#SquareLED

[theblacksheepcz]

guys serious question. What species is Mr Squarell? Most people assume that he’s a squirrel, but squirrels don’t really have long ears?? and mainly they don’t live underground or dig that much. I always seen him as a rabbit but i dunno… other options are bilby and jerboa.

[jorisjurgen]

draws animatic for 3 hours and gets a headache and a stomach ache abnd a heart ache: oughgh its so jorisover.

anyway here is how much shit ive drawn so far.

the second image is all the frames for the chorus, which are very complex because my dumb ass was like "yeah making all the chorus images have animated backgrounds and text is a good and normal idea."

[moonartemisia]

AnZ & SquareL (oc) 💜❤️💋

Besties

[dustedmagazine]

Bill Callahan — Resuscitate! (Drag City)

Photo by Patrick Masterson

One could argue a bit of malleability, some openness to interpretation, is a hallmark of any decent song, but Bill Callahan’s songs are more often than not built with loose borders, pockets to be filled with riffing and vamping, space to stretch the legs. While he undeniably releases records of songs — YTI⅃AƎЯ, the album in support of which he was touring for Resuscitate!, was his eighth under his own name and something like his 19th if you count the Smog works — there’s a degree to which they bleed around the edges, unfurling in ways that make you forget where you started and with only a vague awareness that it will eventually end.

Such unfurlings may be less comforting or familiar for the indie-rock audiences from whence Callahan came, but they’re practically de rigueur among jazz and jam band audiences — which, curiously, is whom Resuscitate! seems to propitiate over the course of its 10-track, hour-and-a-quarter runtime. Where Callahan’s records hint at or explore with restraint such reaches, in person, they’re allowed to bloom in full. Songs naturally mutate once they've been laid to tape, Callahan says in the liner notes, but these songs were evolving with a Bruce Banner-esque ferocity and needed to be documented.

It’s hard to imagine a better venue for such documentation than Chicago’s Thalia Hall, a stately former opera house dating from 1892 in the Pilsen neighborhood with excellent acoustics regardless of where you stand or what you’re watching. It’s also hard to imagine a better group of backing players, with veteran Chicago concern Natural Information Society’s Joshua Abrams and Lisa Alvarado and tenor sax man about town Dustin Laurenzi, plus stalwart Austinite guitarist Matt Kinsey, Dirty Three drummer Jim White and Congolese singer-songwriter Pascal Kerong’A (who opened for him on the night in question) all playing their part during the course of the March 2023 midtour set. The results are illuminating.

A word about the tracklist. In an interview for The New Yorker a couple of years ago, Callahan told Amanda Petrusich he has a particular talent for sequencing (“It’s the only thing to do with making music that I think I’m good at,” he laughed), so he presumably gave great consideration to what ultimately got released — and what didn’t. That’s also illuminating: Left out of Resuscitate!’s final tracklist is “Cowboy” (Gold Record), “Bowevil” and “Drainface” (YTI⅃AƎЯ), “Too Many Birds” (Sometimes I Wish I Were an Eagle) and “In the Pines” (A River Ain’t Too Much to Love). Callahan’s set may have erred on the heavy side of recent material (as much of this tour did), but he was even-handed in what he cut and ruthless in how he ordered what was left; only opener “First Bird” is left untouched in its original place.

He would’ve been fine leaving the sequence as he played it, frankly, but Resuscitate! sharpens Callahan’s considerate cowboy demeanor even whilst songs expand in length and narrative moments stretch out in relatively small spaces, extending into stories that meander, convoluted and beautiful as any bedtime story.

You could see why this would appeal to certain festival folk, and the mood on the ground that night was very much akin to one you’d find at an appreciative Oslo show or a late-hour Bonnaroo set despite a healthy heaping of reverent Callahan faithful. The whoops and hollers are there in the margins of or breaths between as songs unfold like loose unbuttonings, ebullient exclamation marks left in the wake of, say, Laurenzi tearing it up during the nearly 13-minute “Coyotes” or occasionally breaking through the mix as “Naked Souls” hits its groove. Such flavor is endemic to live albums, but it’s interesting how much Callahan has tried to collar it despite the music’s open-world expansiveness. Not that he was ever much one for it, but there’s also minimal banter; the focus remains squarely on the songs’ real-time evolution.

Smog standby “Keep Some Steady Friends Around” might be the most indicative track for where Bill Callahan was at during this snapshot in time. It’s as domestic as its newer setlist compatriots — and heavier in a way, as though Callahan has deeply observed over the decades what it means to have steady friends around, and what it means to build a gate. What Resuscitate! reflects is where that gate lies: Forever the folk troubadour but now with a more stable home life to lean on, Callahan can afford himself the luxury of opening up that gate and letting more of himself out — though what he lets in remains the provenance of his closest confidants and spiritual tribe. Even at his most open, the gate remains a gate.

Patrick Masterson and Margaret Welsh

[unihup2025]

Tom Hiddleston made the perfect shooting movie for our night of detox

By Shir Dietsch | Posted 1 hour ago “… sometimes he has doubt of not breaking that they were in a future that had already done, and had been exhausted.” – Ballard JG The future is something we are constantly thinking like humans. Not in a flipping “What’s for dinner tonight?” I will. I talk about the future. Our dreams and Squarel on where civility, society, and humanity are all. And now, I have…

[cherry-the-idiot]

Heart rate doing a haha and spiking whenever I hear a squarel core.

[theblacksheepcz]

More Rebecha headcanons but this time it’s her relationships with basically everyone

Here is part one btw

oh my god i forgor this in my draft section

um uh let’s start chronologically I think cuz it feels right for meh

So Rebecha and Super Weasel Kid never met, but Rebecha knows about him because of Walk, and SWK doesn’t even know she exists. HOWEVER. If they did meet, they would have this ‘wine aunt and prankster nephew’ dynamic like “yo can I borrow this dangerous thing for a prank?” “take it and leave me alone. (finally something interesting will happen)”

She met Mr. Squarell once in Secrets of Legendaria and they very much relate to each other.

Rebecha hates Irving with every pixel of her being. He hates her too. They can’t be in a single room together without beating the shit out of each other. Anyways that’s why she’s so rebellious and wants to get the fuck out of Gameworks/Gamefuna. Because the workplace is shit.

She gets along very well with Bryce, she listens to his stories from the Cooking Granny series and he taught her a few things about cooking/baking!

Wizarro is her best friend. Bestest friend she ever had. She tells him everything from gossips to personal stuff and he’s always there for her if she needs comfort. He’s too pure for this world T-T oh and also they paint each other’s nails

also she didn’t really talk to the other fighters in Combat Arena X but she had this rivalry with Shinobee and Alley Gator-

Now about Sado…*inhale* so if you’ve known me long enough (or follow my other medias) you probably noticed that I basically invented Sabecha- you see- ITS COMPLICATED THEY HAVE POTENTIAL OK- THEYRE FRENEMIES AND LOVERS- AND- CALM X RECKLESS, REBEL X GOODY-TWO-SHOES, FORBIDDEN LOVE/STARCROSSED LOVEEERS, ON AND OFF RELATIONSHIP?? grumpy x silly. *slaps roof of car* This baby can fit so much angst. And fluff. Ofc. you can read my fics and know what I mean-

And while we’re talking about ships. Chandrelle. basically i headcanon that she was in a polycule with them 👉👈 but she broke up with them, mostly on good terms tho.

There’s Lazarus…she tolerates him. Lazarus doesn’t really know if she dislikes him or not because she always has that deadpan expression and mostly monotone voice so he chooses his words carefully around her. But she’s really chill.

Rebecha somehow befriended Jack, the Sphinx’s servant. They understand each other. And he teases her by calling her Rebecca on purpose. That’s pretty much it. Also Wizarro always shushes him whenever he’s about to say a curse word. Everyone actually. Just because.

Rebecha tried to flirt with the village girl once and only got a death stare in return.

talked to Jay once or twice and dipped.

she was the one that told baby Junior that his dad won’t come back and then he had to be hugged for an hour.

Rust is like a father figure to her. More or less. He gives her headpats. But Rocky is more like a nephew.

She pretends that Dustbowl Danny and The Vurm don’t exist. Take that as you will.

Rebecha views FPP as just acquaintances, but they view her as a friend. Rebecha tells stories or vents to them and FPP gets to do the same (in sign language). Both of them are glad that someone actually listens to them.

She’d find Catarina and she would tell Rebecha to “break up with that clown freak” and Rebecha wouldn’t give a shit

o yea she saw Jeremiah sneaking into the boat, she didn’t think much of it.

ok now Lionel Snill…her feelings about him are complicated. Like she knows that he probably has no idea that his characters are sentient and that Irving basically abuses them but at the same time she resents him. And then in Walk she just facepalms at hearing his story.

[ledsen-technology]

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[fountian-of-youth]

It worked it actually worked ! His heart was racing with relief and joy he could finally -

"Damien ?" He whispered out seeing the look in the other's eyes "oh...shit " he muttered

He yelled in pain as he found himself tumbling with his lover "ack get off!" He hissed out tendrils whipping to restrain his experimented lover to stop him from tearing into his body

Synthetic blood and real one stained the ground "fuck!" He hissed in pain

[Damien sprinted towards Allo- equipped with a tranquilizer gun. So this was the guy Kraken needed? He was smaller than Damien who was 5’8.]

“Come here you little bitch.”

[He failed to recognise that Allo was holding a weapon.]

@damien-thedoctor

High stress combined with frustration wasn't a good thing

Especially in this case as allo whipped around to see Damien sprinting at him.

Swiftly he held the blade up angling just right that if he stabbed into this fella it cause serious bleeding

"I rather not " he replied as he braced himself for impact hand tightly grasping the knife

[bumblekits]

I'm pretty sure Karen would be great at laser tag. 🔫

Like and reblog, do not repost!

[aditya004]

सबसे ज्यादा पेड लगाने वाली गिलहरी की क्यों ना तारीफ की जाए

सबसे ज्यादा पेड लगाने वाली गिलहरी की क्यों ना तारीफ की जाए

[theblacksheepcz]

I LOVE THIS AU

And does that mean they also get to meet the fisher in Beneath The Surface?-

OK SO I HAVE AN AU YIPPEE!! I love the hex side characters sm for some reason, im making an entire au centered around them. These are just copy and pasted from my doc i made (and still working on so it might be a little rough!)

Keep reading

[jane-beata]

Watercolor deer, animal portrait series by jane-beata

Hello again ♥ I hope you won't reject this topic from me, since you are mostly seeing me upload portraits. But this year, I really try to challenge myself to leave all my comfort zones, that bored me and made me stagnate. I wanted to create at least 8-12 animal portrait paintings, this deer is one of them. I loved the process, I have added black ink and a nighttime coloring into the composition. The ORIGINAL of this painting is still AVAILABLE, as well as prints, in my STORE. PROCESS VIDEO on YouTube (@janebeata) Materials - Schmincke and Daniel Smith watercolors, black ink, cold-pressed cotton Fabriano paper (Artistico), which I have replaced Arches with lately, because its half the price for me and approximately same quality. ___________________ If you like my work, please throw me a comment, it means the world to me every time! I love to hear what you think! You can now SUPPORT me on   Patreon ♥

[alpaca-clouds]

Castlevania, Lenore and a fun bit of history

So, given that I am currently kinda planning a series on the Styria sisters, I went a bit (much) into research mode, for each of them. Which leads me to one thing: I think Lenore is Scottish and I am gonna tell you why.

So, we know three things about Lenore's background. Both from the same conversation with Hector.

She grew up in a castle.

English soldiers came climbing up the toilet chutes when she was 5.

That happened 200 years ago.

Point 1 can be basically ignored, because if you live in Europe you know that castles are a sort of universal feature.

It is point 3 that is the most interesting for now.

Now, 200 years ago from 1476 - so 1276 - the English were involved in no war. I know. It is hard to believe, if you know English history. But yeah, no English war in 1276... but in 1277 they started up a war again. That one was against Wales. Or rather the English started to conquer Wales from 1277 until 1283.

From whom where they conquering it? Not the Welshmen, I am afraid, but the Norse, who were still holding parts of Wales at the time... Which is why I am rather sure she is not from here. Because her saying that she grew up in a castle seems to imply she was nobility - and... Lenore is not a Norse name, which someone from Norse nobility would have. While nowadays the name is in use in Scandinavian countries as Eleonoora, Ella, Elli, Nelli, Noora, it was not back then.

So, what were the next wars? Well, not surprisingly - again, if you know English history - they did squarel with the French between 1294 and 1303 and then there was the first Scottish war of independence between 1296 and 1328.

Now, the name Eléonore has been around back then in France, so it is absolutely possible that they anglicized the name.

But here is, where point 2 comes in: She was 5 when English soldiers climbed up the toilet chutes. Now, I am not entirely certain, but from all I know, the English did not take castles in Flanders (where the Anglo-French conflict took place). But they took definitely castles in Scotland and they did so early in the conflict.

So... I think Lenore is Scottish and probably from the South of Scotland. Additionally to the historical stuff of course often in fiction red hair is used to imply a character is Scottish or Irish.

Making it probable that her castle was taken in 1296 or 1297, making her born in 1291 or 1292 - and not quite 200 years old at the point Castlevania takes place.

To keep up with the Scottish independence theme I hence headcanoned for her, I made her older in my AU to have her Scottish nobility during the Jacobite uprisings. :P

[phykios]

some more speedwriting for mari, prequel to this! 💗

Maybe he didn’t hear right. “You want me to do what?”

Annabeth flushes. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

“You–” His ears might be broken. Or his brain. That was… quite the request she just dropped on him. “I… really?”

Her face turns even redder, and she nods. 

Percy is kind of floundering here. Like, what are you supposed to even say to an ask like that? What’s the playbook for when the girl you’ve been in love with forever (even if she doesn’t realize it) surprises you with your favorite sushi roll from the shop down the block from the gym to sweeten the pot after she asks you to take her virginity? “I… I’m flattered, I guess?”

She looks down, picking underneath her nails. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” she mumbles.

“No, that’s not–I–” He gulps, swallowing down the secret he nearly spilled. “I don’t… What I mean is. I. Why… why me, I guess. Like–like what about that guy from your econ class? He was kind of flirty with you, right?” Percy asks, like he doesn’t know exactly how flirty he was with her, or how much Percy wanted to beat the snot out of him for it.

“Connor?” Annabeth makes a face. “Ew.” 

“Or,” now Percy is going red–he can feel it, starting from his cheeks and winding down his chest, his rapid heartbeat pulsing his blood all over his body. “Or… tinder?”

“I don’t want to get a tinder,” she says, scuffing her foot against the rug. “I don’t want to hook up with some random guy from class. If I’m going to do this, I want–I need it to be someone I–someone that I really trust. I don’t want just any random–” She breaks off, bringing one hand to scrub at her face. “Look, if you don’t want to, that’s fine.”

Slowly, carefully, like approaching some kind of feral cat, Percy gets up from his seat, making his way over to the couch, where he sits down beside her. Annabeth doesn’t look at him, studiously avoiding his gaze even as he slings his arm around her, a gesture he’s performed a thousand times over a lifelong friendship–so why does it send his heart racing even faster tonight? 

“I… I trust you, Percy,” she murmurs, pressing her leg to his. “I can’t do this for the first time with someone I don’t trust.” 

And he understands. He does. He just also happens to feel a terrifying, dizzying agony: his quiet dream, held for so long, now freely offered to him on a silver platter. But there’s always the chance that he fucks it up. That he loses his best friend. That he loses the most amazing girl he’s ever known. 

Is it a chance worth risking?

After a moment, she sighs. “You don’t have to say anything. I get it.” Slow, reluctant, she pulls away, starting from her leg to her shoulder to that gloriously soft hair–until Percy grabs hold of her wrist. 

“Wait.”

Her head snaps to him, eyes wide.

“I’ll… I’ll try.”

“You don’t have to force yourself to–”

“I’m not forcing myself,” he interrupts, almost too sharply. “Let’s just–let’s just take it one step at a time. Let’s just go slow?”

A beat, and then she nods. “Slow. Okay.”

Slow. He could do that. He could take things slowly. He could ease her into the depths of his love for her, and maybe she wouldn’t run away. 

Pulling her back to his side, he takes his other hand and places the tips of his fingers against the curve of her neck, skimming ever so gently across the soft skin there, and she sighs again, her eyes fluttering. Percy swallows, a brief pulse of heat in his stomach. “Let’s start with a kiss, maybe,” he says, proud of how he doesn’t stumble over his words, or say them too quickly, with too much enthusiasm. 

Annabeth nods. Percy prays that she can’t feel his hand trembling. 

Then, with the barest pressure on her neck, weak enough for her to break free, he eases her forward, meeting her in the middle. Her eyes are lidded, lips parted, pink and soft, and he can barely spare a thought to his own–please god let them not to be too chapped–before her mouth is on top of his. 

Literally. She misses, her lips landing squarely beneath his own, pressing gently to his chin. With a gasp, she pulls back, her eyes wide, hands going to her mouth. “I’m–oh shit, I’m sorry–”

They stare at each other. And then, as if cued by some cosmic director, they laugh. They laugh and laugh, Annabeth’s head thrown back, and Percy forever in love with the pull of her lips showing off the brightness of her teeth. 

“Here,” he says, chuckling, “let me…” This time, he holds her head steady, and she doesn’t twitch away as he presses his mouth to hers–firmly, squarely, unmistakably on her smiling lips.

Yes, he decides. Yes, this is worth risking.

[theredripper]

The route to lay down the anchors at Ragman’s Harbor saw Toron threaded along a limestone passage close to shore. Here the waves were docile, the spume did not crash, but merely embroidered the pines that hemmed the city. From a stone’s throw away Sawane and Flemont could be seen lugging gunny sacks over their shoulders. Malwine, Harran and a score of his oarsmen pushed carts packed with tin ore and aged ambergris. Only Leda had fallen behind with a soft, stealthy gait in an effort to safeguard their most lucrative trading item: scrimshaw pieces on leviathan teeth and jawbone. 

Where his Berserkers were a ruddy vision of prowling animals in tall grasslands, demons that split shields of armed men and slit their throats in one fell movement, they were now a haze of craggy and leaden faces that passed through the footpath with the stink of sourleaf, must, and salt, shuffling toward their relief and to the ready hands of those that awaited these trade goods. Further behind, though, Toron’s eyes strained to watch Dagmara and Rodrik stalling on the boardwalk from where she tugged the crew’s rope-handled ditty boxes to Rodrik’s shoulders. Toron’s hands patted all along his person to produce the customs officer's seal who had allowed their passage through Chequy Port, his mind slipping to the pearl of a memory from moments ago: his brother leaning out far from the starboard to catch a glimpse of the Titan of Braavos that stood leagues ahead. Rodrik had become impatient at Toron’s chastising that he wouldn't be able to see the Titan’s thrust sword from the tuft of clouds that obscured it, and to to wait until the ship passed between its legs to observe it from above. Rodrik had not only ignored him but leaned further into the breeze, soaked through and shivering like a horse coming out of a river, yet smiling bright and new with great regard. I can't wait for you to fall, Toron had said, I'll laugh so hard, to which his brother replied: I can't wait for you to laugh. 

The memory was windswept by the rough sound of pidgin trade talk that called for the seal. Toron spoke the tongue haltingly and with commanding motions for the wares to be taken northeast to Purple Harbor, and that if he was done the dishonor of using false weights and scales at the expense of his coin purse, he was sure to hang them by their thieving hands to the rigging hook of his ship. Waving them with little less but with a flourish of a threadbare rag that he pressed to the back of his neck to stave off the heat, Toron turned towards Dalton's insufferable line of questioning, his temperate mood unravelling into a dark shadow of unmitigated annoyance. “What are you talking about?” he asked rather dimly, his voice rising to a near shout after a moment’s hesitation. “Should I have been like you, then? Wed at two-and-ten and a father at four-and-ten so that I may have grown into manhood alongside my own son?” Toron exhaled a wry, humorless chuckle as he removed the rag off his neck with a whip-like motion, wringing it in his grip before slapping it over his knee. “I don’t live your life for you, so stop trying to live mine.” Kneeling down to the water's edge to let the cloth soak through with water, Toron glared into the feather-light touch of the fish that brushed past his hand. A sense of doubt held him by the jaw as a second voice rose to the forefront of his mind. A voice that rankled his nerves like no other. A dynasty demands contingency, a reflection, a second verse to echo the first, his mother often said. It is a point of pride and testament to a lord's wealth and virility to have a ring on each finger and a woman under each arm. There were times she insisted on the issue with much reproach that it spearheaded a war of words and icy armistices. Now, when Toron finally spoke over his shoulder, he was unsure if he meant these words for his father, mother, or himself: “I’m no less of a man for it.”

Toron rose from his heels and turned to look at his father squarely, running the wet rag all over his face. Water droplets slipped into his dry mouth but even then he could scarce find the words to explain to Dalton why he did things the way he did, only that he was certain that the arc of his life could not be architected, but discovered. He was no mindless mare to be contended to follow the same trail without any prompting from the reins. Not a quite trail, in truth, but a thorny footpath that he was reneged to take, for it could not take him far and wide to where he needed to go, least of all when he saw that his own father’s score of marriages had not put an end to his restless wanderings at high sea. Like trying to sift for meaning through sand, finding the truth to the mind of any woman was a hunt made in vain, but it was writ large that any women who live together and share a husband spin a sticky web of tangled loyalties and grudges. They trade secrets and contrivances like bracelets, oftentimes telling Toron things that he had once been too young to hear, and all these trifles were handed down to him alone – the only child of the Red Kraken’s body who had been allowed to be raised in Pyke. So it followed that Toron took umbrage to his tongue being wasted on wagging at women – no matter how often the thought of his Siersha, now long married and no longer living in lord father’s keep of Lordsport. The weight of the sealskin cloak she had once wrapped over his shoulders and the grip of a pair of whalebone arm rings that she had fashioned for him were now the wisps of a bygone memory, never to be felt again. Neither could he forget his Rue, his blind bog witch from the Neck who slipped her remedies for him in dark vessels of red wine and who had laughed in his face when he asked her to have his child. He had left her bed at the first sign of dawn, finding no remedy for the bruise she had laid unto the fleeting tenderness of his spirit.

Women were forever lost to him. They were only meant to be felt, chased and remembered long after they were gone.

At the mention of the Dornish princess, though, Toron’s mouth twitched into a facetious smile, for he loved her no more than he loved his spent seed on her thighs. She was one of his father’s contemporaries besides, replete with sons and daughters that were scarcely older than Toron himself. Coarse pleasures and fleeting passions were all that they had to offer one another, but ever the greedy creature that she was, she was never sated with Toron’s scraps. “You cannot possibly know what you’re saying. That wench is as trustworthy as a sidewinder snake. Do you know what she asks of me? The cost of her favor?” He fell silent with mounting seriousness, his mouth pressed tightly into a streak of nothing. “To lay waste to the lands of the marcher lords. Horn Hill, Nightsong and Blackhaven, the whole lot of them. You speak of war, father. And all for what?" Toron laughed wholeheartedly now, a joyless and scathing trill aimed at his father's expense. "A woman like any other?”

There is a pause from one critical one-over to another, from Dalton's voice countering his; serenity, annoyance, anger, and seriousness giving way to a rare strain tenderheartedness that lay hidden at the core of Toron. When Toron next spoke, it was not with a reproving tone, but one of great gravitas. “I’ll be plain. I’m no whelp that answers to any woman like the owner who throws the bone. I honor no person or creed but the golden kraken-on-black blazoned on my arms and banners. My place is at your side.”

However, it was in the twisting thermocline of Toron's emotions that he felt himself turn stiff by a sudden wash of cold dread. Panic made him recoil like someone who had swallowed something the wrong way, staring in open-mouthed shock like he had scalded his tongue on hot brew. Flemont's name had leeched the blood from his face and left it a dull gray that sorely betrayed the great wave of emotion that it churned within in. "That– that... that is madness." Then, without preamble, the Titan of Braavos cut through the thick of Toron's screeching with a bellow of his own, the frissons of sound leaving patterns on the water and striking through Toron's shaken heart. "Fuck's sake! Shrieks like the Seven Devil's hellhounds!" He ground his teeth together and pushed past a crowd of people walking the opposite direction, not the least bit compelled to look over his shoulder to see if Dalton had followed or not. From his place, the sun broke across Toron's brow like fire, turning his frown into a deep furrow that made him appear especially hateful. "I am a captain. It is writ large that a captain is a king aboard his own ship. That means you are under my domain now." Toron levelled a look at him that left no room for rebuke. "So how dare you question who I let on my ship or not? Did you leave your wits back in Pyke?" At that, Toron's eyes blazed with the uncertainty that he had truly gone too far this time. He stood sullen and hesitant for a moment, for any sort of lifeline, anything to not turn that razor of perception on himself and put a name to what he wholeheartedly felt for his companion of ten years. Toron did not dream of Flemont in his waking hours, nor did he whisper Flemont’s name into his pillow. What they had didn’t need to breathe outside the cover of night for it to not be real. Like Toron, he was a warrior tried and true, and on such accord they clung to each other like two animals bitten into one another.

"I...The days out on sea are long and bad for morale," he began cautiously. "The others and I like him and his music well enough when there is no end in sight to our journeys. Besides, I've know him long enough from our time in the Disputed Lands to know that he is a good fighter and an even trustier man." Toron then turned away from his father's keen eye and toward the scene blown before him, allowing his father a rare sliver of honesty in a torrent of obfuscations and recriminations. "There is no other place for him to be. He has no home to go back to because he is a wanted man in Myr and Gulltown."

Salt water heals all wounds

w.— @theredripper

One can obtain a lot of information from someone's ship. Dalton started understanding all and any clues he could get after becoming a boatswain in his uncle's ship. The Cursed Emerald was no exception. The tradition to cut one's ears, although not the worst punishment Dalton had seen, had definitely caught his attention. Toron's ship was a mixture of old and young alike, a crew with experience and a necessity to prove themselves. Dalton was confident in his son's choices. He decided to enjoy the free travel and calm nights. Asking about Toron as captain, hopefully without sounding as an interrogation. Dalton genuinely aspire to comprehend how the ship worked.

The sleeping arrangement was a different mater. Toron threw a pillow and an old blanket at him. When Dalton complained, he reprehended him "Don't argue or I'll make you sleep outside". Dalton questioned where did his son got the audacity from, probably Dalton himself if he was honest. Still, Dalton slept on Toron's cabin while his son rested somewhere else.

Dalton filled his days talking with Toron's crewmates. The journey to Braavos would take time he didn't plan on spending bored. He noticed Toron's closeness with all of them. Dalton was proud... and suspicious. He waited until they reached Braavos and had time to disembark. Toron's temper was always prone to screaming and Dalton thought it was better if the people who listen to the screams didn't speak common tongue.

—When I was your age I already had four children, so I thought by this age you would've already given me the hopes for a grandchild. Did you truly entertain the Princess Aliandra Martell to give me false hopes? —Toron refusal to marry had always appeared as some quirky characteristic of him. But perhaps he wasn't interested in women like that at all... in the same way Yara wasn't interested in men at all.— Why do you keep a musician in your crew? Can he even fight? I've never seen you keep someone in your crew if they don't fight... Or does he stays to warm your bed?