focus on one thing at a time. Everything in your peripheral is less easily accessed--forget whatever’s happening behind you.

In Orpheus’s case, the gaze is about confirming Eurydice’s presence yet also losing her. It’s both a moment of relief and of grief, of catharsis and of catastrophe. The nature of his tragedy is that he can’t have the first without the second; if he did, he will have succeeded.

For Scottie, the protagonist of Hitchcock’s Vertigo, it’s exactly this sense of conflicted intangibility that attracts him to Judy/Madeleine, the Eurydice-figure. Even when he believes she’s just Madeleine, there’s an element of fantastical unreachability to her--the fact that she is supposedly possessed by Carlotta. And then when Judy falls back into the Madeleine role, Scottie continues to push her to the edge until she dies a true and final death.

Perhaps this is what makes celebrities such easy objects of affection and what motivates paparazzi. Celebrity sightings, celebrity photos, and two-minute interviews--they’re all small glimpses of a desirable person that we wouldn’t otherwise be able to access.

(Screenshots of replies from Twitter on a tweet regarding how the original poster believes BTS loves ARMY more than ARMY could ever love them, taken on March 11, 2020. Twitter handles and personal information have been blurred for the users’ privacy.)

A persistent phenomenon in BTS’s fanbase is ARMY seeming to think that BTS’s members genuinely love all of their fans.

K-pop is particularly adept when it comes to commodifying celebrities. It’s why they’re referred to as “idols” and not just as normal performers. Their jobs are to record songs and dance at concerts, but they’re also expected to vlog, feature on variety and reality shows, film practice videos, take and post selfies, consistently interact with fans on Fancafe (a blog platform for K-pop idols), be gracious and friendly in public--and on top of all this pressure, maintain their appearances and memorize choreography and lyrics.

Because there’s hundreds of hours of content featuring them available, it’s easy for fans to believe that they truly, personally understand their favorite idols. But idols are first and foremost entertainers. Everything they do is in the interest of gaining more fans, who turn into consumers and therefore income. When taking into account their motivation, does that still make idols genuine?

In Sarah Ruhl’s play Eurydice, Eurydice loses her memory upon death. She must relearn who she was when she was alive through her father, also dead, as he reteaches her how to read, her favorite past-time when alive.

By the time Orpheus arrives to guide her out of the Underworld, it’s unclear if Eurydice has regained her previous sense of self. And if she has, it’s been filtered through her father.

Similarly, the return of “Madeleine” in Hitchcock’s Vertigo is a hazy recollection of the original woman.

(Vertigo (1958) dir. Alfred Hitchcock.)

Though Judy is dressed as Madeleine, talks like Madeleine, and walks like Madeleine, she’s only playing the Madeleine that Scottie wants to see. She’s putting on an artificial performance of what he expects in an effort to appease him. The Madeleine that he wants is a cool, refined, and feminine lady. Though not playing hard-to-get, she’s always out of reach as a woman both disconnected from reality and married, therefore unavailable.

Judy can’t always be that. In the car, when Scottie drives her to the bell tower where the true Madeline died, Judy slips through her Madeleine veneer as she acts just a shade too coy.

Eurydice can’t always be what Orpheus expects her to be. The Backwards Look that ultimately causes him to lose her is an act of attempted confirmation, to be sure that he has her: the “loan” that Hades had promised him.

This Backwards Look manifests in many ways among BTS fans.

First, there are the sasaengs and fansites. They’re in some ways comparable to paparazzi--fansites especially, who consider it their (unpaid and unasked for) jobs to photograph idols at their every public appearance, even if they’re just going to catch a flight, then to share their professional-grade photographs online. Sasaengs take this a step further; they’re essentially stalkers who will buy an idol’s personal information to, for example, share a flight and book a neighboring hotel room to be as physically close to them as possible.

Though less extreme, there are also fan artists and fanfiction writers. Both attempt to capture the BTS members’ personalities and internal lives and manifest them in portraits, comics, and elaborate stories (often novel-length or longer). Artists and writers have to assume something about BTS when creating such content. There’s no way anyone could fully understand what’s happening in another person’s head. And when BTS is constantly presenting stage personas while acting like reality shows, filmed by dozens of cameras and producers, represent who they truly are, it’s difficult to say who the artists and writers are trying to capture.

Even a fan’s desire to stream music and videos and look at photos of BTS is a form of the Backwards Look. They’re constantly revisiting a moment and trying to recapture that first instance of experiencing it. This is the Eurydice moment--the experience of falling in love with a piece of art in a brief glance, and losing that feeling as soon as the moment is over.

These experiences are by no means limited to just BTS. Many fandoms, especially other K-pop groups’ fandoms, all experience this overwhelming amount of content consumption. But because BTS is the current Orpheus--dominating their music genre--they have the most fans, the most fanart and fanfiction, and the most streams. They are constantly under the pressure of the Backwards Gaze.

And they are constantly beyond it at the same time. In Ovid’s telling, Eurydice disappears as soon as Orpheus looks back (“she was gone, in a moment”). In Ruhl’s, the lovers “turn away from each other, matter-of-fact, compelled” as soon Orpheus sees Eurydice. When Scottie finally sees the Madeleine he wants, she dies in the next scene.

Eurydice is always beyond reach. And for every minute of content BTS releases, there’s still hours where they’re beyond the camera’s gaze. Are they the same in front of it as they are apart from it? Would they still profess how much they love ARMY if no one was there to record them? Would RM be as well-spoken? Would Jin’s laugh be the same?

It’s only been a month or so, but it’s difficult for me to recall what exactly happened when I gave Shownu, the leader of Monsta X, a horrifically awkward half-high-five-half-handshake. I tried to record what happened right after the event, but I was so shocked that all I could write for him was “funny little smile,” which doesn’t help much when I’m trying to piece together the memory.

Even in the moment, it was difficult to parse exactly what that “funny little smile” meant. There’s only so much time to think when you’re given just a split-second glance. Had Shownu been teasing, playing the flirt that loves all his fans as idols are expected to? Had he been genuinely excited to be there? Had he been embarrassed? (I know I was.) Maybe the smile hadn’t been funny, or little, or even a smile at all--maybe I’d read the moment all wrong.

Funnily enough, Shownu features on a song called, “Don’t Look Back.”

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luna-whiskers · 7 years

Text

Minific for @antivanonmytongue, who has been suffering many hurricane woes.

Title: Silver Tongue Ship: Mars/Jadeite Warning: Mild swearing A/N: Vaguely SilMil-era

The village smelled of rot and death, but it was not the smell that repulsed her. It was the dark aura that hung over the place, curdling the air. Over the backs of her hands and her cheeks and the space by her throat where her robes tugged loose, she could feel it sliding across her skin like clammy fingers. Mars suppressed the urge to let the fire within her flare up, just to burn away all that touched her. They were skittish about foreign kinds of magic on this planet, though, particularly of the kind that burned.

The infestation of corrupted monsters on Earth’s surface was neither a war nor an epidemic yet, but pockets of them seemed to spring up without warning. This planet felt so big, for being so small. People were so spread out across the countryside, not crowded together like in the floating cities of Venus, or the small but richly populated moons of Jupiter. On her own home planet, vast desert rolled out around her city like an endless sea, but what cities there were put any on Earth to shame, having spent centuries growing around the few readily available water sources. Villages like this were vulnerable here, so far from the capital city, where the royal palace resided. Those who were not injured or killed by the beasts would see their crops fail once the corruption spread to the soil. And those who had the power to purify it were in short supply.

No entourage followed the princess of the red planet as she stepped over muddy wagon tracks. The demons that had ravaged this place posed little threat to her, and it would be faster for her to make the magical jump into the remote village on her own, unencumbered by less powerful assistants. And anyway, it was a perfect opportunity to bow out of what was meant to be a diplomatic mission. Mars was not particularly fond of those at the best of times, but on Earth they inevitably meant running into – oh dear.

She heard him before she saw him, of course. He was all mouth, that one. Silver tongue promising everything and nothing to every noble and visiting dignitary within earshot. It was a wonder he was not there now, charming the Martian diplomats who liked to speak in circles. She could feel the patina glossing his every word. Once, he tried to speak to her the same way. Mars resisted the urge to light his hair aflame, and opted instead to walk away without the satisfaction of her response.

She followed his voice to the shrine of Serenity. In a village such as this, it was the largest and sturdiest building they had, and it was where they had hidden while the monsters raided. This would be a good place to begin the purification process, she thought, where the corruption would be less potent to begin with. Even as she drew closer, she could feel some of the taint in the air lifting. A mere visage of Queen Serenity had power enough to do that.

Even if she had not met him before, he would stand out from the humble peasants crowded inside. Hair like spun gold and a face that looked like it had been carved by a Venusian artisan, complete with that damned ever-present smirk. His uniform was less pristine than usual, collar askew and the sleeves rolled up, but its authority remained unmistakable. Such as it was, compared to hers.

He had not noticed her yet, and were it not for the many people that crowded between them, she would have interrupted with something snide. Instead she clenched her jaw as she picked her way toward him, steeling herself for what would certainly be the least pleasant part of this mission.

That was when she noticed how different his voice sounded now from when she heard it in the halls of the royal palace. Where was that veneer that she had heard when he had courted the wealthy and powerful on his prince’s behalf? It had softened to something else in the face of an elderly woman in priestess robes who clutched at his hand. He was reassuring her, offering a promise that sounded more sincere than any she had heard him utter in Prince Endymion’s court. He offered more respect to this humble country priestess than to the would-be kings and handsy duchesses who drank in his flattery.

That was when he noticed her. For a moment, he seemed not to know what to do, blue eyes blinking in honest surprise. Then his posture straightened, his smirk returning. He was caught without his mask on, and now it returned as though it had never been gone. “Your highness. Come to take me up on that offer of a dance? I admit it has been some months, but...”

He was all mouth. But she knew his secret now, and Mars could not find it in her to reward him with her annoyance. Instead she allowed the barest hint of a smile to pull at her lips. “A dance? Here?” She cast a glance around the little shrine, scantly ornamented and filled with farmers and their families milling about. “I can think of worse places.”

She glanced his way only once as she turned away. Just to see the confusion on his face.

#fanfic #senshi x shitennou #The RaeRae Project

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mrsbenedictbridgerton · 7 years

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period piece and arrange marriage trope please and thank you. I can never have enough of that trope

*added ff.net link*

I started writing this MONTHS ago as a multi-chapter that I just couldn’t get working. So I tweaked a few bits and here you go:

Also on AO3 and FF.NET

Arranged

This wasn’t how it was meant to be.

It was, she had conceded with a heavy heart, the fault of decades of conflict and suffering. No sooner had the Ogre Wars finished than a disagreement over trade routes had embroiled half the kingdoms in the world in a series of dirty naval battles which had left no winner. Instead, with so many ships destroyed, trade slowed to a trickle - now reliant on old overland routes that had been neglected for decades. Famine followed, a pestilence destroyed almost half that first year’s harvest. Thousands died and those who lived were not enough to reap what remained and so much of it wilted in the ground further compounding the shortages. Finally, in a cruel blow, a terrible plague then began to sweep over the land. The disease took no heed of age or station and left every family, rich or poor, affected. Such a terrible trio of curses. Dark magic was suspected by some parts to be the cause, yet no culprit admitted to it.

In the end, almost 15 years of hardship passed and the population of the kingdom dwindled to almost half of what it was. Its neighbours too were stricken- including so many of the royal families that had lost their heirs.

Misthaven was fortunate. Princess Emma had lived. She had made it through a childhood rife with the terrors of pestilence and starvation that she had seen so many of her childhood playmates not reach puberty. The princess had lived to see crops begin to flourish again and the navy of the kingdom rise once more - with new ships painstakingly formed by those remaining craftsmen who began to teach their skills to the young who had been lucky enough to make it. Finally, the kingdom was getting back on its feet with the most imminent threats gone.

Now, as the only heir to the throne, the duty of the princess was to marry and provide continuance for the bloodline of the royal family. Yet, there was a fly in the ointment. There were so few men to whom she could be betrothed. Princes were scarce, dukes hardly less so. All the traditional venues upon which a daughter of a king and queen would find a husband were gone. Balls and tours were still rare affairs, and frankly, her parents were beginning to worry. Almost a half dozen years past the age when marriage would have been acceptable and yet no offers to consider. There just was not the pool of eligible men for her to be exposed to and form an affection for (and hopefully, they prayed, to love).

From her quarters, high up in one of the castle’s four turrets, Emma surveyed the kingdom below her. To the west, the port stretched out into the shimmering ocean. There, dozens of ships crammed into the harbour. A sign of the return of prosperity to the kingdom. In the east, the city bled into farmland, all ripe with crop that would be harvested that autumn. Beyond, the woodland from which the kingdom had earned its moniker - ‘The Enchanted Forest’ - lay, green and lush with the freshness of Spring. It was beautiful.

With a heavy sigh, she laid her hands upon the low wall that encircled her balcony. Her parents had instilled upon her from a young age the importance of her position. She had learned before she could even talk about how critical her role was, to guide and protect the people that relied on them. Every tree, every rock - every patch of soil was a legacy to which, like it or not, she was bonded to by blood. It was great honor, she knew. But sometimes it felt like a millstone around her neck.

Oh how she wished she could talk of their kingdom with the passion that her elders did; how they extolled its many virtues and qualities. She was a good daughter, she would always say the right things, but that did not change the fact that her earliest memories of Misthaven were dark ones. The suffering and death that had marred her formative years were hard to shake. So, even though she knew that her duty lay in her role as princess and future queen, she didn’t always feel it in her heart.

They’d raised the subject of her marriage some years earlier. She hadn’t been surprised, her parents having been barely older than her when she was born. After delaying the matter as long as she could, she finally acquiesced to her mother’s gentle pleas to consider a suitor. Discrete enquiries to the neighboring kingdoms had not led to positive responses. As much as they would wish to unite with Misthaven, they simply did not have any sons of suitable age. Which led the king and queen with only their own subjects to examine. A suitor fit for a princess had to be someone noble (of character, if not birth), one with an education and natural wisdom, someone accomplished in his field of study or toil - one unmarried and of age. Of course, the pool of possible applicants drew smaller and smaller with each consideration until only a handful candidates remained.

The first few passed through the castle and little feeling stirred within the princess. They were solemn, proud men with the posture of those full of their own self-importance. Soldiers. Men of law. Sons of the oldest merchant families. Of course they smiled and said all the right things, but Emma could not, despite her desire to please her family, consider a courtship with any of them.

Emma became listless the more men who were called forth. All perfectly suitable, she knew. But something held her back from giving her mother the indication that she was open to courtship. Yet, she couldn’t quite decipher what this was. Indeed, as months passed by - and dinners and dances were held all under the thin veneer of sociability though all knew their true purpose - she became more resigned to passing the decision over to her parents. The would choose the best they could, would they not?

But then there was a final recommendation, a little later than all the others, brought by courier from the naval office. It was for a Lieutenant Killian Jones of Misthaven’s Royal Navy- the delay in the letter arising from his being on tour for the past six months. A seasoned seaman after ten years asea, fluent in three languages, a capable horseman and one of the brightest and most promising officers in the service. He was highly recommended by his commanding officers. Emma perused these letters of recommendation, listening to her mother’s entreaties to look favorably upon his virtues and consider him (for even she was becoming concerned with her daughter’s lack of interest in the men she had so far met).

One week later, an invitation had been extended to him to drink tea with the king and queen. Emma had cast her eyes over him, more than once, trying to ascertain a little of his character or motivations in considering such a thing as an arranged marriage. Sadly, she’d drawn a blank as to this. His expression as guarded as she supposed her own to be. She was, however, struck by how uncommonly handsome he was: with a clear cut jaw and startling blue eyes. But she had never been one to have her head turned by a pretty face, instead she wanted to know what lay beneath the exterior.

Throughout the brief meeting, he had seemed a little shy, fidgeting with the golden cuffs of his stiff, formal jacket and offering only short, polite contributions to the conversation that passed between the family. Emma fidgeted as she watched him. For all his recommendations he appeared to lack the confidence of the potential suitors she had already met, which for such an accomplished man she found strangely beguiling. Despite herself, she found herself becoming curious to know more of this man.

On parting, he had bowed very solemnly and then, most unexpectedly, had taken her hand and pressed a kiss upon it. She’d agreed with her mother when pressed about his suitability. He was a decorated officer, handsome and courteous, her mother had sang, and handsome, she’d added. Emma had nodded, quietly echoing her mother’s enthusiasm, her mind awhirl.

///

This wasn’t how it was meant to be.

As Lieutenant Killian Jones tugged on his formal blazer, he smoothed down the medals that hung upon them, his fingers lingering over the lastest addition. Bravery in the first degree, he knew the engraving said. He felt anything but as he waited for the audience the princess has requested.

A week had passed since he had met the queen and her daughter. They drank tea from dainty cups and ate sweet, warm cakes from china plates. He felt out of place, in the fine dining room, in his formal uniform, in the company of beautiful and cultured women.

When Commander Gibbons had approached him, the officer had been at first confused and then affronted. That his commander would make such a recommendation of him was in parts amusing and absurd. Him, a sailor, a fighter, a wanderer- a man who just days before he dined with royalty was guiding the Jewel through a thick storm, sweat and salt soaked, rope burns to his hands, the burn of the day’s sun still upon his neck . How could he be considered a suitor.

Somehow, the commander had convinced him to consider the idea. Had mentioned that Liam would have been in favour.

Liam.

Even thinking of his brother, ten months after his passing, caught his breath. It was true, after his brother’s unexpected death, he had thrown himself even more into his duties. Refusing any leave save the bare minimum. It was as if somehow he could atone for not being able to save him.

Perhaps this was how he could be of use. To serve in an unconventional way, to further the royal lineage. To be a consort, to provide children-

He was getting ahead of himself.

(This wasn’t how he had thought it would happen.)

He would serve as the kingdom required.

///

“I received your summons, your Highness.”

Emma started at the low tones of the Lieutenant’s voice. She rose from where she sat upon a small chaise and turned towards the entrance to the library.

“Lieutenant,” she nodded, her eyes flickering over his uniform clad form. Stiffly, he stood by the door, his tricorn hat under his arm, his back straight as a poker and his expression revealing nothing about his emotions. She took a breath. “Perhaps you would like to sit?”

She gestured to the seat beside her.

His lips hesitated into a small smile, before replying, “I prefer to stand, milady.”

A small flicker of confusion caused her to furrow her brow as she softly sighed, ‘Oh’, before she picked up the book she was reading and took it back to the shelf from which she had retrieved it. “My father says your ship is to sail again soon.”

“Aye, we must return to Glowerhaven within the week. The Minister of Trade is keen to conclude the negotiations with his counterpart.”

“Oh yes, the grain contract.”

The leather bound volume in her hands was heavy as she slid it back into the space from whence it came.

“We expect to be gone a month, to return before the seasons begin to change.” he added.

Emma slowly turned back to face him, his blue eyes startling bright as they fixed upon her.

She nodded, her chin held high in a sign of all the confidence she did not feel. She hesitated a moment, before taking a few confident strides in his direction. “Well then, lieutenant, I will not press upon your time when you are preparing to sail. Instead, I will ask you the question which caused me to seek your audience.”

He raised an eyebrow in question.

“What I wish to know, is… why have you agreed to this?”

His lips parted - clearly her question was unexpected. Perhaps she shouldn’t be broaching this subject. But she needed to know his intentions.

“To a courtship?”

Emma nodded. He bunched his fingers more tightly around the rim of his hat. “My dearest wish, is to serve, your highness. The kingdom has done so much for me and given me so much when I deserved nothing.”

She’d thought as much. Every word she had seen, written or spoken about this man had been laced with descriptions of his honor and valor.

She has expected his motivations to be as such. At least in that regard they could be matched.

“I understand,” she replied, hugging her arms to her waist and offering a wan smile. There was something about him that she couldn’t quite place. A feeling in his presence, of hesitance and uncertainty- unlike the others she had met who she could read like one of the books in the very library which she stood.

“May I be so bold as to ask you the same? I am led to believe that honesty is essential in these situations.”

Emma’s smile stiffened a little.He certainly seemed to be on the same page as her. It didn’t need to be explained to him that this was not a matter of love and romance but one of practicality and duty.

“Why - to serve the kingdom,” she replied, her smile fixed and small. “I alone can continue the royal line.”

The Lieutenant nodded softly. “Aye,” he said, “That is an important duty.”

His eyes seemed to soften a little. Emma suddenly felt very small, the responsibility she was facing looming ahead like a mountain to climb.

“Yes,” she whispered, “Quite.”

For a moment, they didn’t speak.

“Well your highness, I am needed at the admiralty if you have no more questions?”

“Of course,” she nodded, “Please, attend to your duties.”

He softly approached, still at a respectable distance, but close enough that the princess could once again appreciate the handsome face she has let her eyes linger on during their first meeting. Yes, she admitted, he was certainly a man who fit all the expectations of a consort. He bowed, offering a quick nod of the head before leaving the room in a blur of blue wool.

///

It was three weeks later when he received the letter. Royal letterhead. Express.

An offer of engagement.

I had a plan for more with smut and where they fall in love etc- might write it :D so it looks like I am writing it!

#captain swan #cs ff #cs ff au #jill writes things #arrangements

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viewfromthedrumstool · 7 years

Text

USA Tour, day 20

The Glasshouse in Pomona is a nice spot on the outskirts of L.A. and the venue contains within it a stylish cocktail lounge. I love the sparse modernist design and sometimes when I close my eyes I see myself sat at the bar...

Support for the show comes again from friend-of-the-family Shawn Lee who tonight is joined by Mike (aka P-Boo) from the band Eels.

The fans are eager including an odd couple who take it in turns to invade the stage before being thrown out. A strange thing to do after paying $30 apiece for tickets. Likewise I’m oft struck by the number of people watching the gig through their phones - it happens every night and I’ve counted as many as thirty held high at a single time, the eyes of the beholder glued to the screen, us lost to them and frustratingly them to us.

We stay in the Comfort Inn not far away and despite the lure of wine in the lobby I decide to relax back in the room and flick between more Forensic Files and something called ‘Pro Pulling League’.

The only Pulling League I’d encountered previously was the one my friend at University kept pinned to his fridge with a magnet from Magaluf. The pulling is a little more literal in this league and involves a souped-up tractor hauling an ever-increasing load along a mud dragway, the winner being the vehicle that pulls the farthest. The teams are mostly made up of family members, the daughters more often than not piloting the machines, and most speak in cartoon hillbilly accents with names like Mae-Paisley, Savannah-Daisy and Jessie-Mary-Gretchen-Jancie.

America always thinks of something new!

The following morning and I arise somewhat grey’d in the knowledge that today we play the final gig of the tour. (As alluring as the thought of 6X pint at the Beehive is I could happily go around again). In a bid to warm my mood I hop into the shower - alas Comfort Inn clearly don’t consider hot water part of the comfort deal so I dance around under the lukewarm dribble to try and get wet and then decide to have a shave. But the cheap blade dug in, and I watched the blood fall to the sink, a lazy shade of pink. Unable to stem the flow I resigned myself to the little piece of toilet tissue stuck to my face, a glamorous look for the drive across L.A. to our final lodgings of the tour at the foot of the Hollywood Hills.

But first we dive into the 101 Coffee Shop, a stylish L.A. diner complete with Columbo stone walls, stylish veneer tables and upholstered 70’s diner booths in tan leather. Not surprisingly it’s featured in a few films including 90’s classic Swingers and their huevos rancheros is among the best yet.

Tonight we’re at the Henry Fonda Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. When I was young and I first came to L.A. some seven years back I frequented an Irish bar a block to the west so it’s a reassuring symbol of sorts to be ending the tour at a venue of some personal significance.

After soundcheck Gerard and myself take a walk up the boulevard while the sun sets for the final time on our trip; a glorious luminescent pastel fade to the west while we ponder the stars above us and those named on the sidewalk below. For a dollar each we have our fortunes told by Zoltar (from ‘Big’!). “Many a fine man can be found beneath a shabby hat” he tells me (though I suspect the reverse is more often true). Meanwhile Gerard receives advice about remaining youthful in spirit which is slightly wasted on a man who despite being twenty years my senior is more youthful in spirit than I.

The crowds have been loud and enthusiastic every single night of the tour and as we step up to the stage for the last show of the run the Los Angeles crowd are no different.

Of particular note - indeed my standout character of the tour - was the chap at the front left who I genuinely believe was in the region of 9-10 feet tall. For the first half of the gig I thought that he was stood on a chair and it was all the weirder that he barely moved amidst an otherwise spirited crowd!

Alas another tour over. But a fine send off and it was nice to see so many familiar faces afterwards too.

Back to Palais de Peppiat aka Room 412 for the Hollywood after-after-party. There have been many calls to see the suit from day 10, both among the band and the Internet at large and I finally unveiled it to overwhelming approval - and much relief. (Despite being exceptional value, I did unfortunately discover that the suit is made of 100% polyester and did get very hot very quickly).

A welcome lie-in the following morning ahead of our late-afternoon flight home. The evocative hotel is decor’d furiously with movie memorabilia, photographs and autographs and the bathroom alone is about the size of the entire suite in San Francisco. There’s a walk-in shower with a window that looks down on the courtyard below, framing a California cross-section of white-washed walls and clear-blue pool and a brush of leaves that sways slowly in the Santa Ana winds. It’s all very Hockney.

Hit the 101 downstairs for a final eggs-over-easy (they’re never the same back home) and the waitress tells us that her husband is in The Sweet - how very L.A...

Professional Drum Shop is 10 blocks south on Vine and with an hour until our final call time I manage to drag Debs, Gerard, Joe and Pete along with me. The walls are lined with bass drum heads, vintage drummer promo pics and paraphernalia from the greats ... Watts, Hamilton, Shaughnessy, Jones ... they even have one of Buddy Rich’s latter Slingerlands and I invest in an agogo to memorialise the visit.

Despite Parking In Rear, Pete Wiggs and I nip out front so he can take my portrait for the cover of Drum Legends Magazine.

“Hey Mr!” comes a ladys voice and we turn in unison to see a broken-down red Chevy holding up the traffic. “I just gotta get this piece o’ shit going...”.

Picture Pete and I puffing and heaving in the 30 degree heat, a backdrop of Hollywood sign and Hollywood Hills. There are echoes of Bukowski (maybe she was Linda) and doesn’t dither when the car fires into life, leaving us coughing in a plume of fumes in the middle of Vine. It’s beautiful, funny and somehow quite poignant; a final scene of sorts and in my mind the credits roll.

A Guinness in the 101 and then we load up the van one final time; cross cross Hollywood; steal a final glimpse down Sunset, Fountain and Santa Monica; head south on Gower; pass Paramount Pictures and cut across Melrose while Peaceful Easy Feeling by The Eagles plays. Down beyond Beverly Boulevard and through central L.A., a flash of a domestic scene through a mock Spanish colonial archway, another final glimpse into Hockney’s Hollywood.

We depart LAX early evening UTC-08:00, traverse time and space in a whirlwind of memories, characters and concerts, landing back in reality some time tomorrow.

Thanks Bob, Pete, Sarah, Debsey, Gerard, Pep, Robin, Joe, James, Sylvia, and JMac. Thanks to the great USofA and all those endlessly amusing and inspiring people who reside in her and who provided so much to write about - Donny, MarkO Pizza, Brian of Bar Harbor and even John Wood. Unfailingly odd but unstoppably brilliant.

And finally my gratitude to you cherished reader and all of those who sent positive messages about the blog over the past few weeks!

My suitcase still smells like Lovleys Motel up in Newport, Maine and I’m already missing the blue skies and weak coffee. But as they say all good things must come to an end and I suppose I’ll end where I began - I’m off to the Beehive for a 6X.

Until we meet next,

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terminallydepraved · 7 years

Text

Epithymy (Prologue)

Drow au is finally here!

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Read on ao3 here

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The tavern was crowded when Silva managed to shove his way inside, filled with smoke and bodies and the stink of sweat and ale. It was better than the storm outside, but only just. Silva shouldered his way inside and let the door slam shut behind him, nose wrinkling but too used to this sort of environment to bother complaining. He had a job to do. He could complain after.

“What’ll you have?” the elderly man asked from behind the bar, bushy eyebrows blending with his wild mane of white hair. He was polishing glasses with a dingy rag, keeping up the veneer of productivity while accomplishing little at all. “Look like a drowned mire rat, you do.”

“Feel like one,” Silva grunted, waving off the proffered glass to lean against the grimy bar. Water sloughed off his cloak, the rain matting the fur trim. He’d be in for a miserable night if the weather didn’t calm itself. He really didn’t want to pay for lodging in a place like this.

The old man hummed and went back to his pointless cleaning. “What brings you to these parts?” he asked, seeming desperate for conversation. Silva’s father was the same way, always eager to talk someone’s ear off if they stayed still for too long. “Don’t get many with that accent ‘round here.”

“Here on business,” Silva said gruffly, knowing better than to tell the old timer he was a bounty hunter. Even if he wasn’t on a job, it tended to make any known or unknown criminals in the vicinity twitchy. “Meeting a client.”

“Ahh, yer waitin’ for someone,” the man said sagely as he tapped the side of his nose, blinking his bushy browed eyes. The rag in his hands paused. “Say, you wouldn’t be lookin’ for that shady bloke back there?” he asked, gesturing to the furthest corner of the bar where a single figure stood out against the lively background of the bar. “Been sittin’ there all night, he has. Been tellin’ my boys to keep an eye on him. Doesn’t feel right, if you get my meanin’. Best not to bother yourself with bad news, son.”

“I make my living on bad news,” Silva sighed, pushing away from the bar. He pulled a silver piece from his pocket and dropped it onto the bar, nodding at the man evenly. “Thanks for the warning, old man.”

“You’d be thankin’ me more if you listened, but I’m not your pa,” the barkeep huffed, palming the coin and turning away to go tend to the other customers. A dwarf banged his goblet on the top of the bar, growing violent in his need for a refill. “See that you keep that trouble to yerself, son,” he called, leaving Silva to his work.

Silva rolled his eyes, turning around to face the tavern at large. First order of business when meeting a new client was always the same, no matter the venue, no matter the client. The room was large and crowded with carefully segmented groups that bespoke of regular customers. A card table was set up in the middle of the tavern, its occupants ranging from a hard-eyed halfing to a brutish looking boar of a man losing handsomely to her. A few onlookers were gathered around betting on the outcome, and around them sat individual tables of lonely drinkers, adventurers worn out from the day’s travels, and old men and women regaling each other with stories in between drinks of their bar swill.

His first perusal told him that there weren’t many visible weapons, which Silva considered a boon. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d been dragged into a bar fight while in the middle of hammering out the details of a new contract. It was always a possibility in this type of setting, and he’d learned long ago that exposed weapons only added to the carnage. He may have relished it in his youth, but these days all it did was add to his growing collection of scars, scare off more customers than it brought in, and get him kicked out of the tavern for the night. He certainly didn’t need that, especially on a night like this.

And that then brought him to the shadowy figure tucked into the corner. If this were indeed his client, and all signs pointed to him being just that, then he was far smaller than Silva had anticipated him being. Even from across the room Silva could see he was just a little slip of a thing, wrapped up in his cloak as he was. Small gloved hands were wrapped around a steaming mug, the hood not shifting an inch as it was lifted and sipped from. Silva observed for another few moments, trying to read the stranger, but there simply was nothing left to garner. This person could be armed to the teeth or be as harmless as a child and Silva wouldn’t know the truth until he got within striking range.

Silva let out a sigh, blinking tiredly. He had walked into worse, so there really was no point in prolonging it any longer than he already had. Shifting his axe higher onto his shoulder, he cut through the oblivious drinkers, glaring at the eyes that followed him until they went back to their mugs. He could already tell which were the ‘boys’ the barkeep had been referring to. It really didn’t bode well that his prospective client had already garnered enough attention to be watched like a hawk in somewhere as innocuous as a tavern.

“I take it you’re the one who contacted me?” Silva said by way of greeting, coming up to the table slowly, assessing. There was an empty seat across from the solitary figure but he was hesitant to take it. It was one thing to get within striking distance with minimal information. It was another thing entirely to willfully sit across from the stranger as if they were old friends.

The voice that replied to him was entirely unlike anything he expected to hear. “I suppose I am,” the stranger said in a soft, melodic voice. “Are you the feared bounty hunter Silva?”

“You sound surprised,” Silva grunted, dragging the chair out and sitting down. The stranger didn’t sound older than twenty, and that in itself calmed Silva’s distrust. But just to be careful, he unslung his axe from his back and rested it against his leg, just in case. “Were you expecting something different?”

A gloved hand tugged the hood of the stranger’s cloak lower, obscuring his face but for his cheeky little smile. “I suppose I expected someone a little less wet,” he teased, his lips parting to showcase a row of sharp, white teeth. “But I shouldn’t poke fun. It’s a mess outside.”

Silva hummed, narrowing his eyes. “You’re the one who contacted me?” he said, trying and failing to catch a glimpse beneath the cloak. “I expect to look my employer in the eye when discussing business.”

“Ah, well,” he began, his hands fluttering nervously around his cloak. Upon closer inspection, it looked shiny and slick, almost as if it were treated to repel the elements. Expensive. “I’m trying to avoid attention. Don’t take it personally.”

“That’s not how I operate.” Silva made a move to pick up his axe, lifting himself from the chair. “Thanks for wasting my time.”

Quick as lightning a slender hand shot out to wrap around Silva’s wrist, holding him in place in a desperate move. “Please don’t leave,” the stranger said, biting his lip with his perfect, sharp teeth. “My name is Chrollo? At least hear me out first. I can make it worth your while.”

He let out a sigh but sank back into his seat. The alternative was going back out into that rain. “Chrollo?” he repeated, rolling the strange name on his tongue. “Where are you from?”

Chrollo let go of Silva’s wrist, settling back down into his own seat with a nervous little shuffle. Carefully he peered around at the bar behind Silva, tugging up his hood just a bit to show his dark, dark skin and his pointed ears. “It’s just easier to show you, I guess,” he murmured quietly, meeting Silva’s gaze with a pair of eyes so deep that just looking in them induced the sensation of drowning. “Please don’t leave. It really was a lot of work to get in contact with you.”

Drow. Silva’s lip curled in distaste. That answered that question. He had only ever dealt with them sporadically, and usually never in such a public setting. They were notorious for keeping to themselves, especially aboveground like this. Silva supposed that was probably do to the stigma more than anything. Drow certainly weren’t well received here. “You’re a long way from the Underdark,” he observed gruffly, letting his arms fall from his chest so he could rest a hand on his axe beneath the table. “I’m surprised they let you in here.”

Chrollo’s polite smile grew tight. His small nose wrinkled as he pulled his hood down lower. “Yeah, well,” he began, looking about as uncomfortable as a Drow above the earth should look. “There’s a reason I kept my hood up. Is this going to be a problem?”

Silva didn’t know how to answer that. He certainly didn’t want to work for a Drow. The added risk it presented was far more than he would ever willingly accept on any other job. “That depends,” he drawled, leaning back in his seat to better take in the potential customer before him, “on what you’re wanting done. I’ll tell you right now, I don’t kill for less than five thousand.”

“I don’t need you to kill anyone,” the Drow huffed, wrinkling his small nose. “I could do that myself if I needed it done so badly. I just need you to escort me for a bit. Or do you charge five thousand for that too?”

Escort? If there was one thing in this world Silva hated, it was escorting some helpless brat. “I’m a bounty hunter, not a babysitter,” Silva said.

“I’m aware,” the Drow replied, furrowing his brow.

If he were so aware of that, then why bother coming to Silva? There were plenty of others around that could handle something as simple as an escort contract. What a waste of his time. “It’ll cost you.” Watch this brat have barely two gold to rub together. “I don’t do charity work.” Even for the pretty ones.

The Drow rolled his dark eyes. Silva hadn’t met many Drow in his time, but he knew that this one’s coloring was odd for their race. Everything about him was dark, muted. Black hair peeked past the edge of the hood, as shiny and sleek as the feathers on a raven’s wings. His eyes were a midnight gray, at odds with Silva’s memory of brilliant red or burning pink. As Chrollo shifted to reach for something beneath the table, Silva drank in his petite figure. No, this was certainly something different. In both behavior and appearance, it seemed.

A thick, rough sack hit the scarred tabletop with a metallic rattle. “Is this enough?” Chrollo asked, leaning forward to push the money closer to Silva. His fingers were slender, their dark color stark against the tan of the sackcloth. “It’s not quite five thousand, but I think you’d be an idiot to refuse it either way.”

Silva dragged over the sack and loosened the drawstrings, his eyes going wide when he looked inside and found it full of not silver or bronze, but pure gold coins. There were dozens of them, all neatly stamped with the Imperial crest for the region. Carefully he lifted a coin from the bundle and bit down on it, testing its authenticity.

“Oh, come on,” Chrollo huffed, crossing his arms over his small chest. “It’s real. I just traded for it all earlier this evening.”

“You can’t blame me for doubting you,” Silva retorted, a bit rankled that it was in fact real.

“If you’re going to be like that, I can take my business elsewhere. If me being what I am offends you then I don’t want to trust you with my safety.”

Silva rolled his eyes and dropped the bent coin back into the sack, closing the bundle with a sharp tug to the drawstrings. “It won’t be an issue,” he said, fastening the payment to his hip. “I’m a professional. Where are you wanting escorted? Back to the Underdark?” He hadn’t been that way in a long while, and the thought alone of traveling downwards made his skin crawl.

He hadn’t expected to make the Drow laugh. If Silva were being honest with himself, he hadn’t thought the race capable of something like humor unless it were directed at something foul or sadistic. Chrollo wiped an errant tear from his dark, dark eyes and smiled at Silva brightly. “Oh, absolutely not. I don’t want to go anywhere near there,” he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “What I want from you is a little unorthodox.”

“More unorthodox than a Drow who doesn’t want to go back to the Underdark?” Silva posed, brow raised. It just earned him another laugh, one that he begrudgingly had to admit sounded rather pleasant.

“I suppose when you put it like that…” Chrollo looked off at the bar, turning back quickly when the lumbering brute at the card table caught him staring. “What I want from you is to be more of a… companion to me. I find myself dragged into conflicts more than I’d like to admit, and while I am more than capable of taking care of myself, I thought it might be prudent to employ some help. I don’t have any destination in mind. I don’t need you to escort me like chattel. I just want to accompany you and count on you for aid should the need arise.”

As if this Drow couldn’t get stranger. Silva stared at him, searching his odd, comely face for any sign that he was lying. It had to be a trap, right? Or some sort of deception. Silva had heard the Drow bred themselves to be pretty to make duplicity easier for them. Who spent so much gold on hiring a traveling companion?

“I have work to do,” Silva said, resting his hands on the tabletop. “I have bounties to collect. You say you can take care of yourself but what guarantee do I have that you can protect yourself while I’m on a job?”

Chrollo cocked his head and blinked slowly like a cat. He leaned forward, off his chair to loom into Silva’s space. “Trust me,” he whispered, Silva’s attention stolen by the way the Drow formed the words with his full lips. “I won’t be what slows you down.”

The moisture disappeared from Silva’s mouth. The rumors he’d heard of Drow, the ones he had studiously avoided thinking, roared between his ears unbidden. They’re so tight, one bawling drunkard had bellowed during one of Silva’s tavern stays. Soft skin, hot mouths, tight, tight, tight. If you can get past the thought of what you’re fucking, you’ll never regret the nights you keep one in your bed.

“Are you amenable to that?” Chrollo continued, shattering Silva’s reverie by batting his eyes in a way that Silva distrusted immediately. “If not, I’ll have to ask that you return my money.”

He leaned back instantly. Was it worth it? He couldn’t say he wasn’t at least interested in this strange, pretty Drow. The weight against his thigh was too much to ignore and he would be loath to lose it now when he’d only just gotten it. “There will be rules,” Silva growled out, meeting the Drow’s eyes carefully.

Business. This was just business as usual. Nothing more.

Chrollo sat back in his seat with a self-satisfied smile. “But of course.” He looked too happy. It just made Silva’s gut burn hotter.

“I expect them to be followed to the letter.”

“Naturally,” the Drow murmured. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Silva gritted his teeth. “Else I’ll take your money and leave you in the woods.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Chrollo said with a smile. He clapped his hands in front of him and cocked his head. “With that settled, I think there’s only one more thing left to do.”

Silva was getting a headache already. “And what would that be?” he asked, running a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. He should have taken up the offer for a drink. How long had it been since he had last traveled with another? This job better be worth the pay.

Instead of answering him, Chrollo just raised a hand and pointed somewhere over Silva’s shoulder, that damnable smile still on his face. “Well, it would appear that I’ve been found out,” he said cheerfully. And when Silva followed his hand, he saw that the card game had been abandoned, the men approaching their table with weapons in hand and foul looks on their faces.

“I think it best if you get to protecting me,” Chrollo said, making a little shooing motion with his fingers as he settled in with his mug of tea. “I did just pay you, after all.”

As Silva stood, wrapping his hand around the wrapped handle of his axe, he tried to swallow back the instinctive urge to lash out at his newest employer. This was definitely not worth the money.

#hisokuro #silvakuro #silvahisokuro #drow au #check ao3 for othe rwarnigns im fuckin tired

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haroldgross · 7 years

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New Post has been published on Harold Gross: The 5a.m. Critic

New Post has been published on http://literaryends.com/hgblog/a-cure-for-wellness/

A Cure for Wellness

A Cure for Wellness has many layers and is definitely not for everyone. It isn’t a great movie, but it is worth seeing.

It is, at its core, a suspense/horror film very much in the vein of Frankenstein and Dracula, even a dash of Phantom of the Opera. But it isn’t a B-grade flick nor is it histrionic or intended to get you with cheap scares.

Balancing the classic influences, there are also nods to Cronenberg’s Naked Lunch and Kubrik’s Eyes Wide Shut. For the former, it is the thin veneer of reality and matter-of-fact absurdity of what is going on, as well as some of the sense of the imagery. From the latter, it is the use of a simple, repeating musical theme and, particularly near the end, a sequence that echos Eyes and a load of Argento and other films from the 70s including Rosemary’s Baby, The Wicker Man, and others.

Visually, the film is full of gorgeous cinematography by Bazelli. The composition and clarity of the shots will make you want to pause every few moments to really examine the detail and relationship of the various objects. It is painterly in its execution, but always in support of the story.

The story itself is somewhat obvious, but what is reality is somewhat not. There are clues, but it is ultimately contradictory, and the ending is nebulous at best. And yet, somehow this gorgeous, Gothic, mental trip to the Swiss Alps is mesmerizing, even with a 2.5 hour run. The whole is, somehow, more than its parts.

There are several nice, small performances, but are only three main roles that form the framework of the movie. Dean DeHaan (Valerian) as the lead isn’t any more likable than he is in other roles, but he has a bit more energy. Generally, I’m finding DeHaan to always have a cool distance; an odd disconnect between his voice and his physical movement that removes you from caring about him. It can be very effective when you aren’t intended to like him, but it makes it hard to even care about what happens to him.

On the other hand, Jason Isaacs (The OA) is wonderfully creepy. He rides the line between care and conspiring beautifully. And Mia Goth (Everest) is practically ephemeral, going through her inevitable changes in a controlled and believable progression. You can see why DeHaan is drawn to her, why anyone would be. And yet she also manages to have a layer of both innocence and poisonousness lurking beneath her surface, like a toxic flower.

As I suggested, the end feels like it could be read in many ways. It is a strong choice, but not a clear one. And I say this despite one of the characters providing an explicit meaning to the title and their philosophy…I just don’t think it covered all that was going on nor the last image. Honestly, I’m still not sure what I think the entire intent was, and that’s somewhat OK because I’ve plenty to chew on.

Director Gore Verbinski and writer Justin Haythe reteamed for this production after their somewhat confused and misfire of The Lone Ranger. Bazelli returned behind the camera again as well. Seeing their efforts in an unfettered venue, absent any expectations, gives me a much better sense of their creative scope. While the end-result is a little baffling, it is a ride I willingly took and continue to think about. Make time for this when you’re in a mood for something darkly beautiful but very different.

#3stars #craft #Dark #Director #Horror #indie #Mystery #Romance #SeeIt #Suspense #Movie Review

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presuninoc-blog · 5 years

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dougeboy · 5 years

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AO4: Dominion - Chapter 1

October 31, 2076: 30 days after the release of Awaken Online.

Alex Lane shifted on the cushions of the limousine, the leather letting out a soft creak as he fiddled with the black velvet mask in his hands. Silver scrollwork framed the edges of the mask, which matched a similar design embroidered on his suit. The ensemble had been custom-tailored for this evening and had undoubtedly been cobbled together by someone well-renowned – likely with an unpronounceable Italian name. When it came to clothing, the designer always seemed to be Italian.

He couldn’t help but grimace as he considered what was in store for him this evening. The rich didn’t celebrate Halloween with vacant-minded parties filled with overflowing plastic cups and scantily-clad women. Instead, they celebrated in presumptuous style. A courtly affair filled with ballgowns and overpriced, designer masks. And overlaying this fanfare was always some altruistic premise; something to make the elite feel morally superior to their less-fortunate employees and servants even as they each spent one of those lowly employee’s entire annual salary on their outfit. Tonight, they would be attending an art charity auction. The pretense was practically nauseating, even to someone like Alex who had grown up among this sort of extravagant hypocrisy.

“It won’t be as bad you’re thinking,” Alex’s father, George Lane said softly. He must have noticed his son’s grimace. “The St. Clair’s charity auction is an annual event. It can actually be rather entertaining – as far as these sorts of things go anyway.”

“You mean I’ll have the privilege of making inane small talk while wearing a mask this time?” Alex groused. This earned him a derisive snort of agreement from his father before the pair lapsed into silence once more.

The irony was that Alex always wore a mask in public – so this night would hardly be a first. He had long ago discovered that it was best to put on an act. His default nature seemed only to disturb other people. He needed to apply a thin veneer of smiles and cordial greetings to mask the hollow void that ached dully in the back of his mind. However, lately, he had found it increasingly difficult to maintain his usual composure.

Even as that thought crossed his mind, the memories of his recent encounter within Awaken Online returned with a vengeance. The Old Man’s grin loomed before him – the wrinkled smile taunting as the dark god tortured Alex, showing him his worst memories on an endless loop. Since that encounter, he had found it more and more difficult to get back into character; to be the ‘golden boy’ that his fellow students and his father’s colleagues seemed to expect.

“Ahh, finally,” his father murmured as the limo slid to a halt, a faint tremor the only sign that the vehicle had stopped. The doors soon opened, and Alex and his father stepped out.

The venue for this evening’s soiree appeared to be a museum, ornate roman columns dotting a familiar white-stone façade. The appearance eerily reminded Alex of the Crystal Reach and he forcefully tamped down on the memories of the game that threatened to resurface.

“We only need to stay for a few hours and then we can make a polite exit,” George explained, resting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I just need to make the rounds and ensure that our attendance is remembered tomorrow.”

He peered at Alex with an inquiring expression. “There is no particular business goal this evening. Just try to ingratiate yourself with some of my colleagues and their children. I assume you will be able to handle yourself?”

Alex almost detected a note of concern in his father’s voice and he was distinctly aware of the hand on his shoulder. For some reason, George’s compassion affected him more than it normally would have; than it should have. He couldn’t help but recall his own half-hearted questions about his mother a few nights ago and his father’s promise that they would visit her grave. For a moment, Alex even considered asking him to ditch this party to have a private dinner.

Yet he discarded that idea immediately. His father wouldn’t look kindly upon weakness. Alex was a Lane, after all. “I will be fine,” he answered curtly, donning his mask to cover up his expression. Perhaps tonight he should be thankful for the disguise. “This isn’t my first party.”

George didn’t appear to be entirely convinced, but he nodded before placing his own red-velvet mask over his face. With that, the pair stepped up toward the building, joining the groups of other fancifully dressed men and women that were drifting into the Museum. The pair swiped their Cores across pedestals installed near the entrance – the only evidence they needed that they had been invited to the party. Alex noted the burly, black-suited men standing near the entrance and he was certain that any uninvited guest would immediately be escorted off the premises.

As they entered the front hall, the gentle roar of hundreds of voices echoed off the stone floor. They were directed up a spiraling staircase and exited into the museum’s grand hall. The room was filled to the brim with masked individuals, replete in expensive flowing ballgowns and courtly tuxedos. With a final pat on Alex’s shoulder, his father immediately drifted off, quickly blending into the crowd.

Alex stood still for a moment, trying to decide what he should do. He had little desire to mingle and his father had indicated that he had no concrete goal for the evening – which was unusual. His father rarely entertained these parties without some sort of ulterior motive, but perhaps he simply didn’t feel like explaining himself to Alex. It wouldn’t be the first time.

As he grumbled to himself under his breath, he caught sight of a bar along the far side of the room. Perhaps a drink would quiet his nerves and drown out the memories that raged in the back of his mind. With a plan in place, he made his way over to the bar.

“What can I get for you?” the bartender asked a moment later, a young man dressed in a colorful vest that identified the serving staff.

“Gin and tonic,” Alex answered curtly, leaning against the bar. He immediately turned to survey the room, not bothering to wait to see if the bartender would card him. Alex doubted he would bother and the man would immediately regret it if he tried. A moment later, he heard the bartender set the drink down and Alex immediately took a sip, savoring the sharp wintery bite of the gin.

His attention was drawn to a nearby group seated at one of the high-tables scattered about the room. They had apparently been hitting the bar a bit too hard, their loud laughter and boisterous activity standing out from the more sober demeanor of the other guests.

“I think it’s time for another around,” one of the men declared. Alex watched with some amusement as he tried to stand, stumbling and knocking over the table’s centerpiece – a small glass container holding what appeared to be daisies to the tinkle of glass shattering.

“Ha, sorry about that,” the man apologized to one of the female guests, water having spilled onto the sleeve of her gown. “Shit,” he added as he looked at the ruined centerpiece.

“Don’t worry about the flowers. Why they picked some peasant flower for the occasion is beyond me,” his date replied dryly. “However, you may be at your limit.”

Alex heard an irritated cough from beside him and turned to find himself staring into the crimson mask of a young woman. She couldn’t be more than a few years older than him, but it was difficult to tell in her costume. She was dressed in a long red gown that left little the imagination. The fabric hugged her curves and dipped precariously low between the curves of her breasts, naturally drawing his eyes down and across her body.

“Drunken idiots,” she murmured, the corners of her lips turned down in a frown as her gaze lingered on the ruined table.

“Did you expect something different?” Alex interjected. “We like to think we’re better than the poor masses and we put on airs – but we’re still just animals. It’s Halloween, people will get drunk, wealthy or not”

This comment earned him an appraising look from the woman beside him. “Perhaps, you’re right. Although, you look a little young to be drinking yourself,” she commented, raising a delicate eyebrow.

He hesitated, taken a bit aback by her response. The voice in the back of his mind urged him to snap at her – he could do as he pleased. Yet, there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes that made him hesitated.

“You were about to respond?” the woman nudged him, a smirk lingering on her lips. “I’m sure you had a witty reply loaded and ready to go. I’m practically on the edge of my seat.” She gestured at the bar stool she was perched upon.

Alex coughed to clear his throat and to buy himself a moment. He really was feeling off this evening and somehow this woman had immediately managed to make him feel like an idiot. He couldn’t help but mentally kick himself. Lucky for him, his family was near the top of the heap, so he opted to fall back to a position of strength. “I was going to say, who do you think paid for this bar?” he answered with a raised eyebrow.

The woman feigned confusion. “Hmm, I thought this event was put on by the St. Clair family. I don’t recall that they have a blond-haired son, but perhaps their daughter dyed her hair… and had a rather extreme operation.” That smirk was still there, and Alex could feel the void in the back of his mind pulsing in irritation.

He waved a dismissive hand. “Several families contribute to the event, including the Lanes,” he said, placing emphasis on his family name. He needed to regain the upper hand here.

“Lane,” the woman murmured, tapping her crimson lips with a finger. “That name certainly sounds familiar… where have I heard it before?”

Alex gritted his teeth, but managed to maintain his composure. The woman was surely messing with him. Only the incredibly ignorant or stupid would fail to recognize his family’s name – much less antagonize him like this. “Since you seem so comfortable here, may I ask your name?”

“You can certainly ask,” the woman replied, that grating smirk making an appearance once again. “But I don’t make it a habit to give out my name to strange young men from unknown families.”

At this comment, Alex discretely tapped the Core on his wrist. If she wouldn’t tell him her name, then he would simply find out himself. A moment later, a digital interface overlaid his vision as the tech installed inside the mask came online. His father hated these sorts of events since it was so difficult to identify the other guests. He had one of his engineers design a mask that could provide a facial recognition match based on a number of available datapoints, including the person’s speech pattern, height, weight, etc. It would only take the software a few moments to place the young woman’s name and provide a summary of her background in his peripheral vision.

“Yet you seem perfectly content to chat with random men at the bar,” Alex observed, keeping up the repartee as he waited on the mask to do its job.

The woman raised a delicate eyebrow. “Now what makes you think this encounter was random,” she replied, grabbing her drink. She leaned forward until her hair tickled his face and he could feel her warm breath on his ear. “I know exactly who you are, Alex.”

With this last comment, the woman turned and began weaving her way into the crowd. As his eyes followed her retreating form, the tracking software completed its search and the overlay updated.

“I’ll be damned,” Alex murmured. “Evelyn St. Clair…” He couldn’t decide whether to be irritated or impressed, and, for once, even the insidious voice in the back of his mind was completely silent on the matter.

* * *

George Lane had only been partially telling the truth when he and Alex had entered the event. In fact, George did have a specific goal in mind for the evening and it wasn’t to bid on overpriced art. Alex’s presence did serve a purpose; disarming the other guests and explaining George’s lack of a date for the evening. He certainly could have found any number of eligible women to accompany him to the auction, but he didn’t need someone interrupting him from his objective. In short, Alex was an excuse for him to wander off on his own without raising any eyebrows.

He felt a small twinge of guilt at using his son like this, but he quickly rationalized away his concern. Alex would need to get accustomed to these sorts of events when he ultimately inherited his father’s companies. Networking and socializing were often as important (if not more important) than general business acumen or technical knowledge. George had lost track of how many times knowing the right person or being able to call in a favor at the last minute had gotten him out of a tight spot.

Shaking his head, George tried to clear his mind. He needed to get to work. He tapped at the Core on his wrist, the digital overlay built into his mask filled his vision as he scanned the crowd. He had one specific target in mind for the evening, Senator James Lipton. It only took the software a few minutes to generate a dossier on everyone around him and it soon located the senator – the man’s height, weight, and voice providing nearly a perfect match. He would need to remember to give Robert another healthy bonus for inventing this device. There seemed to be no end to his usefulness of late.

The senator was dressed in a brilliant emerald green tuxedo and matching mask and was currently surrounded by a small crowd of politicians and aides who seemed to be jockeying for favor. George couldn’t hear what they were saying at this distance, but he was certain it was insipid nonsense. With a long blink of his eye, he tagged the senator on the mask’s UI, generating a small red tag that would make it easy to track the man through the crowded room.

Now it was time for the fun part. George couldn’t simply barrel toward the senator. That would be much too obvious, and this evening required tact – especially with what was at stake. The purpose of this night was to make his encounter with the senator appear random; a happy coincidence amid a room full of masked elite.

And so he began to hunt his prey.

George deftly spun through the room, joining and leaving conversations effortlessly – but not without introducing himself and dropping a memorable joke or compliment (made easy by his helpful accessory). With each step, he moved steadily closer to the senator, keeping a watchful eye on the man. At one point, he saw him stumble – certainly understandable in a crowded room and with the way the masks limited the guests’ vision. He couldn’t help but smile as he realized how he should introduce himself.

After a few more minutes of polite conversation, George saw the moment he had been waiting for; the group around the senator had begun to dissipate and the man was now eyeing a nearby bar. George chose this moment to strike. He politely excused himself from his current group and stepped in the senator’s direction, stumbling at the last moment.

George managed to right himself just in time, placing a steadying hand on the senator’s shoulder. “My apologies. Between the masks and the dimly-lit interior, this place is a law suit waiting to happen.”

#awaken online #chapter 1 #part1 #ao4 #books #book 4 #novels #rpg lite #fantasy #preview #sneakpeak #travis bagwell

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