#1571

[ltwilliammowett]

Stern view of the galley replica "La Real" (La Real was not the name of the ship, but the designation for its function as a flagship), which was the flagship of Juan de Austria at the naval battle of Lepanto 7. October 1571

[dailysmilingnatsume]

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 յճ𝔱𝔥-𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔶 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔠𝔥 𝔄𝔫𝔞𝔟𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔰𝔱, 𝔄𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔨𝔢𝔫 ℌ𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔦𝔨𝔰, 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔤𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔭𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔥 ℑ𝔫𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔶, 𝔄𝔪𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔡𝔞𝔪, յՏԴյ. 𝔈𝔫𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔶 𝔍𝔞𝔫 𝔏𝔲𝔶𝔨𝔢𝔫 (յճկգ - յԴյշ)

[theprogressivesadist]

Love you, humanity

[artschoolglasses]

The Holy Family, Pompeo Cesura, 1560-71

[oldcountrybearloveselle]

ELLE No.1571 - 16 February 1976 - Photographed by Sacha Van Dorssen

[sweet-vanilla-sims]

Year 1571 Part 6:

Blanche had become close friends with a young man named Sebastian Voss who was a travelling merchant. He still wasn’t keen on settling down all that much but when he met her, he said he would have been a fool to let her go. So he asked her father for her hand and the two were wed within the month. 

Alice trusted Thomas to find her a match and he did. The Dalton family in Forgotten Hollow had three eligible bachelors and the chemistry between Pedro and Alice was immediate. The two wed quickly. Alice wouldn’t say the words aloud but she was glad to leave Henford. Her mother and most of her siblings had died there as well as the man she knew as her father. She loved the Carlisles and her little sister but a fresh start was something she realized she needed. Besides, the two towns were fairly close. Visiting would not be difficult. 

[toranstory]

NFT Project (50000‘Dokkaebi’) NFT 도깨비 만들기 #1571 ~ #1580 nft create project #nft #nft_project #청주 #한정판매 #art #ceramic #comics #대체불가 #미니도자기 #작업과정 #오만상 #toranstory #design #drawing #painting #craft #수채화 #그림그리기 #토란스토리 #도깨비 #도자기만들기 #조각 #취미미술 #조용한취미 #미술작가 #미니소품 #미술작품 #작가일상 (대한민국에서) https://www.instagram.com/p/ChYvsMBrnuq/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[gbfmi1]

Eclipse Moodboard

[lostdrarryfics]

hello! i’m looking for a fic where Draco kills Peter Pettigrew in third year and is traumatized by it. i think it’s part of a series, and it’s definitely drarry. thank you!!

We believe you are looking for The Mirror of Ecidyrue series by starbrigid (1.2m, various ratings). Specifically Part 4 and 5 of the series.

Don’t forget to bookmark, leave kudos and comments!

[ltwilliammowett]

The depicted Spanish galley of the Holy League fleet is of the type used at the 1571 Battle of Lepanto, the last large-scale naval battle fought between the rowed warships. Illustration by Tony Bryan, from Renaissance War Galley, 1470–1590, by Angus Konstam

[chokedraven]

Hey don’t know if your still looking for art recommendations but I’d love to see something about your recent mannequin whumpee.

Here we go with some art based on my previous whump post! Dunno If this is what you were imagining, but uh eh

An’ I'm always open to art ideas

[cinnamonsikwate]

i'm kind of baffled that there are still people who think k'uk'ulkan/namor is a thousand or more years old.

i'm not sure how much clearer the film could have been about his age short of him actually saying a number. upon shuri asking him if he's been around since the 16th century, he tells her the story of his birth. the year 1571 is quite literally shown onscreen as the year talokan was founded. a turning point in his childhood was him coming face-to-face with the horrors of western colonialism — which, as much as colonizers would like us to not think about, really wasn't that long ago!

guess i'm a little miffed about this precisely bc it's important for us to remember that colonialism is not a thing of the distant past. the world as it is today has been shaped by colonialism; we all still bear its scars. (also, neocolonialism is a thing!)

[helianskies]

hello! for the dialogue prompts, i was wondering if you could you 28 + turkspa. thanks!! <33 (i love your writing!!!)

anon ily and i'm sorrry this took a while (i got distracted by things) but look. turkspa. sacred sacred (angsty) turkspa 💘

Conflict

Everything hurts. His chest, his head, the pouring wound in his abdomen whose painful consequence is overwhelming his entire lower half… but not just them; his heart aches, too, and his eyes sting with bitter tears as he tries to stand back up, yet hardly has the energy to hold himself up on his knees, let alone his feet. 

Antonio hates that it has come to this. He may not be surprised—perhaps, in the end, this is the only path he has—a cruel inevitability—but that does not make the pain any easier to bear.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts in a way he does not recognise—in a way he fears he has not known pain before. He knows he won't die—not from anything other than blood loss, if he is so unlucky—but he feels otherwise. He feels Death. He wants Death. He wants an escape, because the pain he will have to live with instead will surely kill him anyway.

He had thought himself in love. He had thought that he had found a way to overcome the grip of politics, of culture, of society, and to live a double life. He had thought he could cheat the system of being a personification. He had thought he could play at being an ordinary human. But it had all been a lie. And now Antonio remains there kneeling in a growing puddle of his own blood, choking on vanishing air and his own naivety.

The person—the personification—that he holds responsible (yet also is hesitant to blame; is that naive of him, too?) stands over him, in the meantime. Cupid's arrow, Damocles' sword. Why does he watch? Why does he stand there silently and watch? Antonio cannot bear to face him. He fears moving, and being struck again. He fears pleading for a quickened end, but fears a crueller version of mercy.

The pain ebbs and flows in small surges. Pain, then numbness. 

"I am sorry it had to come to this between us," the other says, though there is a lack of apology in his tone. A brute after all. “I tried to warn you. I tried to tell you to stay away.”

A laugh, stinging and sardonic, squeezes past drying lips. “Yet you kept coming back,” Antonio counters. “All this time, you… you let me believe, l-let me…” 

But he can’t even get the words out. Ebbs and flows, pain and numbness. Antonio coughs and groans and makes the risky decision to lie down. He knows he’s going to die. He would prefer to save himself the fall—the sensation of being on the verge of dying and suddenly plummeting, as though down to Hell.

When his head hits the ground, it is both bliss, and surrender. 

“This was never going to end any other way,” Sadık narrates all the while. 

Antonio can barely hear him. His head throbs too loudly. 

“You should have known that.”

If he were human, he would already be dead. His injury would have killed him.

“We could never be more than a fantasy.”

If he were human, he would have died so fast, but nation bodies, oh, they were such resilient things…

“We would never have survived war.”

Why couldn’t his heart be that strong…?

Antonio blinks and the tear that has held him together finally releases, dropping down into the dirt. How much of the world has been watered by tears, he wonders? How many nations weep, only for a flower to eventually sprout in that same place? Maybe there is something in that thought. Maybe his loss will become a gain for the world; a single flower, imbued with an impossible magic, resilient like a nation—like a nation should be, at least.

Still, with what energy remains, he searches for the other. His breathing may be frantic, blood may be blossoming from his body, a funeral rose, but he still searches for Ottoman, only to find him… walking away. Walking away from him, from them, from everything they once had. 

Something possesses Antonio. Fear, perhaps. Desperation.

“W… Wait,” he calls out, though it may only come out as a breathy whisper, “don’t leave. Don’t leave…”

And by some miracle, he is heard. Ottoman stops—Sadık stops—and he turns back to look at Spain—at Antonio—and he exceeds all expectations. It takes a moment. It takes some deliberating. But, in the end, the other steps back towards the dying nation and crouches down. Perhaps that is so Antonio does not have to strain. Perhaps that is so he can get a better look at his cheap victory.

“What is it?” he asks. His hand finds Antonio’s and, suddenly, they are not enemies but lovers again. It almost steals the Spaniard’s last breath away. “I was going to leave you in peace. I would hate to be the last thing you see, this time.”

But Antonio doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about what Sadık wants or does not want. It is time for him to be selfish.

So he musters what he can—squeezes a hand—and says, “I need you to tell me something.”

Silence is an invitation.

“Was it… ever real for you…?”

Silence is an answer. 

Silence is an answer that Antonio does not get to hear, because as he stares at Sadık for those few seconds and waits to know, waits for the truth, waits for peace, his breath and blood run out. He stares at Sadik for a few seconds more, but he does not see, like he does not hear, like he does not breathe. He does not know what that answer is, and he likely never will.

Sadık can only sigh. He regrets, in some ways, the things that have happened between them. He wishes it could have gone differently. But life as a nation—as an empire, like they both are and must now always be—rarely allows for the sort of life that Antonio has pursued. Perhaps Sadık should have warned him sooner…

Seeing that there is no one around—certainly no Spaniards, nor any of their allies—Sadık makes a decision. He makes a decision that surprises the other half of himself that would have left Spain there to die and wake up and struggle, and that decision prompts him to spend a minute or so carefully bringing a lifeless body into his arms. 

With it, he stands. Blood will stain his clothes and hands, but since when has that bothered him? He will take Antonio with him so that he will not be alone when he revives. Because that is worse, he feels: to revive alone, rather than to die alone. 

And think about it, he tells his other half, his empire-self, what an advantage it would be for the personification of the Spanish Empire to be under our charge, in our camp, in our custody. 

Such an argument helps him walk, and walk faster than he thought he could.

[ final wordcount, 1148; prompts can be found here! ]

[catharsistheory]

Lps #1571 !!

woof woof whats for lunch lol