#German Leather Museum

[caressthosecheekbones]

Devastating! contemporary design museum for applied arts gift shop fucking disappeared! tens of thousands of me in tears! Anzeige ist raus!

[humanpurposes]

Sweet Dream

The Sandman AU

Her father means to summon and capture Death, but ends up with the wrong sibling. She becomes fascinated with their prisoner // Main Masterlist

Dream!Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, spells n shit, mild gore, death, lowkey Lima syndrome, smut

Words: 8000

A/n: For my fellow Morpheus and Aemond lovers. Also available to read on AO3.

Roderick Burgess had always been a terrifying man. In grief he has only become more irritable and less predictable. 

The telegram came in the early days of July. She delivered the news to Roderick herself, while he was in his study. Her father did not like to be disturbed and he might have beaten her to remind her of the fact, until those fateful words slipped from her mouth. “Randall’s dead.” Shot down by a German machine gun at the Somme. In the end he had been one of thousands, his body buried in a neat line of tombstones somewhere in France, his name engraved on a plaque in the church at Wych Cross, ultimately unremarkable and indistinguishable from the other men and boys who had lost their lives.

But it was not so for Roderick. He let out a sudden groan and clutched his chest as though his pain was tangible and terrible. He shed no tears– of course he didn’t, but he gritted his teeth, crying out in fury as he dashed his hands over his desk, sending papers, books, fountain pens and empty whisky glasses tumbling to the floor. 

She stood frozen, waiting for his hand to descend on her for being the one to tell him, but it didn’t.

When they held a memorial service for him, Roderick handed her a piece of paper, to read before the crowd of faces she didn’t recognise. 

“Randall was our family’s happiness. He was the bravest, the wisest, and kindest older brother I could possibly dream of having.” Her hands and voice trembled as she read because she knew it was all a lie. In truth, Randall was like their father. They had the same short temper, the same stubbornness and the same cruelty. 

But Randall being dead meant she could reinvent him.

Lately, she dreams of happier memories and looks back on them fondly, knowing they can never be contradicted or disproved. 

While her father has dreamt of Death ever since. 

It’s a brisk afternoon in October when a man in a suit, bow tie and bowler hat arrives at Fawny Rig. He clutches a leather briefcase in front of him and introduces himself as Dr John Hathaway, a curator from the Royal Museum, travelled all the way from London to this quiet corner of East Sussex. She leads him through the panelled halls of the manor, to her father’s study.

Roderick barges in behind them, in a shirt and waistcoat, already smelling faintly of whisky and waving his cane in her general direction. “Tea for our guest,” he orders.

She has the pot ready and strains the dark, reddish liquid into two delicate china cups while her father and Dr Hathaway settle on opposing leather sofas in the centre of the room.

“I take it you have reconsidered?” Roderick says.

“After our meeting at the museum… I know what I said, but–” Dr Hathaway takes an unsure breath. “I received a telegram this morning. My son, Edmund, his destroyer was sunk last week off Jutland.”

It’s a loss Roderick can share, even if he doesn’t really understand how other than a few quick words of condolence. “I lost my son, Randall last year. He was my greatest joy.”

She pauses as she reaches for the sugar bowl. She has never been under the illusion that her own existence has given her father any joy, but then what sort of person would she have to be to earn his respect? She places the sugar on a tray, along with the small jug of milk and the cups, and brings them to the small table between the sofas. The pair don’t spare her a word of thanks or even a brief glance.

Dr Hathaway’s hand lingers on the clasp of his case. “If I give you this, could you truly do it? Could you really–”

“Capture the angel of Death?” Roderick says. “I believe I could.”

She shudders unexpectedly. The old groundskeeper used to say a sudden chill meant someone was walking over your grave.

Dr Hathaway clicks open the clasp and takes out an aged, leather bound book. It has no title on the cover, just gold markings in square, geometric patterns. 

“The Magdalene Grimoire,” her father mutters, his eyes wide in an ominous sort of wonder. “With the spells recorded in the book, we will see our sons returned to us.”

The next night is a full moon. She stands by the door with Sykes, welcoming men and women dressed in midnight blue robes to the manor and directing them towards the door that leads to the cellar. They’re all part of Roderick’s ‘Order of Ancient Mysteries’ which as far as she can tell is a cult of fanatics who still believe in witchcraft. They come to Fawny Rig once a month, to listen to her father read from so-called ‘spell books’ as though he is a preacher.

The fanatics pull hoods over their heads and descend the narrow stone steps into the cellar with lit candles grasped in their hands. Roderick leads the way, the book Dr Hathaway gave him tucked under his arm. 

She shoots Sykes a concerned frown but he just shrugs. He’s paid to organise the household and guard Burgess’ collection of relics, not to ask questions. Questions are a dangerous game with Roderick.

She trails after them and shuts the iron lock on the door behind her.

The cellar is more like a crypt, an expansive room sprawling under the house, held up by pillars and arches. In the low candlelight she makes out a set of markings on the floor in the heart of the room and this is where the Order of Ancient Mysteries gathers.

The shapes and symbols are unfamiliar to her, painted onto the flagstones, twisting and curling over each other to form a circle. Roderick stands at the very edge of it by a brass lectern.

She watches, half hidden behind a pillar as they stand around the circle and Roderick opens the book, his desired page already marked and studied in the hours since it has been in his possession. 

“Tonight,” her father says to his congregation, “we will achieve what no one before us has attempted. We will summon and imprison Death.”

His eyes meet hers through the shadowy space, heavy and sunken with age, grief and months worth of sleepless nights. They glisten slightly too. 

He holds his hands out and looks down at the markings on the floor. “Here, in the darkness.”

The others echo his words, softly and melodically at first. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

And so the ritual begins.

“I give you a coin made from a stone,” Roderick says, presenting the object to the ceiling as though the eyes of God are looking down from the heavens, through the house and the earth, and drops it to the floor, inside the circle of markings.

“I give you a knife from under the hills.” He holds up a thin blade and lifts his other arm so the sleeve of his robe drops to his elbow. “I give you the blood from out of my vein.”

She winces but does not look away as he draws the knife along the skin of his forearm, until dark droplets begin to fall and stain the markings. 

“I give you a song I stole from the dirt and I give you a feather,” he says, raising a white feather that almost seems to glow through the gloom, “pulled from an angel’s wing.”

And all the while the voices persist. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

He drops the feather and it drifts gently down, landing in the very heart of the circle. 

The room is still and she holds her breath.

The feather starts to move. It twists in a circle and floats up, lurching and turning as though it’s being blown about by a breeze she cannot feel or hear.

The voices raise to an urgent chant. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

She clenches her fingertips against the stone of the pillar. She tries to meet her father’s eye again but he is fixated on the feather flying above their heads.

He calls over the chanting, “I summon you with poison,” and the moment he does the feather flickers like the striking of a match. “I summon you with pain! I open the way! I open the gates! I summon you in the name of the old Lords, we summon you together! Come!”

A noise, like a cracking whip splits her ears. The feather bursts into white and golden flames like the flash of a camera. The heat of it rushes over her face and burns her eyes.

And from the flames a body falls to the floor.

It thuds as it hits the ground, silencing the voices save for a few gasps and murmurs. She feels the flagstones rumble under her feet, sees the edges of a black cloak spilling across the floor and a head of long silver hair trailing from its head.

This isn’t an illusion. Roderick Burgess has brought forth a tangible entity, plucked from God-knows-where, lying motionless on the floor. For a moment she wonders if he is dead, until she sees a slight movement in his chest, but even then she fears she could be imagining it.

She takes a few unsure steps to where Roderick stands and the man– he is a man as far as she can tell– is further revealed to her. She can see his face now, his pale skin, the angles of his jaw and cheeks, the curve of his lips, but beyond that she finds herself unable to look away from the jewel that sits where his left eye should be. It is a bright, deep shade of blue and dotted with silver specs, like the vast expanse of twilight when the stars are out but the sky is not quite black. The eye is framed by twisted, red flesh and a scar, slicing from his brow to his cheek. It takes her a moment to realise his other eye, closer to the ground, is closed. 

The only other parts of him she can see are the tips of his fingers, clasped around a small pouch.

“Is this… Death?” she utters.

“That remains to be seen,” Roderick says. He points to the pouch. “Get that for me.”

She stares back at her father. How he can speak so flippantly when a man has been conjured, seemingly from thin air, is beyond her. But he glares back, his dark expression only more formidable with his aged frown.

So she steps forward and begins to lower herself beside the man.

“Careful, girl!” Roderick barks, “don’t break the binding circle.”

She stops and looks down, where her skirt is inches from brushing over the markings on the floor. She shuffles back and, with trembling fingers, reaches for the pouch. It’s not hard to take, the man hardly resists, twitching his fingers to keep it in his grasp. It feels wrong, stealing from someone too weak to hold onto what is his.

She looks into the jewel-like eye. Can he see through it? Perhaps it has something to do with the scar? Did he place it there himself, or was he simply made this way?

Someone snatches the pouch from her. She looks up at her father as he undoes the strings and peers inside. “Sand,” he mutters, and stows it away inside his robes.

“And the jewel,” he says to her.

She means to protest, but finds she cannot.

She avoids the markings as she leans forwards. She presses her fingertips beside the man’s eye. His skin is cold and firm.

She swallows her guilt and the nauseous feeling in her throat, nudging her fingertips into the socket. It takes her a few attempts, but she pries the jewel free, wincing when she feels it come loose. If he feels any pain he hardly shows it. His brow furrows but his other eye remains closed, and he makes no sound.

She stands and offers the jewel to her father.

Roderick holds it to the light of one of the candles, giving a curious hum before he pockets that too.

“Move,” he mutters to her, pushing her out of his way as he stands over the man. He tugs on the black cloak and it falls into fragments that fade away, like dust on a breeze. The man’s body is bare, pale skin running over details of muscle and bone. He shivers and twitches like he has a fever, but still he does not speak, or even let out a breath.

“We’ll let our guest recover,” Roderick says, “and then we shall make our demands.

They leave him there for days. He does not move, or ask for food or water.

She doesn’t dream in the nights since they captured their ‘guest’. In fact she hardly sleeps at all. Each morning she wakes, already exhausted, having felt like she’s only closed her eyes for a few brief moments.

Then come the stories in the newspapers. They call it ‘the sleeping sickness’. People all over the country, and in fact the world, have been plagued, either to not sleep at all or never wake up.

On a cold, drizzly morning, a stranger appears at the door to the manor.

She listens and watches from the top of the stairs, crouching by the bannister to stay out of sight as a man with choppy silver hair and pale skin strides into the entrance hall, with Roderick following closely behind.

“Do I know you?” her father asks, furiously.

“No.” The stranger’s voice is low and almost seductive. “But I know all about you, Roderick Burgess, and the being trapped in your basement.”

“You mean to intimidate me?”

She sees a flash of a grin and a pair of pale purple eyes through the wooden balusters.

“I am here to help you,” the stranger says. “There are benefits to keeping one of the Targaryens in your confinement.”

“Targaryens?” her father echoes.

“Did you think Death was the only one of her kind? Death has family. Destiny, Despair, Desire…”

“And who have I got?”

“Dream,” the stranger says with a smile that bares his teeth.

A shiver runs over her shoulders. She keeps her jaw tight to stop herself from reacting to it.

Roderick scoffs. “What good is a God who governs dreams?”

The stranger's voice darkens. “There was a saying in the ancient times of humanity, that said the Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. But they are not Gods. They are more than Gods. They are Endless.”

He tells Roderick of Dream’s vestments, the pouch of sand and his sapphire, both of which he says Roderick may manipulate for his own influences. He says the binding circle will not be enough to contain their prisoner, that they must construct a sphere of glass within the circle.

Most crucially of all, he says no one must be allowed to fall asleep in Dream’s presence.

“Why are you helping me?” Roderick finally asks.

The stranger runs his tongue over his teeth and smiles to himself. “Little family dispute, I shan’t bore you with the details. But for your sake, and for mine, he must not escape.”

He offers his hand to Roderick, who returns the gesture after a moment of hesitation.

Before he heads for the door, the stranger’s eyes trail up to where she hides. Her heart leaps with a sense of dread, like she’s seen something she wasn’t meant to. 

She doesn’t trust him, not by the look or sound of him, but her father does. He follows the stranger’s instructions, ordering the construction of the glass sphere, to be welded around their prisoner as it is made. Finally, he arranges a rota of guards to keep watch over him, under strict orders to never fall asleep, lest their prisoner escape into their dreams.

The details of his face are etched into her memory, even after months, the angle of his jaw, the curve of his upper lip, the silver falling over his shoulders. If she could dream, she is sure she would dream of him. Instead she holds onto the flashes of images that appear before her waking eyes, the pale skin of his bare body against the floor, the stars in his sapphire eye, now kept locked away in her father’s study.

She knows Roderick has tried to bargain with him, and each time he returns from the cellar more furious than when he entered it. “He will not speak a word!” his voice bellows through the quiet halls of the manor. “He will not even look at me!”

When she dares to ask questions, Roderick glares at her and tightens the grip on his cane.

The stranger with silver hair was right about something, wealth and admiration have come to Roderick Burgess in droves since he acquired the Lord of Dreams. It’s something about the sapphire, or the sand, something she doesn’t understand, but their family comes across good fortunes, which is almost entirely spent on lavish parties to entertain Roderick’s ever expanding crowd of admirers.

She wakes with the sunrise, from a void and dreamless sleep. The manor is littered with empty bottles, full ashtrays, plates of half-eaten food, odd shoes and playing cards. Her father must still be asleep, which is odd. He is usually an early riser, even after a night of drinking.

A rumbling in her stomach has her heading through the entrance hall towards the kitchen, but she stops when she sees two men waiting by the door to the cellar– two of the guards her father has hired to watch the prisoner, dressed in smart suits with service revolvers just poking out of their jackets. They look restless, peering their heads round corners, shifting their weight on their legs, not wanting to step too far from the door.

“We can’t just leave,” one mutters to the other.

“I’m not staying down there with that… thing one second longer than I have to–”

“Good morning,” she calls.

They look at her in unison, and frown.

“Have you seen Noel and Mauirce?” one of the men asks. “They’re nearly half an hour late.”

The rotation of the guards. They take eight hour shifts in pairs.

Her eyes glance to the cellar door, opened only a fraction. “I could watch him until they get here,” she says, “if you want to leave.”

It doesn’t take them long to agree.

They leave through the front door. When she hears it shut, she finally lets herself reach for the handle to the cellar door. The handle is cold, untouched for hours at a time, and a little stiff. She pushes on it slowly, carefully, making as little noise as possible. 

With the cellar door closed, she shuts out the light and warmth of the morning. A silent, icy draft drifts through the narrow stairway. She follows it down, all the way to the dull, eerie light of the main chamber.

The sight takes her breath away, the glass sphere, suspended above the ground, still within the circle of markings that keep his power contained.

He sits in the centre, still bare, his knees tucked into his chest and his hair falling around his face like a veil.

As far she knows, no food or water ever passes the threshold to the cellar, and the cage is never opened. How does he breathe? How does he eat? How does he not wither away? He just sits there, stoic, his face frozen in time like a statue, like the image of a god cut from marble, to be preserved and admired.

A man like that cannot be real, and yet there he is.

“Hello,” she says. 

He does not react to her voice or the sound of her footsteps as she walks further into the chamber.

If he can even hear her. She wonders how thick the glass is, if sound can permeate it, or does he just hear the sound of his own breath echoed back to him, endlessly.

She comes to lean against one of the pillars, tracing her fingertips down the cold, rough surface of the stone.

“Are you really the Lord of dreams?” she says. 

His gaze lifts and turns to her, just enough that she can see his chin, his nose, and a single violet eye. It is not like the stranger’s, it is far more vibrate, burning with with a silent fury that makes her heart flutter and her skin feel tight.

“I have not dreamt since that night.”

She knows it isn’t just her. It’s the sleeping sickness, the war, the cloud of darkness looming over the rest of the world.

“The groundskeeper has a son, he’s only ten years old. He’s been asleep for months now. He can’t even eat. If he doesn’t wake up, he’ll die.”

He does not react, but his eye follows her as she takes a single step away from the pillar, towards the sphere.

“This is my father’s– our doing, yes?”

Her eyes dip to his chest, to the movement of his lungs underneath skin and muscle, a steady rise and fall with a deep, patient breath. 

“My father is a reasonable man, if you could give him something, anything, I am sure he would let you out.”

He tilts his head, until she can just see the point of his scar on his cheek and the edge of his empty eye socket.

He is simultaneously the most terrifying and most beautiful thing she has ever laid eyes upon. The low light only accentuates the harsh angles in his face, the ridges and lines in the muscles and tendons of his neck, torso, arms and legs.

She takes another step closer. “I would let you out, if I could,” she says quietly, like a secret.

He blinks softly, and when her eyes flicker to his lips she sees them curled into something almost like a smile, but not quite. 

“Oh you would, would you?”

Her blood runs cold at the sound of her father’s voice. She whips her head around just in time to see Roderick marching towards her with his hand reaching out. His fist grips at her hair, and when she yelps in pain he hisses at her to be quiet. He drags her back up the steps, away from the cold cellar, to the warmth and the light, to the world without dreams.

She bathes before dinner, wincing as she runs her hands over the fresh bruises that mark her skin. Most of them are red, others are set deep and already turning a greyish purple. 

Her father’s fury still rings in her ears. “Stupid girl! If he escapes he will slaughter us all!”

Leaning on her back is especially painful, it’s where her body took the brunt of his cane. She brings her knees into her chest, hunching over herself.

She hasn’t cried over her father’s cruelty in years, not since she was a small child. He’d always call her weak for it. Randall never cried when he was disciplined, because he knew, deep down, it was good for him. Perhaps she is simply not as strong as Randall was.

Her tears are hot and stinging in her eyes. She blinks and lets them fall onto her knees, to become the dew that lingers on her skin.

“Do you want to die, girl? Because it can be easily remedied!”

She doesn’t wear anything special, a white satin dress, with long, billowy sleeves, and applies some rouge to her cheeks, to make her seem more awake, more alive.

She reaches the bottom of the staircase as the clock in the entrance hall starts to chime. Five times. Marking the start of another shift rotation. 

Two men appear from the hall that leads from the cellar, vaguely nodding as they pass her.

She can see into the dining room from the stairs, an enormous table set with silver cutlery and china plates, for just two of them.

The door to her father’s study is closed, obstructing the voices within. He’s arguing with someone. 

Before she can stop herself, she’s walking towards the cellar. She tries the handle to find it unlocked. With one final look to the door to the study, she descends back into the darkness.

Two guards sit on wooden chairs by the entrance from the stairway, and immediately stand to attention as she walks into the chamber.

“Miss,” one of them calls, “you cannot be here.”

And she seems to have caught his attention too. He looks up from where he sits in the sphere, his forearm resting on his knee. His hair is pushed from his face, and his violet eye is wide, curious.

“This is my father’s house, I will go where I please,” she says, shakily, continuing until she comes face to face with the glass.

He stares at her, somewhat furious, but in a way she knows it is not meant for her.

The men behind her are muttering to each other, she doesn’t hear their words, but she hears their panic.

“It isn’t right for him to keep you here,” she says. “It isn’t right for him to think he can play with mortality. And I am as bad as he is for letting this happen.”

The tendons of his hand flex as he clenches his fist, his fingers restless as he stares at her, intently.

“If I let you out,” she whispers, “would you harm me?”

His face softens as his eye moves over her face. 

He’s studying her, she realises. She imagines him noting the curves of her cheeks and chin, the shape of her mouth, perhaps the faint teartracks and the dark circles under her eyes.

What does he make of her, the daughter of his captor, the one who pried the sapphire from his eye? Roderick could be right, he might slaughter her the moment he is free from his cage. 

“I would like to believe that you wouldn’t,” she says.

His expression gives nothing away.

Suddenly he shifts. His muscles tense as he comes to his feet and uncurls his spine to stand before her. Something about his movements are distinctly inhuman.

The guards behind her are shouting now, telling her to step away, calling for Mr Burgess. Their voices are inconsequential to her, muffled as though spoken behind a closed door. Her heart pounds in her ears. All she sees is him, the intense gaze of his eye, a wide palm reaching out and pressing against the glass.

She reaches up slowly, his eye growing wider with every inch she comes closer to touching the glass that separates them, but not quite meeting it.

His brow furrows as if to question her. Why are you hesitating? What are you afraid of?

She won’t be dragged upstairs again. She won’t be thrown to the floor with nowhere else to go. She will not suffer at the hands of Roderick Burgess any longer.

So she presses her hand to the glass.

Her skin is feverishly cold, her arms weightless. She can almost feel the shape of his palm through the glass, but not quite, like she is reaching for something she will never touch, clawing to the memory of a dream.

She can feel herself slipping into numbness, her eyes and her limbs becoming heavy. She presses her fingernails against the glass, silently pleading though she doesn’t know what for. An escape? An end? Anything.

His face is strangely gentle as he pouts his lips, hushing her, lulling her panic. She can feel her breathing and her heartbeat slowing, but it does not frighten her.

The glass shatters, her knees give way. She is awake enough to know she is falling, but too far gone to stop herself.

But she does not need to.

The world around her is silent– no, a gentle breeze drifts over her skin and whispers in her ear. Sunlight beams onto one side of her face and the other rests against bare skin. She feels a weight around her waist, something propping her body upright.

She tries to steady herself but the ground shifts beneath her. The arms around her only tighten their grip when she stumbles.

Finally she lets her eyes flutter open. They are in a desert, a vast expanse of dry sand, reaching as far as the eye can see.

Her head is moving with his breath, against his chest.

She tilts her gaze up, close enough that her lips barely brush over the base of his throat.

His eye is already fixed on her, holding her firmly in his arms, pulling her into him.

Wordlessly, he releases one arm from her waist, and reaches down, keeping his eye on her face. When he brings himself back up, she looks at his closed fist, where sand slips from between his fingers. 

Her confusion must be visible on her face because he smiles softly at her, letting out a low “hmm” as he does.

She means to blink, but when she opens her eyes the world has changed again.

She lies face down against the ground of the cellar, dust and dirt pressing into her cheek, broken glass littering the floor around her.

She blinks again through the haze of sleep still clouding her vision. She makes out a figure in a long black coat with silver hair falling down his back. He stands over two bodies, lying lifeless on the ground, and stalks towards another.

Roderick is at the base of the stairs. He raises his cane and cries out as the prisoner reaches into his coat.

Her father’s voice fades into a spluttering, retching sound. Then he is silent. His body slumps to the floor with a gut-wrenching thud. When the stranger walks away, she sees her father sprawled out on the floor, blood spurting from his throat, seeping into his shirt, pooling on the floor around him.

She pushes herself up, leaning on her hands as her vision is blocked once again by a black coat. He stands over her, blood dripping from a knife he holds in his hand, his eye a brighter shade of violet than it was before.

He kneels beside her, taking her chin in his fingertips.

“Are you hurt?” he says. His voice is a hypnotic blend of soft and harsh, low and light, chilling in a way that sends a wave of warmth through her stomach.

She looks past his shoulder, where Roderick’s skin is turning from white to grey. “What did you do to my father?” she utters.

He jerks her head back to him. His expression is dark, lips upturned into a sneer.

Does he expect her to be grateful?

“My tools,” he says.

“You’re… what?”

“My tools. The sapphire and the pouch.”

The items that were stolen from him, that her father has now paid for with blood.

“Are you going to kill me too?” she says, digging her fingertips into the stone and the shards of glass beneath her.

He tilts his head and his lips twitch in a flicker of movement. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Tell me where they are. I will not harm you.”

Three men lay dead mere feet from them, and yet she finds herself wanting to trust him.

He offers her his arm as she stands, gripping at the thick, leather sleeve. Her palms are covered in small cuts from the glass, droplets of bright red blood pearling at the edges. He takes her wrists in his hands to have a look and tuts to himself.

“Quickly,” he says, moving towards the steps, leading her along with him, past the bodies of the guards, and the body of her father.

She brings him to the study, her hands shaking, bloody and outstretched before her. The door is wide open, a stack of papers thrown carelessly to the floor.

Roderick’s safe sits in a black cabinet in the corner of the room. She uses her fingertips to open it, wincing at the pieces of glass still stuck in her skin, but she swallows down the pain.

She guesses the combination on the first try. 1895– Randall’s birth year.

There, in the centre shelf, above the Grimoire, below a stack of banknotes, is the pouch of sand and the sapphire.

He reaches for the gem first. She turns away as he fixes it back into his socket, remembering the weight of it in her palm when she took it from him. She sees him reach forward again, but not for the pouch. He takes a hold of her wrists.

With no magic words or spells, he waves a hand over her palms. For a moment she sees a glow in his sapphire eye. The pain vanishes, so does the blood, the glass and the dirt. 

She blinks a few effortless tears from her eyes. Tears for her father, tears of relief, she cannot place a cause.

Cold fingertips meet her skin once more, as the Lord of Dreams wipes her tears away, bringing her gaze to meet his.

He leans in closer, until his forehead meets hers. “Sleep,” he whispers.

She falls into him, to find herself wide awake, clinging onto him as she had done in the desert.

But they are somewhere else entirely. The sky above them is a pale yellow, like daybreak, painted with swirling grey clouds. The land here is… dead. Dead trees, barren mountains and hills, and in the distance, beyond a dried lake, is a castle of red brick, decrepit, falling into ruin.

“You see the damage that has been done to my realm?” he says. With her ear pressed against his chest, his voice is cavernous and she feels everything, the way his words drag through his throat. She feels his pain at being confined, the loss of his home and his creations.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“I do not forgive easily, that is why Roderick Burgess had to die. But you…” he pulls away from her so he might look at her properly, cupping the sides of her face and swiping his thumbs over her cheeks. “I do not need an apology from you. We are free of him now.”

“Is that what you think I wanted?” 

He hums with tight lips. “I have seen your dreams, as I see the dreams of every mortal. I see them as clearly as you perceive the waking world. It just so happened that our dreams coincided.”

She had never dreamt of her father’s death and she had certainly never imagined that she might have played a part in it. But she cannot deny the weight now lifted from her shoulders. She will never have to earn his approval, she will never have to endure him again. She is free of him.

“Go now,” he says, “I am sure you have your own business to resolve.”

He releases his hold of her and brings his hands behind his back. As he walks towards the castle the world around her starts to fade. She can smell the musk of the manor, the lingering smoke of her father’s cigars, the distinct scent of a winter evening.

“Wait!” she calls.

The ends of his coat swish around his legs as he turns back to face her. “Yes?” he says, the corners of his mouth curling up into a small smile.

“I want to know your name.”

“I have had many names,” he says.

“And how would you have me know you?”

“Aemond,” he says.

She echoes his name, letting her mouth linger on the final syllable. “Will I see you again?”

He draws the tip of his tongue between his lips. “Perhaps,” he says.

When she wakes she is laid out on one of the leather sofas of her father’s study. She looks down at her hands, traces her fingertips down her face, now free of the dirt and dust. 

She wonders if she might have dreamt all of it, the beautiful man in the sphere, the glass breaking, her father’s blood on the floor…

Her life is never the same after that. With her father dead, his estate passes to her. For the first time, her life is hers to do with as she pleases.

And yet she feels an absence, a hollow longing in her chest.

Her dreams come back to her since she set him free, and each night she dreams of him.

He only appears in brief moments, like lighting, bright and brilliant, but gone in a heartbeat, before she can truly see him. She sees the movement of a leather coat, flashes of silver, violet and sapphire blue. Sometimes she is met with darkness as a pair of lips ghosts over her neck with a contented sigh and a warm breath.

She cannot bear it.

As she lies in the empty manor house, she traces her fingers over her body, her lips, down her neck and her chest, underneath her cotton nightgown, to her navel and the pool of wanting wetness between her legs, trying to imagine they are his. 

She pictures the way his hair fell around his face, the coldness of his skin, the curve of his lips. She imagines them parting in a small sigh, the sound of his breath, the way his chest hummed as she circles over her bundle of nerves. Pleasure sparks at first but it keeps slipping from her grasp.

She circles faster, harder, searching for a spot that will finally give her the release she craves.

She feels heat and a sheen of sweat settling on the surface of her skin, her breathing hitches, her hips twitch under her touches. The pleasure heightens, then fades.

With her eyes tightly shut, she spurs herself on with thoughts of him, breathlessly chanting his name into the empty space and cold air of her bedroom.

“Aemond… Aemond…”

Something changes.

The mattress shifts beneath her and a weight presses against her body, her legs, her stomach, her chest.

A hand clasps around hers, ceasing her movements, and bringing it to rest by her side.

She laments the loss of the friction against her bud, her pleasure pulled away from her, but in its place anticipation blooms within her.

When she opens her eyes he is above her, against her, hovering his face over hers so that all she sees are his eyes, one violet, one sapphire.

“You have my attention,” he says in a soft but unsettling voice.

A thrill ripples through her body.

She whispers his name on an exhale of breath, running her fingertips over his arms, tense and toned as his props himself over her. 

But she is somewhat dazed, her senses numbed by fatigue and the echo of the pleasure she had been chasing.

“Is this real?” she utters.

Aemond leans further into her. She feels a weight between her hips and an unmistakable hardness prodding at her centre as he brings his lips to her neck, pressing a slow, teasing kiss against a sensitive spot of skin that has her body tensing and her fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Does if feel real?” he whispers against her skin.

How much has he truly seen of her dreams, her desires, she wonders? Perhaps she should feel some kind of shame, but she cannot, not when she is on the precipice of something bright, beautiful and damning. She can hardly stand being on the edge of it, having him so close but not close enough.

She wraps her arms around his neck as he teases her with his lips, crosses her legs around his hips, meeting his movements as he torturously grinds his hardening cock against her cunt, dripping with arousal, twitching and clenching around nothing at the anticipation.

“Needy little thing,” he mutters, dragging his nose along her neck as he comes to kiss the hollow of her throat.

His voice sends a shockwave through her body. Her hips buck against his, determined for relief as her fingers thread through the soft strands of his hair, and tug. 

He lets out a quiet growl against her skin. A hand rests upon her thigh and trails up, bunching the hem of her nightgown to her waist and adjusting the other side. 

He sits back, watching her with the same darkness and intensity as when he was trapped inside the cage, intrigued at the least, fascinated if she is presumptive. 

The irony of being laid half bare before him and at his mercy does not escape her.

“I’ve heard you crying out for me, little mortal,” he says. 

“You said you can see my dreams,” she says, “how?”

“Your dreams exist in my realm,” he says, “in The Dreaming. I see your dreams as I see the dreams of every other being. I feel them, as clearly as you perceive the waking world. But you…” he muses, settling his hands on either side of her waist. “You are incessant.”

She shivers and writhes under his touch, a pulsing heat settling within her.

She traces her hands over his, where they grip at her waist, along his smooth skin, the tendons and veins. His fingers are long and lithe. She knows they would feel so perfect, wrapped around her throat, stroking over her skin, pushing inside of her wet heat to coax her pleasure.

Aemond smiles to himself as though he can hear her thoughts.

He grips harder into her flesh and pulls his hips back, only to let his cock slide over her slick folds with teasingly gentle thrusts.

Every stroke pushes her closer and closer to the edge, but not enough to find release. She feels the frustrating want pulsing through her body, the coil getting tighter and tighter, her cunt clenching over nothing.

“Aemond…” she says with a breathless mewl, “please…”

“You really want it, don’t you?” Aemond growls, resting his forehead against hers. “Just feel how wet that empty little cunt is for me.”

Her eyes trail along the angles of his face, the line of his scar, the night sky in his eyes as he stares down at her, the gentle curve of his lips and how they settle into a soft expression. 

Her gaze slips further down, over his throat, his collar, his pale, bare chest, the ridges of the muscles on his abdomen, the slight dip in his waist, the trail of silver hair to his cock, long, hard and flushed with need, transfixed by the way it moves against her.

She holds her breath each time he withdraws, stifling her whines into his mouth when he only keeps teasing her.

“I want it,” she groans, “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”

He lets out a contented hum as he leans down to kiss her. The movements of his mouth are slow and consuming, claiming her with lips, tongue and teeth, wetness and warmth.

She holds him close by the sides of his face. In his violet eye she sees his hunger, his rage, his lust. In his sapphire, she sees oblivion. 

And finally, he eases himself into her. 

He fucks her delicately, dragging his cock through her gently, slowly, deeply. His lips ghost over her skin, her temple, her cheek, back to her mouth with light kisses and strained but soft breaths. 

With a few deft circles over her bud she feels herself come undone around him. Her climax burns through her and she holds him closer for purchase, digging her fingertips into his skin as her resolve melts and her legs tremble around his hips.

Aemond doesn’t stop. He holds her against the mattress with a determined grip, fucking her through her peak until her pleasure settles and simmers once more.

Being kissed by him, held by him, fucked by him feels light a dream, that weightless, numb feeling of being between consciousness and sleep coursing through her limbs. It feels good, it feels deep, it feels perfect.

She cannot be sure how many climaxes he draws from her, she just feels him, his heat, his hands and his skin as he repositions her legs, guides her onto her front, brings her up to her knees, pushes her back down again, until she is a blissful, mindless mess.

He meets his own end when he has her face down on the bed, her face turned to the side against the pillow, his mouth on the underside of her jaw as he pounds into her. 

“You’re doing so well,” she hears him rasp, “you’ve been so good to me… fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

Her mind is beyond words and coherent thoughts. She utters the only thing she feels, the only thing she can think of, “Aemond… Aemond… Aemond…”

He stills his hips against her rear with a guttural moan, pressing his face against hers, squeezing her waist under his hands. He allows himself a few more shallow thrusts until he is spent. She feels his cock pulse within her, a warmth pooling, his spend dripping from her cunt once he has pulled away.

The weight dissipates from her back and for a moment she lies there, basking in the afterglow, feeling her chest rise and fall against the bed, the softness of her sheets under her fingertips.

She wakes to a gentle breeze running over her skin and slipping down her spine.

She allows her eyes to flutter open and recoils at the pale sunlight beaming through the spaces in the curtains. 

She holds her breath.

She hears no sound or sign of life other than her own pulse. 

She twists herself to sit up, noting that her bedsheets are neat and the hem of her nightgown is where it should be. 

Is it possible that she dreamed it? She remembers it so vividly, but the mind has a way of playing tricks. Perhaps it was only a dream.

“Your dreams exist in my realm,” he had said. “I feel them, as clearly as you perceive the waking world.”

How do we determine what is real? she wonders as she pulls on a robe and goes to open the curtains. The morning floods her bedroom. It brings no warmth, but it brings light and life back into the room. 

To dream is to live beyond ourselves, why should that be any less true than the world around me? 

She seats herself before her vanity, reaching for the drawer for her hairbrush.

But something catches her eye, a glint of colour against mahogany wood, a small gem catching the sunlight.

She takes it between her thumb and index finger and brings it before her eyes; a sapphire, the size of a pearl, a deep and vibrant blue. Its edges are uneven and dull, uncut, as though plucked straight from the earth. 

She turns it about between her fingers. It could be a trick of the light, but there is depth to it, a vastness within. The sapphire seems to capture the night sky, dotted with glimmering stars.

His was the same.

As the dazed state of sleep wears off, she feels the satisfied ache between her legs, the spots on her skin marked by him. She smiles to herself and holds the gem in her palm, this precious gift, this reminder, this promise from the Lord of Dreams.

Tags (comment to be added)

Sweet Dream taglist: @solisarium @sirenangelroyal @sabrinasstar @shygardengalaxy @aemondsfavouritebastard @wintrr13 @thedamewithabook @lexwolfhale @rainyforest777

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

[lahilden]

Peles Castle

Peleș Castle is located at the foot of the Bucegi Mountains in the town of Sinaia in Prohova County, Romania. King Carol I of Romania built the Neo-Renaissance castle from 1873 to 1883; it was under his reign that the country gained its independence. Along with the castle, the king commissioned a royal summer retreat, a hunting lodge, royal stables, guards’ chambers, an Economat building, and a power plant on the estate. Peleș Castle was the world’s first to be fully powered by locally produced energy. The castle went through later additions throughout its history and was once seized by the Communist regime. The castle was closed from 1975 to 1990, but after the December 1989 Revolution the castle was re-established as a heritage site and reopened to the public. The castle boasts 160 ornate rooms carrying themes from cultures around the world. The rooms are lavishly decorated with wall and ceiling frescoes by Gustav Klimt and Franz von Matsch, Murano crystal chandeliers, German stained-glass windows, Cordoba leather covered walls, carved teak furniture in the Music room, and a 4,000 piece collection of arms and armor are displayed in the Armory. The castle also has a movie theater and a Turkish salon. The property has seven Italian neo-Renaissance terrace gardens made mostly of Carrara marble, while the gardens have statues, fountains, stairways, and marble paths. Peleș Creek runs through the courtyard, while a towering statue of King Carol I overlooks the main entrance. Peleș Castle is open to the public for guided tours and serves as the Peleș National Museum.

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Nine

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 2.2k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

As they neared this outcropping of something in the corridors of nothing, a figure emerged before them — first as shadow, then as sound, and then a lonely silhouette. Tall, trim, standing in a practised poise before the doorway, he had ceased his work inside and came to greet them.

“Mio Barone,” said the man, bowing from the waist. “Che onore.”

“Ambrogio,” he said, greeting him in English for Tom’s sake. “Working late, I see.”

“As always. It is a pleasure,” he replied in perfect English.

He was a thin old man in a black suit buttoned tightly up and down, with wrinkled leather shoes. When he straightened from his bow, he seemed more like a floating face on a lithe shadow. What wisps of hair remained around his head sat behind his ears like bird nests, but his face was far less soft. Pale eyes, thin lips, a sunken face as cold as death.

“Tom,” said the Baron, “this is Mr. Ambrogio Oso. He helps us with many matters. An invaluable servant. Ambrogio, this is Tom Riddle.”

Tom looked him up and down and smiled thinly. Only Ambrogio’s eyebrows moved, quirking ever so slightly. He would make a remarkable corpse, thought Tom. “A pleasure,” he said, offering his hand.

The man reluctantly stepped forward and shook it — just once.

“Quite cold down here, isn’t it?” Tom noted. “Must be a nice change during the day.”

“Yes, we didn’t come down here to discuss the weather,” said the Baron. “Show us to collection B-1786.”

Ambrogio nodded and turned on his heels, leading them into the office. “This way, please.”

Tom followed, but his gaze lingered on the wall facing the door, where those tall red drapes were hanging. Slightly parted, they seemed to lead into another, shorter corridor. This place was more of a museum or a warehouse… He wondered if it had anything to do with that auction he’d heard Frederico mention to her during lunch.

The office was broad and wide, with three desks of which only one seemed busy. The walls were thick with old maps and photographs, and empty spiderwebs hung in the corners with no insects in sight. The place smelled like death and naphthalene. Crates gaped open all around, some covered discreetly with a shrowd, others not at all. There were books inside them mostly, but there were other items too. Elaborate bottles of red glass reinforced with blackened silver, candleholders, daggers, and cups.

Tom raised his head slightly, throwing a look from the corner of his eye upon that busy desk. Mr. Oso was in the middle of research involving a medieval ritual, it seemed, amid a medley of notes in both German and Arabic, fresh ink shining darkly beneath a green lamp.

Ambrogio went to one of the crates behind a corner and shuffled a few heavy things inside. He came out carrying three heavy tomes, each with a piece of paper sticking out of their pages, and set them on the nearest desk.

Tom didn’t wait for an invitation, he approached. Ambrogio stepped aside, hands tucked behind his back.

“So, I take it you want me to review these, Baron?”

“I want you to authenticate them, Tom.”

“I see…”

He threw his eyes over their covers. One was a copy of The Book of Abramelin, another was the Grimoire of Pope Leo, and last was the Grand Albert.

There was nothing untoward about the request, nor about the books themselves, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to touch them just yet. They looked old, too old. If it were up to him, he’d find it safer to look over them with magic.

“And the books I brought with me?”

“I will agree to a trade if you will serve me in this manner.”

“And then?” asked Tom, cocking a brow over his shoulder.

“Then, if you wish, you may continue to serve me.”

Tom scoffed and turned. “I already have an employer,” he said, tucking one hand in his pocket. “I’m only here for a few books, that is all.”

“Very well, then,” the old man shrugged, tapping the pipe against his coarse old palm. His assistant looked calm, but her eyes shifted nervously from the Baron back to Tom. “If, after this simple task, you will wish to end our collaboration, you may.”

Tom shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was fairly irritated at having been dragged out at this hour only to be given orders and obfuscations. And he wasn’t any closer to getting either of the remaining two books he needed.

“How long do I have?”

“I want a report ready in three weeks.”

“And what if they will prove to be forgeries?”

“Then you may keep them for nothing.”

“I have no use for fakes,” he chuckled.

“I doubt that,” the old man said with a twinkle in his eye. “Are we agreed?”

Tom looked from the Baron up to her. Behind him, he felt the shard of Ambrogio’s attention.

“Alright,” he said. “Although I expect payment during this time. Upfront.”

“You can discuss that with my secretary,” said the Baron, waving for the girl to push his wheelchair out. “Come by my office tomorrow.”

Tom watched her lead the old man from the room and reached down for the books. A pale hand stopped him, gripping his thin wrist so fast the blood froze in his veins.

“The books stay here,” Ambrogio said. “Baron’s orders.”

Tom clenched his jaw. It would’ve been far easier for him to analyse them in the comfort of his room where he could run detection charms for traces of stray magic, but perhaps there was some merit to working here. It would give him ample opportunity to explore this hidden and rather expansive part of the shop.

“So be it,” he smiled, yanking his arm free.

“Ambrogio,” the Baron called, “I bid you good night.”

“Good night, Baron. I shall see you out.”

Tom stepped back into the corridor. The vampire — for that is what Ambrogio was — followed.

“No need, no need,” said the Baron, fat arm waving as his assistant pushed him forward. “You probably wish to go home. Rest. Tom?”

“Yes, Baron?”

“We’re leaving. Come.”

“Right away.” He turned to look once more at Oso and saved a toothy smile for him. “I look forward to our collaboration.”

“It will be my pleasure, Mr. Riddle, to manage you,” he said.

Tom chuckled, and with one last scathing look, he left.

II

The chauffeur was waiting for the Baron outside. He and Tom helped load the old man in, and then he was left behind with his assistant as she closed up the shop.

“You shouldn’t have promised him that,” she said once they were alone. “Three weeks isn’t enough. The research alone would take one month, let alone writing a report.”

“I know men like him,” said Tom, waiting for her to secure all the locks. “They love ambitious, overachieving youngsters. Reminds them of the children they never had. Gives them something to brag about. Besides,” he added, “I can do it.”

“He doesn’t want children,” she said with a faint smile as she turned, joining him on the cold empty street. “He wants servants.”

“Same thing, in their eyes.”

He helped her put her coat on, and then they began to walk together toward the tram station.

“I just worry that you’ve —”

“I know,” said Tom, a strange feeling gripping him. “But I have everything under control.”

She looked at him with soft and tired eyes above a fading smile. “At least that makes one of us.”

Tom frowned. “Who is this Oso, anyway? Has he always worked down there?”

“Always. He’s been there since long before I was hired.”

“And he works alone?”

“Mostly.”

“At night?”

She shrugged, her shoulders squeezed up to her ears as if she were a frightened bird. “Sometimes. Honestly, I don’t know his comings and goings. Sometimes he’s there during the day, sometimes he’s not.”

“You visit him down there?” Tom asked with a cocked brow.

“No, in fact… in fact, I’m not really supposed to go down there without a reason. There’s a telephone…”

Tom nodded, piecing it together. She seemed not to know her colleague was a vampire, and now he wondered if even the Baron knew.

“So, what sort of person is he?”

“Ambrogio? He’s… a professional,” she said, shrugging again. “He’s private, doesn’t really have a sense of humour.”

“I never would’ve guessed.”

“And he likes things to be just so. Hates it when people touch his things or…”

“Or ask him any questions?”

“Yes,” she chuckled.

“I’ll be sure to do a lot of that, then,” smiled Tom.

She looked up at him, smiling now as well, her cheeks a little fuller and her eyes alight, but sad and… worried. Tom frowned. There was that feeling again, that spasmodic odium whenever she looked at him so softly and smouldering with the unspoken. She was afraid for him — not of him, but for him — and Tom didn’t know what to do with that. He had no point of reference. Nothing to compare it to.

“Let me walk you home,” he offered, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “You can tell me all about the mess I’ve gotten myself into on the way.”

That got a chuckle out of her, at least. “You know I live quite far, and it’s already late.”

“I don’t mind.”

She smiled at him, and it caught — he smiled back.

III

She made no mention of Clement or what happened to him, but it was clear to Tom she greatly feared the Baron. From the tremble in her voice to the way she hugged herself, he could tell she had some kind of trauma. Something about how she sat when they were in the tram together, close enough she had to whisper, body curled in on itself, told him she needed to be held. Tom kept his hands firmly, very firmly, on his lap.

“So Ambrogio never goes upstairs?” he quietly asked.

“Never since I’ve worked there. I’m glad, honestly. He’s a little creepy… But the Baron greatly depends on him.”

“How is he paid?” Tom whispered.

“What do you mean? You mean how much?”

“Y-yes, that’s what I meant.”

“Oh, I don’t know. A lot, I expect.”

“Right.”

“He’s dangerous though. Don’t underestimate him, even if he’s old and frail,” she whispered back, her voice warm against his neck.

“Oh I’m sure,” Tom chuckled.

“I’m serious!” she insisted, speaking quietly but a little fearful now. She was so secretive, even if they were the only people on the midnight tram. “I think… I think he worked for the Mafia before.”

Tom laughed at that. It felt oddly refreshing… He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so sincerely.

“I’m serious!”

“Alright,” he chuckled. “Forgive me. I just… doubt it.”

“I know, I know. Their oath is supposed to be for life, right? But maybe this is why he works at night. Maybe he’s in hiding.”

“Mmm,” Tom nodded with a smile.

He could feel her at his shoulder, her body close to his and warm against the chilly night. How different it was from the day… Fragrant and alluring like a calm spring day, but dark and empty. Only the two of them existed.

The tram came to her stop at her station, far from the city centre. They got off, Tom going first to hold his hand for her.

“You’re certainly right about one thing, thought,” he said after they started walking down her street. “He is dangerous. Best keep away from him.”

“I do,” she nodded.

“Good,” said Tom. And he almost promised to take care of Oso for her but stopped himself at the last moment. How stupid that would be,he thought.

They walked in silence down the street, which looked even more squalid at night, both lost in their own thoughts.

“What is it?” Tom asked as they neared her building, unnerved by the silence.

“I just wish you hadn’t walked me back,” she chuckled, “that’s all.”

“Oh,” he smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not judging you for where you live. I’m only quiet because I was thinking.”

“Just following me blindly then?”

“To the grave,” smiled Tom. “Sorry, that wasn’t funny.”

She laughed anyway. “You’re a little strange, Tom… But I like you anyway.”

“You mean you like me in spite of it?”

“Perhaps. But I still like you.”

She looked at him in a peculiar way, as if his eyes could keep her warm, and although her lips turned upward there was a strain to it. She was trying not to smile too brightly…

Tom swallowed the knot in his throat and shuffled his feet on the ground. They stood right in front of her building.

“Well, here I am,” she sighed. “Home again…”

“Is it really?”

She didn’t answer.

“I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” said Tom. “And many days after that.”

“You still have time to reconsider,” she said. “You haven’t signed anything yet…”

Tom laughed, the sound playing through the empty streets. “You speak of your employer as if he were the devil.”

“What, do you think you’re the only one that gets to do that?” she chuckled.

He blushed a little. She remembered what he’d said that night when he complained. It had been stupid of him to drink all that wine, stupid of him to talk. But he was glad that she remembered… He was almost touched. At least, he wanted to be.

“Good night,” he said. “And try not to worry.”

[blueiskewl]

A 2,000-Year-Old Child's Shoe Found in Austria

Deep underground, an ancient child toiled away in a salt mine.

Perhaps their job was to shovel up discarded rocks. Or perhaps they carried precious materials to the surface. Maybe they had a different job entirely.

The only clue they left behind was a 2,100-year-old shoe.

Archaeologists were excavating a tunnel of an Iron Age salt mine in Dürrnberg, Austria, when they found the child’s shoe, according to an Aug. 31 news release from the German Mining Museum.

The small shoe was incredibly well-preserved, photo show. The worn, brown material is open down the center with a series of U-shaped hooks. It almost looks like a modern-day ballet slipper.

The shoe still had remnants of flax or linen laces, the release said. Based on its lace-up pattern and design, archaeologists identified the footwear as being made in the second century B.C.

Archaeologists said the shoe roughly corresponds to a modern European size 30 shoe. In U.S. sizing, this ranges from a kid’s 11 to 12 shoe size, according to conversion charts from Kiwi Sizing and SizeGuide.net. Although these modern sizes are commonly worn by 5-year-old to 6-year-old children, archaeologists did not indicate the child miner’s age.

During previous excavations in the Dürrnberg salt mine, archaeologists found several leather shoes, the release said. Still, children’s shoes are considered special finds because they prove that Iron Age children were present underground.

Near the shoe in the Georgenberg tunnel, archaeologists found half of a wooden shovel blade and some fur with lacing. The material was likely part of a fur hood, the release said. Archaeologists did not specify if or how these artifacts were connected to the shoe.

Organic material — such as those used in the shoe and fur hood — usually decompose over time, head archaeologist Thomas Stoellner said in the release. At the Dürrnberg mine, the natural preserving effect of the salt helps save fabric artifacts that typically don’t survive in other environments.

Excavations in the Georgenberg tunnel are part of a long-term research project in Dürrnberg, the release said. Archaeologists will continue excavating the salt mine to better understand the Iron Age people who once worked there.

Dürrnberg is about 190 miles west of Vienna and along the Austria-Germany border.

By Aspen Pflughoeft.

[pwlanier]

Alpine master of the 16th century, Open Missal. Oil on softwood.

Note: For the genre of the book image, see Anja Schneckenburger-Broschek: Old German Painting. The panel paintings and altars of the 14th to 16th centuries in the Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister and in the Hessian State Museum Kassel, Kassel 1997, pp. 269-284.

The painting belongs to a group of closely related book pictures, which were created in southern Germany in the 16th century. Depicted is an open liturgical book bound in red leather, a so-called Missal, with Gothic scriptures and illuminated initials. As if it had just been opened, the book stands out against the dark background, while the light coming from the left meets the individual pages in different ways, giving the impression that it is scrolling through it at that moment.

Courtesy Alain Truong

[arthistoryanimalia]

It's almost time for #Superb_Owl Sunday! To get ready, here is a German tournament shield (Targe) c. 1500 seen at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, featuring an owl whose motto is "although I am the hated bird, I rather enjoy that."😏

Title: Tournament Shield (Targe) Date: ca. 1500 Culture: German Medium: Wood, burlap, leather, gesso, polychromy Dimensions: H. 26 3/8 in. (67 cm); W. 12 3/8 in. (31.5 cm); D. 5 1/2 in. (14 cm); outer circumference 19 5/16 in. (49 cm); H. of lance rest 2 3/8 in. (6 cm) On view at The Met Fifth Avenue in Gallery 307

"Shields of this shape were inspired by Hungarian light-cavalry shields and were adopted in Germany and Austria for the Hussarisch Turnier (tournament in Hungarian-style costume). The German motto around the owl reads in translation, 'Although I am the hated bird, I rather enjoy that.' Below this are the quartered arms of the Tänzl and Rindscheit families, which were united by marriage in 1499."

[kultofathena]

LK Chen – Munich Town Guard Sword

LK Chen Munich Town Guard sword takes its inspiration from an iconic sword crafted by the famed German sword maker Wolfgang Stantler in the early 17th century which is commonly known today as the Munich Town Guard sword. It has a sharp and well tempered blade of GB 60Si2MnA High Carbon Manganese Spring Steel which hits a fine balance between rigidity for the thrust and necessary flex for resilience. Not only is the sword capable of decisive punctures on a target, but it can cut and slash with considerable ability! The complex guard is well-cast from stainless steel with a dull gray finish. The grip is bound in tight braided wire surmounted by wire knotwork. Included with the sword is a wooden scabbard which is bound in leather and completed with a protective stainless steel chape.

These “Town Guard” swords are in essence medieval single-hand arming swords with the addition of protective bars to take the place of the plate gauntlet.  While post-dating the Oakeshott’s medieval sword typology, Munich Town Guard typically correspond to Oakeshott Type XV and XVIII blades, balancing cutting and thrusting abilities by starting broad at the guard and tapering dramatically to an acute point. It was a design that was a fine all-rounder with its considerable cut-and-thrust ability and it could be used as readily for the battlefield or for self defense in the raucous city streets at evening.

The Town Guard’s thick forte and tang, strong profile and distal taper, complex hilt and wire-bound grip combine to create a lively weapon that also is heavy enough to withstand and excel at use against armored opponents on a crowded battlefield. Whereas a rapier is often a specialized dueling and self-defense weapon to be used in non-military contexts, the more robust Sidesword has a ready place on the 17th century battlefield. Many of Stantler’s battle swords can be found outside Germany in collections throughout the world  including the Royal Armories, Armories of the Dukes of Burgundy and Higgins Armory Museum and Wallace collection.

Please Note: The guard / hilt of the sword has a dull gray finish which looks brighter under studio photography lights. It is normal and common for there to be some minor blemishes, such as scuffs / scratches on the finish present.

[passengerseatprophet]

General

Full name → Golpari Afshar

Nicknames & Aliases → Fog (nickname; callsign in CoD AU), Pari (mostly by English-speaking friends, only tolerated if used by her sisters), Persian terms of endearment such as Khoshgelam, Eshgham (by her mother and sisters; several cousins)

Age → 38

Birthday → June 29

Nationality → Iranian; British (ethnicity: Persian; Azeri/Turkish roots from her father's side)

Gender → AFAB, nonbinary

Sexuality → Omni/Fluid (no preference)

Preferred pronouns → she/they

Religion / Beliefs → Ex-Muslim

Languages → Polyglot - Farsi (native), Arabic (fluent), Azeri (native), Kurdish (fluent), Turkish (semi), Hebrew (written language only), English (fluent), Latin (proficient), German (conversational) Luri; Gilaki (basics), BSL, ASL (basic only), Roman languages through several crash courses (basics)

Accent → Broken British (very formal and controlled way of speaking, just short of appearing forced, hardly any discernible accent most of the time); Persian (comes through only on certain occasions; heavy tongue, dentalised “d”, “t” and “th”, no nasal plosion on words such as “didn’t”, “hadn’t”; emphasised "r" sounds; much more discernible after retirement)

Occupation & Profession → Professor (subject depending on AU); Museum Curator; Forensic Operations guard (crazy scientist au); SAS Sergeant / Lieutenant as of the sequel of continuum / CIA consultant; undercover and stealth missions, intelligence recovery, translation (CoD AU)

Dominant Hand → Right

Appearance

Hair → Black waves, thick and slightly coarse to the touch, fall just beneath the shoulderblades if worn down; kept in a loose ponytail or braid, used to be covered by a hijab

Eyes → deep amber, hooded and slightly downturned; sad and sleepy, framed by thick lashes

Skin → cool undertones, sickly pale due to lack of sunlight (imprisonment; as of part one of the continuum verse) smooth, light keratosis pilaris on the back of her upper arms

Facial features → tired, elegant; aquiline nose; high cheekbones; downturned, scowling lips, rather small with prominent cupid's bow, soft; gently curved eyebrows, tightened into a frown

Height → 5"11 / 180 cm

Weight → 176 lbs / 80 kg (I have zero idea if this is accurate lol)

Body Build → agile and graceful, long limbs; lean, tight muscle underneath soft curves; strong core; good posture; broad shoulders but carries weight around her hips; dancer’s build with an overall sculpted but flat-laying musculature eased up by a good healthy layer of fat; grabbable hips and head-crushing thighs, proportionately full chest

Scars → abrasion scar on one arm, from falling on rubble when she was five; dependant on au: Assortment of old and new battle wounds – (Old) a web of silvery cuts around her hands and wrists from handling thin, hidden blades; entry and exit wound of a bullet on her left shoulder; scar from a broken elbow on her right arm; several shallow stab wounds to her thighs – (New) small diagonal knick right underneath the left eye; stab wound on her collarbone from a karambit buried underneath the bone

Birthmarks & Tattoos → Several moles and birthmarks on face and body, no tattoos

Piercings → three lobes on each side, helix and conch on the right, botched industrial on the left

Glasses → no

Face Claim → Alba Flores/Golshifteh Farahani/undecided

Fashion

Aesthetics (if any) → n/a

Clothing → sleek, silky fabrics; muted colour made interesting by texture, turtleneck and dress pants, dark leather boots and suede coats, blazers and soft blouses, wide-legged trousers, sturdy heels

Home (decor, furniture, etc) → n/a

Preferred Colour Palette → blues and greys, prefers deep tones and muted neutrals, light oranges and warm brown

Makeup & Grooming → tba

Personality

Traits → Level-headed, stoic, intelligent, loyal, confident, protective, gentle, avoidant, reserved, callous, apathetic, disdainful, quiet, resilient, ambitious, calm, dutiful, empathetic, melancholic, observant, patient, formal, iconoclastic, stern

Alignment → True Neutral

Temperament → Melancholic

Expressiveness → low albeit not necessarily hard to read; much more expressive towards people they like

Moods → balanced, albeit able to swiftly change; usually neutral

Anger, in a nutshell → Moderate: brooding, silent, controlled; Intense: Seething, biting, icy

Background

Place of Birth → Abhar (grew up just outside of the city), Zanjan Province, Iran

Place of Residence → United Kingdom; no primary place of residence, moves around a lot due to work

Education → Year 13, A-Levels; considered studying linguistics and philology at university but ultimately dropped the idea in favour of joining the army (CoD AU); tba

Financial Status → middle class, stable

Criminal Record → shoplifting from ages 12 to 16 (dropped prior to graduation), arson charge at 15 (dropped, lack of evidence)

Prison time → two years (pow, CoD AU)

Relationships

Birth order → Eldest of four

Parents → Jeiran Afshar (mother, 63) & Parviz Afshar (father, 69)

Siblings → Nazanin Afshar (sister, 31), Tahere Afshar (sister, 29), Mahzad Afshar (sister, 26)

Significant Others → Alrich “Chev” James Ritter (34), ex-boyfriend of six years, tried to rekindle relationship after ending things with someone else, which did not work out; Kameshwari Rajaura (42)

Children → None

Pets → None, used to have a Bengal cat (Sharzad) and an Egyptian Mau (Irsa), both of which now live with Tahere (second youngest sister)

Friends → Has kept sparse contact to some of her Iranian friends from her childhood

Enemies → (many…) none significant enough for Golpari to mention

Marital Status → Single

Health

Physical Impairments → stab wound to the collarbone that is not yet healed and impairs her range of motion, occasional back pain

Fitness → athletic and in good shape, puts effort into her physical health; while the physical exertion of the battlefield s missing after retirement, she still adheres to a similar, if not the same, workout routine

Mental Impairments → Anxiety and depression (mild to moderate cases), depicts traits of Autism Spectrum Disorder, dissociation (all undiagnosed); severe apathy (coping mechanism/trauma response); PTSD and CPTSD, insomnia (diagnosed)

Medication → self medicates on occasion with various substances

Addiction → none

Preferences

Dom/sub/switch → Switch leaning Dom

Their types → Roughed up, slightly (very) mean, sad and tired eyes, gentle giants, metaphorical guard dogs, anyone with confidence and intuition, strong facial features

Turn ons → toned arms, reasonable cockiness, unique noses (especially previously broken ones), unapologetic laughs, deep but soft voices, shoulder and collarbone kisses, tattoos, thigh riding

Turn offs → disrespect, aggression, humiliation and degradation, undiscussed humiliation and degradation, fragile egos, inflicting pain for the sake of hurting someone

Kinks → Body worship, corruption, probably spit, marking, edging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, praise (giving)

Vices

Alcohol → frequently; but only in company

Nicotine → social smoker, keeps a stash for stressful days though; develops a regular habit in her fourties

Drugs → occasionally, especially after being rescued from Russian custody; experimented with amphetamines to combat insomnia related issues, used to take ketamine and prescription strength muscle relaxants, slight dependency on pain medication for several months on end, still smokes marihuana

Violence → no (controlled demeanour to the point it’s actually scary)

Self-destructive → hardly (yes)

Other

Theme Song → The Way That You Were by Sleep Token, Catch me If You Can by Walking on Cars, Foreigner's God by Hozier

Western Zodiac → Cancer

Animal → Siberian Crane

Season → Winter

Author’s Note → /

[ofgoldandblood]

❝ SOME WOMEN FEAR THE FIRE. SOME SIMPLY BECOME IT. ❞ ⸻ inspired by catwoman (dc), riza hawkeye (fullmetal alchemist), susie diamond (the fabulous baker boys)

PINTEREST — SPOTIFY

tw: death, murder, bullying

basics

• full name: morgaine diana fox

• nicknames: siren (codename) ; baby & angel (by marco only)

• gender: cis female

• pronouns: she/her

• age: 33

• date of birth: 29th october 1991

• zodiac sign: scorpio

• sexuality: bisexual (male leaning)

• place of birth: new york city, ny, usa

• residence: a one bedroom flat a ten minute walk from the bastion ; also has a room at the bastion where she stays most nights after working late

• occupation: singer at the bastion’s private bar & assassin

• aesthetics: red wine, silver daggers, louboutin heels, grand pianos, diamond earrings, city sunsets, red velvet, lipstick prints, handmade friendship bracelets, leather gloves

appearance

• faceclaim: young michelle pfeiffer

• voice claim: michelle pfeiffer

• height: 5’ 6”

• build: average

• eyes: blue

• hair: blonde

• piercings: both earlobes and right helix

• tattoos: her mother’s birthday in roman numerals on the inside of her left wrist

• scars: a four inch horizontal line on her left hip (from being cut with a blade)

• style:

personality

• positive traits: confident, fearless, patient, resilient, versatile, resourceful

• negative traits: reserved, stubborn, ruthless, flirtatious

• mbti: entp - the debater

• likes: piano music, getting free drinks, chocolate, reading, art, old films, watching the sun set

• dislikes: being interrupted, beer, bitter foods, being underestimated, extreme temperatures, getting up early

• phobias: arachnophobia ; ophidiophobia

• hobbies: reading, singing, target practice, visiting museums and galleries, going to the cinema, writing love letters

• skills: sharpshooter ; knife throwing ; expert in hand-to-hand combat ; can speak fluent english, german, and italian

• other: -

family

• mother: madeleine louisa fox (née gilbert)

• father: archie christopher fox

• siblings: aurelius michael & andreas william fox (twin brothers - five years older)

• love interest: marco romano

favourites

• food: ice-cream

• drink: red wine

• time of the day: night

• weather: cool and sunny

• colours: red ; black

• songs: anything jazz, blues, classical, or indie rock

bio

— morgaine was born on 29th october 1991 at 1:26pm to archie fox, a stockbroker, and his wife madeleine, a biologist. she has two older twin brothers named aurelius and andreas. she was born and raised in the west village.

— growing up, she absolutely hated her brothers. they were the bane of her existence. they’d constantly bully her, take her belongings, and their father wouldn’t bat an eyelid. but her mother was far more sympathetic. the two of them spent a lot of time together whilst archie was constantly preparing the boys to follow him in the so-called family business. madeleine taught morgaine a lot about literature and art and about the ever-changing world around them as well as the important rule for young women: never let any man push you around or tell you who you are.

— her mother would always have the radio on when she’s was cooking and morgaine soon found a passion for singing by listening to old songs and learning the lyrics. she was a natural vocalist, but would never sing in front of her brothers out of fear they’d find something else to pick on her for.

— morgaine, although interested in art and literature, found school a bore. she hated learning pointless things she knew she would never use again and even though she remained popular throughout her education she didn’t particularly care for the other girls she knew; they were all fake and bitchy and talked about nothing stimulating. she did, however, attend all the big school parties at the more wealthier kids’ houses just to piss off her father and get drunk.

— morgaine also participated in kung fu lessons in order to learn self-defence. it was a way for her to get stronger and let out her frustrations. she once roundhouse kicked a boy in the face after he derogatory comments to a fellow student who was always getting bullied for being a nerd and whilst morgaine got in huge trouble she was proud of herself and the student she helped remained eternally grateful, the two of them often sitting together during lunch. nobody else dared mess with her after that.

— madeleine was supportive of morgaine’s endeavours to pursue a singing career as she could see how much is meant to her daughter and how passionate she was about it, but archie wasn’t happy. he wanted her to do something that would bring her wealth and abundance (or so he said, but morgaine knew he only wanted her to be as miserable and as infamous as he was), but she stood her ground. both he and her brothers were disappointed; they said she was throwing her life away, but morgaine only replied that she was actually wanting to live a life and not wanting to be pulled down into the depths of depression and stress by some mundane lifestyle. of course, archie was less than pleased and when morgaine had graduated high school he gave her an ultimatum: go to college and get a real job or leave home and never come back. morgaine chose the latter.

— morgaine soon found herself jumping from bar to bar, singing across the city and having no kind of stability. her mother was sending her money in the meantime, until she got on her feet, to pay for rent and groceries. morgaine didn’t know what she would do without madeleine. at 26 she found an opportunity to go to london to start her career at a prestigious hotel named ‘the bastion’ and, with her mother’s full support, she immediately snatched it up.

— upon arriving at the bastion she was taken under the wing of elowen de gavre, a fellow singer. the two lived together and quickly became like sisters, even solidifying their relationship and trust with friendship bracelets which they never took off. morgaine always thought she’d never have made it in the bastion of it want for elowen and knows that she can rely on her no matter what.

— morgaine never intended to become an assassin, but with being surrounded by a certain class of people and with her beauty, charm, and martial arts skills it became inevitable. she practised incessantly when it came to shooting a gun and knife throwing, but soon became an expert in both, even going as far as having her own custom silver knives made.

— her job as a singer payed well and she loved every moment of doing her favourite thing in the world, but when morgaine started taking on contracts her income increased and was able to start paying her mother back (despite madeleine’s insistence that it wasn’t necessary) and was also able to move out of her room at the bastion to get her own place nearby. her first job as an assassin was to dispatch a wealthy gentleman who had been breaking the rules of the table and thought he was getting away with it and whilst she was nervous morgaine decided to have fun. she seduced him at the bar where he spent most evenings and accompanied him back to his apartment where she slit his throat and stole some valuable pieces of jewellery from both him and his wife. she heard on the news that the police only suspected the murder was a result of a break in and robbery and nothing else came from the investigation. literally getting away with murder gave morgaine a high and is constantly chasing that when she takes on a job.

— after getting unwanted attention from men who were disrespectful, sexiest, and generally terrible people, morgaine thought she would never find someone who would love her the way she could love them. until she crossed paths with fellow assassin marco romano, who was highly skilled, incredibly handsome, and had a heart of gold. he also frequented the bar a lot and watched her sing. she fell for him pretty quick and not only did he help to bring out her softer side, but she helped him to be more confident. the two soon became a formidable pair.

other muses: e. crowe / d. montmorency / r. thorne

[yujo-nishimura]

Tsukuba - Part 2

I am doing a course on creative nonfiction at the University right now and I thought it would be time to get the creative nonfiction I used to write out into the world. These are just bits and pieces of a short novella - nothing is proof-read and this was translated from German into English.

After the concert in Osaka, I received a message on my phone that said, "Meet me at the east exit." Knowing that I would have to wait for a while, I took my time leaving the hall and bought myself another beer at the exit just to keep myself occupied. The evening was colder than usual for this time of year. I wrapped myself in my scarf as the air buzzed with the heated excitement of the concertgoers slowly making their way home.

I stood at the east exit, clutching my beer. His little blue car was right by the door - he had driven here alone all the way. We never talked about his work. It was an unspoken agreement between us, just like we didn't talk about our age gap.

Tired from standing for so long, I wanted nothing more than to sit on the ground, but I knew it would only cause annoyance and people judging me. Some fans had come to the east exit, noticed his car, and now they were doing the same as me - standing around. I sent him a message.

"I'm here, but so are the others."

Just a few seconds later, I received a reply.

"Maybe you want to go to the hotel first, and we can meet there?"

"No problem. Did you make a reservation?"

He had told me just before he left that he would book a double room for the two of us, but he hadn't told me where or if we would split the costs.

"The Marriott. Reservation under your name," was the reply I received, and from the brevity of the message, I immediately sensed that those were all the details I would get for now.

Several taxis drove past on the street beside me, many of them occupied. The fans around me stood closer together now. Some more of them had noticed the car, and perhaps they had multiplied like bees—one had informed the other, and now they were all slowly coming here, hoping to see him.

I stepped to the side of the road, looking hopefully in the direction from which the cars were coming, determined to extend my arm as soon as a taxi came into sight. For a while, nothing happened, and then suddenly I heard a loud sigh and screaming. The gate to the east exit had opened and H. was standing by his car. I turned around briefly, he didn't see me, didn't want to look over the fans to see me, and I showed no interest either. At least he was early enough for us to be able to buy something to eat.

Just as he got into his car and the bodyguards kept the screaming crowd at bay, a taxi stopped right in front of me.

"Osaka Marriott Miyako Hotel, please," I said as I got in. Suddenly excitement burned within me. Who would be faster?

I arrived after ten minutes. I entered the lobby and didn't see him at the entrance or the reception. So I had won the little race—maybe only because my taxi driver was a true Osaka resident who knew the city like the back of his hand and bombarded me with all sorts of information in broken English during the ride. He probably thought I was a tourist and that it was my first time here. This was the sixth or seventh time I had visited Osaka, and when I asked for a receipt in Japanese as I got out, he was very disappointed and embarrassed that he had been trying to speak English with me the whole time. I thanked him anyway for the city tour and his efforts—forced hospitality was always better than hostility.

I didn't like the lights in the hotel. There were ornate chandeliers with LED lights—it was supposed to be chic and elegant, but the bright light contradicted that. Leather chairs were arranged around glass tables—I knew why H. had chosen this hotel—it perfectly matched his taste. Sterile cleanliness and elegance. It felt like being in a museum— you may look, but don't touch anything.

At least the bar looked friendly, and I longed for a Japanese shochu on the rocks—as soon as I checked in, I would treat myself to one or maybe two.

I approached the friendly receptionist, smiled, and said that the reservation was under my name. She checked and nodded kindly, then asked, "Honeymoon Suite?"

I sighed at his audacity.

"Yes, I suppose so."

"It has already been paid for by card. Here's your key, room 545. Will your husband be checking in later?"

"I hope so."

She laughed, but I was serious.

[weebird20art]

Thought I'd join in Art vs Artist this year and also do a little intro for any new followers.

I'm Laura, the artist behind weebird20art, and I love to illustrate the weird and wonderful! I also like to dabble in handmade book binding and creature sculpts!

This last year has been a whirlwind of new things for me as I've illustrated a children's picture book titled 'Miss Perilla Magilla and Her Marvellous Desk', about a steampunk inventor and her crazy creations.

I really love to create intricate ink drawings, and this year I learned they're called wimmelbilds, a german term meaning 'teeming picture'. My first wimmelbild, Castle Teapot got accepted to be displayed in a gallery! It's still there on display in the Ulster Museum until Jan 23rd 2023.

I took part in Game of Shrooms in June and hid my very first Rootle sculpts around the grounds of Belfast Castle (though back then they were called Root Dudes) for people to search for and find to take home and enjoy. I met some lovely people as they joined in the fun and hope to take part in June 2023!

I've started up an Etsy store selling my wimmelbild illustrations, custom portraits and leather books and have these things as well as my little Rootle sculpts in a local shop that sells handmade goods.

I hope you all stay with me going into 2023 and thank you so much for all your support by liking and sharing my posts as well as purchasing my art....it allows me to spend more time doing what I love and creating magical things!

[dapurinthos]

visited three museums in one day (archaeological museum of nafplio, bus to athens, metro to national archaeological museum, metro to akropolis museum, metro to piraeus).

how? i go through museums fast and i was only at the national archaeology museum in athens for pretty much four areas (mycenaean, neolithic-early bronze age, kykladic, antiquities of thera) even though a docent tried to convince me to go back and look through the rooms i just walked through when i asked her where the thera room was. i know where my interests like and they are all before 1200bce (okay i'll allow up to 1177, you're lucky eric cline).

had a discussion with one of the docents and another museum attendee about that diadem which i have been very curious about the actual construction thereof since i've learned of those tumulus/urnfield culture pointy gold hats and wondered if there were any similarities, especially in terms of calendrical significance and, especially, the construction. having now seen it in person, i am considering whether or not they may have been separate pieces, with the gold rays/spikes forming a pointed hat atop the head, and the diadem itself meant to be worn across the head.

the diadem itself is easy, it has two holes at the back pieces to be tied together, but the rays/spikes are thicker at the bottom, almost like the gold has been folded under itself and there's a little bit that would have formed almost a shelf, or wrapped around the base of something like leather (it's very hard to see even in person at the museum and i contorted myself into some interesting positions to try and see), forming a bit of a lip that would then fold beneath the lip of the leather base.

so:

hmm.

unfortunately all the relevant information seems to be in german from a first perusal. :/

[astrorose07]

I will never forget finding this song on a playlist in the Holocaust Museum in Berlin.

“Shtil di Nakht iz Oysgeshternt”:

“Silent stars are shining o'er you

In the frost your hands are numb

Remember, sweet comrade, how I showed you

How a soldier holds her gun

A girl, a coat of fur and leather

Holding a pistol in her hand

Waiting and watching for the German

Convoy to come around the bend

Shtil di nakht iz oysgeshternt

Un der frozt hat shtark gebrent

Tsi gedenkstu vi ikh hob dikh gelernt

Haltn a shpayer in di hent

A moyd, a peltsl un a beret

Un halt in hant fezt a nagan

A moyd mit a sametenem ponim

Hit op dem soynes karavan

She aims her trusty little weapon

Breathes, and pulls the trigger back

A transport full of ammunition

One shot stops it in its tracks

Getsilt, geshosn un getrofn

Hot ir kleyninker piztoyl

An oyto a fulinkn mit vofn

Farhaltn hot zi mit eyn koyl

At dawn, she crawls out of the forest

With garlands of snow all in her hair

One more little victory for freedom

One more comrade brave and fair

Fartog fun vald aroysgekrokhn

Mit shney girlandn oyf di hor

Gemutikt fun kleyninkn nitsokhn

Far undzer nayem frayen dor”

No matter your gender, people, skin color, sexuality, ability, or anything else, you have a place in the fight against fascism.

[blueiskewl]

The Heir of a German-Jewish Collector Is Suing the Guggenheim for the Return of a Prized Picasso Painting—Or $150 Million

The museum says the 1938 sale was a “fair transaction” and that the complaint is “without merit.”

The heir of a prominent German-Jewish family is suing New York’s Guggenheim Museum for the return of a prized Pablo Picasso painting, which he says was sold under the threat of Nazi persecution 85 years ago.  

A lawsuit filed January 20 in Manhattan Supreme Court alleges that the painting, Woman Ironing (1904), was sold under duress in 1938 as its owner, Karl Adler, rushed to flee Nazi-run Germany with his wife, Rosi Jacobi. The plaintiffs in the case, which include one of Adler and Jacobi’s direct descendants—Thomas Bennigson—and numerous Jewish charities, are seeking the return of the artwork or $100 to $200 million in damages.

The case, which was filed under the provisions of the 2016 Holocaust Expropriated Art Recovery Act, may come down to whether or not the artwork was determined to have been sold illegally or through extortion.

“[Adler] would not have disposed of the painting at the time and price that he did, but for the Nazi persecution to which he and his family had been, and would continue to be, subjected,” the filing reads.

The board chairman of a major leather manufacturer, Adler acquired the Blue Period painting in 1916, from the Munich-based gallery owner Heinrich Thannhauser. Twenty-two years later, the businessman and his wife fled Germany amid increasing threats of persecution from the Nazis.

The couple planned to immigrate to Argentina and needed money to cover the cost of short-term visas and the Nazi-instituted flight tax. As part of an effort to liquidate his assets, Adler sold Woman Ironing to Heinrich Thannhauser’s son, Justin Thannhauser, for $1,552—or roughly $32,000 today.  

The heir’s complaint characterizes the sale as “forced” and its price as “well below” market value.

“Thannhauser, as a leading art dealer of Picasso, must have known he acquired the painting for a fire sale price,” the suit says. “At the time of the sale, Thannhauser was buying comparable masterpieces from other German Jews who were fleeing from Germany and profiting from their misfortune.”

“Thannhauser was well-aware of the plight of Adler and his family,” the complaint goes on, “and that, absent Nazi persecution, Adler would never have sold the painting when he did at such a price.”

Citing its own provenance research, the Guggenheim said in a statement that the plaintiff’s case is “without merit.”

Woman Ironing entered the museum’s collection in 1978, following an extended loan and promised gift from Justin Thannhauser in 1965. But before the acquisition was final, Guggenheim administrators looked into the painting’s past and contacted Karl Adler’s son, Eric Adler, as part of the process.

The younger Adler “did not raise any concerns about the painting or its sale,” according to the institution. The museum also pointed out that the Thannhausers, too, were Jewish and subject to Nazi persecution.  

“The extensive research conducted by the Guggenheim since first being contacted by an attorney representing these claimants demonstrates that the Guggenheim is the rightful owner of the painting,” the museum’s statement went on. “There is no evidence that Karl Adler or his three children, now deceased, ever viewed the sale as unfair or considered Thannhauser a bad‐faith actor, either at the time of the transaction or at any time since.”

A spokesperson for the Guggenheim further explained that the painting is currently on view at the museum, as it has been almost continuously since being acquired 45 years ago. The artwork is not accompanied by signage stating that it “changed hands due to theft, seizure, confiscation, forced sale, or other involuntary means” during the Nazi era, as required by a recently passed New York law.

A lawyer representing Adler and Jacobi’s heir and the other plaintiffs did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

By Taylor Dafoe.

[sheltiechicago]

Here Are The World’s Most Extraordinary Shoe Designs, Shared On Virtual Shoe Museum By Liza Snook

"Project by Tran Ngoc Yen for the Faculty of Multimedia Communications, Shoe Design Studio, 2017.

Material: leather, wood and a red apple.

Snow White is a 19th-century German fairy tale that is today known widely across the Western world. The Brothers Grimm published it in 1812 in the first edition of their collection Grimms’ Fairy Tales. The name Sneewittchen was Low German and in the first version it was translated with Schneeweißchen. The Grimms completed their final revision of the story in 1854. The fairy tale features such elements as the magic mirror, the poisoned apple, the glass coffin, and the characters of the evil queen and the Seven Dwarfs.

© Tomas Bata University ZlÌn, photo Barbara Zaťková."