#alonzo king

[arcimboldisworld]

Alonzo King Lines Ballet: Deep River - Theater Winterthur 22.12.2023

Alonzo King Lines Ballet: Deep River - Theater Winterthur 22.12.2023 #tanz #gastspiel #alonzoking #choreography #deepriver #lisafischer #theaterwinterthur #dance

Die Company des amerikanischen Choreographen Alonzo King (*1952) gastiert im Theater Winterthur und zeigt die 2022 zum 40jährigen Jubiläum der Kompanie entstandene Arbeit “Deep River” – die knapp 70 Minuten dauernde Choreographie ist eine Verschmelzung von östlichen und westlichen Bewegungstraditionen, ist eine Kombination aus klassischem und zeitgenössischem Tanz…. Continue reading Untitled

[mysticalcats]

a few cats i doodled while testing out a new brush !

[dance-world]

Lorris Eichinger - Alonzo King LINES Ballet - photo by Meggie Isabet

[trulyatessfan]

Yesterday was the 11th anniversary of Criminal Case so I redrew some drawings from last year 💖

[onchillvybz]

Corey Scott-Gilbert and Shi Yanguo in dress rehearsal for Alonzo Kings LINES Ballet’s “Long River High Sky”, a collab with the dance company and Shoalin monks

📸 Liz Hafalia (2008)

[issy5316]

old and new one shot ideas

here is the next pole, i know i made one a while ago, but i want to get a head start and with the other one shots being written down, i don't need to get bored after all and i'm not putting stress on myself, don't worry!

idea 1: where jasper was kidnapped by dreamlife and experimented on, but survived along with zoe, he was found with her and is protective of his friend, but unlike zoe, who doesn't remember jones, the only person jasper remembers is amir and how they were dating before he went missing, jasper powers due to the experiments is ice, because his last name is everett, which is similar to mount everest, get it? let's move onto the next idea.

idea 2: where rupert doesn't actually die but he is knocked out outside due to falling down and hitting his head, his killer thinks he's dead and leaves him there where the MC and jones finds him unconscious but he is still alive.

idea 3: an au where freddie decided to try to kill yann for knowing too much about him, so now the team needs to find their friend before the puppeteer does.

idea 4: where king doesn't kill adam, but adam gets the upper hand and shoots king, which leads to chaos and adam getting arrest, but king is worried since he was supposed to assassinate adam and failed to do it.

idea 5: orlando is sad about seeing his dead husband alive again and wants to vent to someone about how he feels, so he goes to amy, only to learn something shocking about her.

idea 6: amir tells rupert about his sexuality, but is surprised when he finds out something about rupert as well.

idea 7: amir defends rupert after some people harass them for their sexuality, also jasper is ready to throw hands at some homophobic assholes.

idea 8: where charles didn't die but was still shot, but in his stomach, he pretended he died while the MC and maddie found him.

[itsreaditandwow2]

This is my city, man. This is North Carolina. And that dog is scared as shit!

Alonzo Lerone

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 9: High Noon]

A/N: Thank you so much for the love that you have shown this series! Only 1 chapter left... 💜

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 7.6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove​​ @myspotofcraziness​​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​​ @quartzs-posts​​ @tclegane​​ @poohxlove​​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​​ @chainsawsangel​​ @itsabby15​​ @padfooteyes​​ @arcielee​​ @travelingmypassion​​ @what-is-originality​​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​​ @randomdragonfires​​ @anditsmywholeheart​​ @aemcndtargaryen​​ @jvpit3rs​​ @sarcastic-halfling-princess​​ @flowerpotmage​​ @ladylannisterxo​​ @thelittleswanao3​​ @elsolario​​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​​ @girlwith-thepearlearring​​ @minttea07​​ @trifoliumviridi​​ @deltamoon666​​ @mariahossain​​ @darkenchantress​​ @doingfondue​​ @atherverybest​​ @namelesslosers​​ @skythighs​​ @moonlightfoxx​​ @partypoison00​​ @bellameshipper​​ @coffedraven​​ @greenowlfactif​​

As rumbling slate-grey clouds roll in from the North Sea, Alonzo takes you across the bridge to meet the soldiers from Navarre. It is your idea, and one that the Duke of Hightower would be proud of; you are learning how to think like him. To go without bathing or changing your gown first is your idea as well. You want them to see Nico’s blood under your fingernails, the scarlet handprints on green velvet, the evidence of your exodus from London written into the lacerations of your flesh and the earth in your hair: dust, dirt, leaves, blackberry seeds. You tell them what Daemon did to Kunigunde, what Baela did to Nico, how all of it was in pursuit of you and the child you carry. And when you first meet these soldiers, you can see in their faces that they are fresh and arrogant—sharpening arrow tips, swinging swords, laughing as they spar with each other—but not entirely sure why they’re here, Iberian men on English soil, champions of a notoriously dissolute would-be king married to a Navarran princess they’d never seen with their own eyes. But now they have. And as they listen to you, their faces change: to horror, to outrage, to total understanding of what it would mean for one of the greatest kingdoms in Europe to be under Daemon Targaryen’s dominion. It is a blind, bottomless hunger that no one could consider themselves safe from. It is a recklessness that could threaten not just a nation but a continent.

They bow to you, they kiss your mangled hand, they ask if they may tear scraps from the hem of your gown to keep like relics of a saint. They smile at your belly and, when you invite them, place their palms delicately upon it to feel the future blooming there. They admire your sword, still stained with Baela’s blood and gore. They cross themselves when you describe what it was like to feel Daemon’s poison shredding your children from your womb, once, twice, again, again, the first time you’ve ever spoken so plainly of it to any man but Aemond, without shame and without abridgement. And they swear to defeat the Blacks for you and the family you have built here.

They call you the Queen from Navarre, and so do the Milanese soldiers when Alonzo leads you to them, and then the regiments sent by the Holy Roman Emperor. They have never met Nico or Kunigunde, but you speak of them until the warriors of the Continent forget this; you paint portraits with words, of Kunigunde’s honor and grace, of Nico’s youth and bravery and warmth like the sun. You weave stories like the rhymes of poems until the soldiers cannot think of these princesses without remembering their own mothers, sisters, daughters, lovers, wives. You do not stop until you can see the forge-hot glint of vengeance in their eyes.

Meanwhile, Aemond, Daeron, and Aegon go out to forage in the woods, and they say things to each other there that you will never know about. When they return to the castle with walnut hulls and a yellow-flowered plant called woad, Aemond is more burdened, more somber, his pale blue eye distant and glistening. Aegon cannot stop smiling. He keeps trying to swallow it but it bubbles up again, like kites in strong wind, like the pops and sparks of a roaring fire. The walnut hulls produce a vibrant brown dye and the woad is added to darken it, to muddy it, to make Aegon as inconspicuous as possible. But as rain begins to pour outside and the time comes to coat his ever-disheveled white-blond locks with the brew, Aegon makes one last request. He wants you to be the person to do it.

You sit together on one of the covered open-air walkways that overlook the courtyard and listen to the pattering of rain, the thunder, the noise of men shouting orders and fetching water from the well below. You scoop dye from the bowl and comb your fingers through Aegon’s hair, again and again, more times than you could count, until your hand that was mauled by Daemon’s Scottish deerhound is aching and swollen. Still, you don’t complain. Aegon is doing you a tremendous service by vanishing across the sea. It frees him, yes, wholeheartedly, and that is what’s foremost in his mind and always has been; but it frees you too.

You tie his short hair into a single loose braid as the dye sets. And in the midst of fog and lightning—as you have before, though never this vividly—you look at your husband and see the potential for him to be someone else, under different circumstances, under different stars.

“I hope it wasn’t too horrible for you,” he says after a while, gazing out into the storm with his ankles crossed, knees bent to his chest, arms wrapped around them. “All those times with me.”

“You tried to make it as painless as you could. You were gentle, kind. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

“I didn’t believe it at first, you know. That you and Aemond hadn’t…” He gestures vaguely, flinching a little. But it’s a resigned sort of ache. It’s not one he’s at war with any longer.

“But you believe us now.”

Aegon nods. “I kept jabbing at him about it. Provoking him, tormenting him. And he wouldn’t fight me. But he’d flush this deep, pathetic shade of red. I don’t think any man would be so sheepish about something that wasn’t still at least somewhat of a mystery to him. That he wasn’t starving for.”

You rinse the earth-colored dye from your hands in a bucket of well water and avoid his murky blue eyes, the same ones your son always has in your dreams, not knowing what to say. The unvoiced words in the air between you grow clear and unmistakable, like ink on parchment. I’m starving for Aemond too. I have been for almost a year.

“I only ever knew my body as something that was for other people to use,” Aegon tells you. “So I rebelled against that however I could. I made mistakes. I was selfish, irresponsible, callous. There was no room in my misery to truly consider anyone else. I thought I was the only one who felt so trapped. But now I see that it was the same for Aemond. And for you.”

With all of his hair pulled back from his face, with the relief that has quarried the weight from his bones, Aegon looks young and truthful and healthy, even with the bruises of war on him. You try to remember if he’s had any wine since he agreed to go to Navarre. The fact that you can’t recall is staggering.

“Wife,” he says, with heartbreaking softness. “I’m sorry that I was never someone worthy of your love. And that I couldn’t love you either, not in the way you needed me to. Maybe things could have been different for us in another time, another place. I have this unshakeable feeling that’s true.” He glances down at your belly, though he doesn’t dare to touch you. “And I’m sorry that the baby isn’t his.”

You smile tiredly. “I’m not.”

Aegon smirks back, not believing you. “We’re past polite lies, don’t you think?”

“I did regret that the baby is yours. But not anymore. I’m glad that we’ll always have a piece of you with us.”

All at once, he seems very sad. “Will I ever see you again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” And then you amend, meaning it: “I hope so.”

“It’s not that far. You and Aemond could visit someday.”

“Yes. Perhaps we could.” If we’re still alive. And then you notice something else on Aegon’s face. “Oh no,” you groan, giggling.

“What?”

“I forgot your eyebrows.”

He laughs and reaches up to run his fingertips across them, light blond arches framing deep-set eyes, distinctly Targaryen features. They remind you—abruptly and unwelcomely—of Daemon’s. “Jesus Christ. Well, that won’t do.”

“Come back over here. I’ll fix them now.”

Aegon scoots across the stones and presents himself to be transformed. You dip your fingerprints in the dye and carefully cover his white-blond eyebrows with it. Even this close, there’s no genuine heat between you—there never has been, honestly—but there’s a peace now, a sense of understanding that didn’t exist before. Forgiveness, even.

“Wife?” he says. “Although I suppose I can’t call you that anymore.”

“It never meant much. I don’t see why it would now.”

He smiles briefly, then turns serious. “Do try to survive this war. Don’t succumb to heroics. Don’t jeopardize your life more than you already have.”

“It is my intention to endure it,” you reply, startled. “Why?”

Lightning flashes; thunder cracks like crushed bones. “Aemond isn’t like Daeron. I think if something happened to you, it would destroy him. And he would expect the debt to be paid.”

You wait for nightfall to engulf Castle Rising, and when it does—early and tumultuous under the storm—Aegon dons a hooded cloak and departs on Sunfyre, crossing the bridge over the gorge with two of Alonzo’s most trusted men. They’re headed for the east coast where a ship waits to return to Navarre with word of the war effort and then ferry additional soldiers and resources back to the Greens. This particular vessel will carry more than just wartime reports and tales of Daemon’s depravity across the choppy, shark-swarming Bay of Biscay. It will carry the man who was once—and in God’s eyes, will continue to be until his death—the rightful king of England.

From where you, Aemond, Daeron, Sir Criston, and Alonzo stand huddled just out of the rain under the main entranceway of the castle, you wave goodbye. But Aegon doesn’t see you. He sits tall in the saddle as Sunfyre trots into the downpour, mane and tail drenched and windswept, more bronze than golden in the lighting-fractured night. The moon and stars are covered by clouds. Leaves clatter and break off in the ghostly, metal-cool air. Horses nicker restlessly from the small stable in the basement of the castle.

And Aegon doesn’t look back, not even once.

Castle Rising has not been consistently occupied by anyone since the 1300s, but it is used by the nobility as a hunting facility and is therefore littered with the remnants of visitors; you find a trunk of women’s clothes, dusty and moth-eaten but with a few garments that will fit you: a nightgown, a coat of dark brown bear fur, a white velvet dress. There is a large circular bathtub in the stone the floor of one of the bedchambers and Aemond has it filled with well water heated over the fire, salt, rose petals, sprigs of mint, sage, thyme, pieces of olive oil soap brough by Alonzo from Navarre. As you scrub the past three days off your skin—sweat, dirt, horsehair, blood—and loll in water the color of mist, you think of herbs that heal, herbs that kill, how the earth claims lives and then builds them back again. You sip golden, honey-sweetened mead from a chalice Aemond found in the kitchen. You listen to the muffled voices in the other rooms of the castle. Scouts are reporting that accounts of what happened in London are traveling quickly, like a wildfire, like Plague. Gossip sails between taverns like arrows. Prayers are murmured, candles are lit, masses are being held for the women now called the Princesses in the Palace; Nico didn’t die there—and you wish you could stop seeing the blood on her teeth, feeling the weight of her in your arms—but such details don’t seem terribly consequential now. What everyone speaks of is Daemon’s recklessness, his savagery, his incurably bestial nature. What they cannot unravel from their thoughts is the wrath of the Holy Roman Emperor when word of his only daughter’s murder reaches across the sea like grasping vines.

There is a tentative knock at the bedchamber door and then Aemond opens it. He sees that you are still bathing and then—chivalrous, diffident, red flooding into his cheeks—turns to leave.

“No,” you call after Aemond, and he stops. “Please stay.”

He hesitates and then steps inside, closing the door behind him. The crackling fireplace casts an amber hue like dusk; blue-white lightning flashes through the windows. He crosses the room slowly, his gaze dropping to the opaque water where everything from your collarbones down is obscured by a cloud cover of steam and minerals and herbs. There are shapes, shadows, things he’s touched and tasted, things he’s dreamt about for years, things he’s stolen for moments but never owned. You watch him as he circles the bathtub with excruciatingly unhurried steps until he disappears behind you. You don’t turn to look, but you can hear him taking off his sword, his boots, his tunic, his trousers. Then he lowers himself into the tub, sighing as the heat hits him and untangles the tension in his muscles that had become so unremitting he’d forgotten it was there.

He swims over to you, and now that you look at him directly you see that he’s undone his hair. It falls in a long silvery cascade over his back and shoulders, wavy from the rain outside the castle and from the steam of the bath. He wears nothing except his eyepatch. You wear nothing except the glimmering ivy leaf necklace he made for you; it is a flash of gold beneath semitransparent water. Aemond’s arms—strong yet careful, always so careful—skim around your waist as he slips behind you, his hands coming to rest on your belly. He kisses your shoulder and the back of your neck as rose petals bob on the ripples he’s made in the water, breathing deeply, inhaling you. He smells like he always does, like smoke from a fire and musk and leather, steel and parchment, work and war.

“I’m supposed to tell you to watch out for Daeron,” you say, your voice strangled by the memory. “To take care of him.”

“I always do.”

“Will he be alright?”

“Yes. In time. He’s a better man than I am. If it had been you, I’d burn this country to ashes.”

You turn to face him, stroking his scarred cheek with the backs of your fingers, feeling the heat and beads of condensation on his skin. “I can’t lose you, Aemond.”

“You won’t.”

“I couldn’t survive it.”

“You won’t lose me. I swear you won’t. You’ve lost far too much already.”

His hands, large and calloused, are still below the water on your belly. “You carved over them,” you say. “The four dates in the cedar tree.”

“There will never be a fifth.”

“I’m so afraid that I’ve harmed him,” you confess, a whisper like a dark secret. “I’ve been doing everything I’m not supposed to. Running, riding Midnight, fighting with my sword. I’ve slept on the ground and eaten wild berries and whatever vermin Sir Criston could catch. I’ve gulped water from creeks. I’ve wept for days for Nico. I’m drained in body and spirit. I’ve never felt him move. What if I’ve killed him and I just don’t know it yet?”

“Him?” Aemond asks, intrigued.

“I’ve been dreaming of a boy.”

He pulls you in close and touches his lips to your forehead. Your lungs fill with his warmth, smoke, strength, single-minded resolve. “You did what you had to,” he soothes. “To protect yourself, the baby, the realm. It couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t your fault.” Then you feel his lips curl into a faint smile against your skin. “And you must not be so critical of yourself. You haven’t done everything forbidden to pregnant women.”

“Not quite yet,” you reply, and Aemond draws back to study you, his blue eye cautious and seeking, yes—wanting you to be sure, attuned to every angle of your body—but also hungry, starving. You trace your fingertips over the strap of his eyepatch. “Can I see you? All of you?”

He doesn’t flinch away, but you can tell he’s afraid. “You’ll think it’s awful. That I’m a monster.”

“I could never.” And that’s the truth. “Aegon told me about the sapphire.”

“It’s not a sapphire anymore.”

“What?”

“It hasn’t been for almost two years.”

You stare at Aemond, not understanding.

He rests both arms on the rim of the bathtub behind him and says: “Take it off.”

You reach around the back of his head—his white-blond hair damp and unruly beneath your hands—and lift the strap, then gently remove the eyepatch from his face and drop it just outside the tub. The remnants of his eyelids are jagged, palpably violent, open in an eternal glare. In the voided socket—refracting the glow of flames and lightning—glitters a smooth, bloodlike ruby. “Red,” you breathe. “For Navarre.”

“It was the closest I could get to touching you.”

You ghost your thumb over his parted lips. “Not anymore.”

And only then does he kiss you, kind and yet ravenous. His hands cradle your face as you glide into his lap, nothing to fill the space between you except bathwater and firelight. You can feel his heart pounding under the sinew and bones of his chest. You can taste the honeyed mead he’s been drinking because it reminds him of you. And he murmurs, his river-blue gaze rapt: “I’ve never been with someone I wanted before.”

“Neither have I.” Your fingers weave through his silver hair. Your hips press to his beneath the water. He’s hard, and he’s shaking all over, and his breathing is ragged. There is nothing left to stop you, not your husband, not his wife. “Show me how good it can feel.”

Aemond turns you so your back is against the wall of the tub; the cloudy water roils like the sea in a storm, splashing you with wayward droplets. You moan into his open mouth as he grinds himself against you, his hands skating down the length of your body: throat, ribs, waist, hips, thighs. Your ankles link around him, your teeth mark his neck with a string of trapped-blood amethysts. Your breasts are now just above the waves of the bathwater; he strokes your nipples with his fingertips and then lowers his head to drag his tongue over them, to bite lightly at them, to claim you as well with blossoms like violets. The euphoria that he taught you how to feel is sparking up again. You reach down into the water to touch him—his thickness, his length—and Aemond gasps, his lust a mirror of yours. He slips his hand between your legs and watches the pleasure unfold on your face, helpless and building, desperate, begging for him. You wonder how many times he’s done this already in his head, how many lines he’s written about it in black ink. You hope the real you won’t disappoint him.

He glances to the bed across the room. “Should we…?”

“Yes—”

There is a sudden knock at the bedchamber door. You tear away from Aemond as Sir Criston peeks timidly inside. “Aemond?”

“Not now,” he snaps, husky and panting.

“I’m so sorry, I wouldn’t interrupt unless it was absolutely necessary, but—”

“Goddammit, what?!”

Sir Criston steps into the room, staring fixedly at Aemond to avoid glimpsing any part of you obscured by the cloudy, still-quivering water. You note that he doesn’t seem alarmed by the gleaming ruby in the place of Aemond’s left eye. “Our scouts have spotted Rhaenyra’s forces ten miles to the northwest. They’re marching here. If you don’t want to be pinned down against the coast…if you don’t want to dig in for a protracted siege…”

Aemond’s face has cleared. All other thoughts have vanished from him. “We should ride out to meet them.”

“Yes,” Criston says.

“She thinks to catch us unaware because of the storm. She seeks an ill-gotten victory.”

Criston nods. “The latest word from London is that Alicent and Otto are safe. They’ve left Westminster Abbey and Otto is using the tragedy to drum up more support, courting Northern nobles who have been disturbed by the murders, sending letters to neutral kingdoms on the Continent. The people seem to think that the queen has been taken into hiding for her own protection. No one knows where Daemon is.”

“He hasn’t been spotted with Rhaenyra’s soldiers?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean he’s not there.” There is a heavy, laden silence. It is a great advantage to remove Daemon and Caraxes from the battlefield; it is profoundly dangerous for his whereabouts to remain unknown. “And the scouts reported something else as well, Aemond.”

He waits, afraid to ask, not wanting to be disappointed, unwilling to succumb to false hope.

Criston smiles. “Rhaenyra is missing soldiers. She has hundreds less than we’d estimated.”

Aemond’s brow furrows. “She’s still gathering men?”

“No. She’s losing them.”

And no one has to say what he means: that men aren’t willing to back a side that has invoked the fury of the Holy Roman Empire, that even austere, weather-beaten Northerners will not abide the murder of unarmed women and bastard infants. That Daemon has taken a hammer to the bricks of Rhaenyra’s foundation. That his blade is draining the lifeblood from her cause.

“We could end this now,” Sir Criston tells Aemond. “Before the Blacks can regain the momentum. Before Daemon comes back from the South.”

“Before the baby is born,” Aemond muses, almost too softly to hear, and then he climbs out of the tub.

“There is a hidden passageway behind the wall,” Aemond says. His hair is still wet from rain and steam and bathwater; you’ve secured it in a long braid like a silver chain. He’s wearing light armor and his sword at his belt. You’re wearing the white velvet gown you found, a castoff of some English noblewoman who’s likely dead by now. Aemond feels for a specific spot on the stone wall of your bedchamber, pushing and prodding and shoving it with his shoulder. He locates the right place and a section of the wall gives way, swinging backwards to reveal a narrow corridor illuminated by tiny slit windows and filthy with cobwebs and dust. “It leads to the other end of the castle. If there’s any trouble, hide there. To my knowledge, Rhaenyra and Daemon have always done their hunting in Scotland or Northern England. They have no reason to know the secrets of Castle Rising.”

“Good.” You scrutinize the passageway warily.

Aemond looks to Sir Criston. “And you’re staying here with her.”

“Aemond, no,” you say, frightened. “You need him. He’ll be of far more use to you on the battlefield. He can ride Nico’s horse—”

“I can’t take you with me, and I can’t leave you here unprotected.” Aemond is fierce, immoveable. “He’s staying. That’s the end of it.”

Sir Criston bows his head compliantly. “Understood.”

“If I’m not back in three days, accompany her south to London. If I’m killed, you must be her champion. She is to remarry only a man of her own choosing. Do not allow Otto to barter with her, do you hear me? I will haunt you, Criston. I will drag you down to hell myself if you fail me in this. In the event that the Blacks seem likely to win the war, get her out of the country. Take her back to Navarre. Only then are you free to return to my mother’s service. And you may remain there for the duration of your life, as I’m sure would be your preference.”

“Yes, Aemond,” Criston agrees swiftly.

He swore I wouldn’t lose him, you think, but of course those were lover’s words. They age poorly in the stark realities beyond the doorways of bedchambers.

Both of you follow Aemond down to the castle stables. In the rain and the wind, there are soldiers rushing to saddle horses, gather provisions, haul cannons over the bridge and pry them from the worsening mud when they get bogged down in it. Daeron is on Tessarion and directing an officer from Milan how to position his regiment when they get into battle. Aemond leads Vhagar out of her stall and fastens her bridle and saddle. She’s restless, throwing her head around and pawing at the floor with her massive feathered hooves, chomping at men who pass by too near.

“Stop it,” Aemond commands her, and Vhagar settles immediately. Still in her stall—one of the only two horses who will remain here—Midnight blinks curiously at you with her large onyx eyes, chewing contently on a mouthful of hay. Alonzo appears and readies his own warhorse, a chestnut-colored Andalucian he’s had since you were children. Her name is Tormenta.

Vhagar is ready, but Aemond doesn’t climb up into the saddle. Instead he turns to you, touching your cheek, your throat, your golden ivy leaf necklace.

“Ivy…” You can read it in his eye, in the lines of his shoulders and his jaw. I love you.

“No,” you say. And then you echo his own words back to him. “Tell me when I see you again.”

“I will,” Aemond promises, smiling a little. “I will.” And then he mounts Vhagar and canters out of the stable, vanishing into lightning flashes and storm winds.

“He’ll be alright,” Alonzo tells you from where he stands beside Tormenta. “He’s Alexander come back to life. He’s a genius. Strange, very strange, but a genius. Quiet, intense, no interest in brothels, writes more than any man I’ve ever known. And he has these odd habits. Rituals. English superstitions or something. For luck, I assume.”

“Rituals?”

“Si. Like whenever he sees ivy, he’ll stop and take a piece of it. His pockets are always full of dried leaves.”

Instinctively, you skim your fingertips across the necklace Aemond left for you to find under the cedar tree outside Westminster Palace.

Alonzo sees this, sighs, rubs his forehead. “Ay, por el amor de Dios...”

“There aren’t enough words in any language to describe what he means to me.”

“I knew it! I knew something was going on when he sent me that letter about the horse! Why would he write to me when Aegon never has? Why would your brother-in-law be more concerned about your happiness than your own husband? And then when I got here, I asked Aemond about how you were, and he got all nervous—fidgety, red-faced—and ended up rambling about your wit, your skills with a sword, your tenacity. Oh, and…oddly enough…your scent.”

“What? Really?”

“Si. Like I said, a very strange man.”

“What did he say?”

Alonzo closes his eyes, trying to reconjure the words. “That you smell like summer air, gardens, roses and lilies, horses, needles from a cedar tree. Like the earth.”

Aemond’s smoke and I’m the things that burn. An inauspicious pair. You smile despite yourself. He’s been thinking about you too. He’s been just as unable to tear your memory out of him.

Alonzo mounts Tormenta with a grunt and winks down at you, grinning mischievously. “Don’t worry, mi amada. I’ll bring him back safely.”

“Or he’ll bring you. Either way works.”

Alonzo laughs, clucks his tongue a few times to get Tormenta moving, and hurries off after Aemond.

You meet Criston by the doorway of the stable. Gusts of wind carry raindrops inside to pepper your face, your hands. “You must hate me for keeping you from the battle,” you say, but Criston shakes his head.

“I know what Aemond was like before you, and I can confidently say he’s much improved. I don’t ever want to meet the man he’d be if you were taken from him.”

You contemplate Criston as thunder rumbles outside, not knowing what to say.

“And…” Criston says after a moment, glancing to your belly. He seems guilty, like he’s confessing something he knows is wrong and yet is beyond his power to resist. “That’s Alicent’s first grandchild who is destined to stay in England. Depending on how this war goes, it may be the only blood she has left here someday. That’s a cause I would kill for. It’s a cause I would die for, I think.”

And then he locks the heavy wooden stable door, secures the key by knotting it to his belt, and heads back into the shadows of the castle without another word.

You dream of your son; and he looks like Aegon, but that’s where the similarities end. He’s quiet and serious and watchful, he likes to flip the pages of books even though he can’t read them yet, he totters on unsteady fledgling legs to bring you leaves of ivy he’s plucked from the untamable vines that run like arteries through the gardens of Westminster Palace. He has white-blond hair that he wants to grow until it reaches halfway down his back. He gazes rapturously at swords. And when you speak to him, you call him a name you haven’t heard since you left the Continent, one that is almost nonexistent in England: Nicholas.

Criston insists on sleeping on the floor beside your bed. When you wake, you eat solemnly together—bread and apples and cheese from the castle kitchen, wine for Criston and mead for you—and then venture out into the storm to plod through the mud to the stable door and feed the horses. The churning clouds are so dark and thick that it looks more like night than morning. The wind tears at your hair, your flesh, your white velvet gown. Back inside the castle, you peer down from a window to see that the gorge surrounding Castle Rising is filling up with rain; it’s over a foot deep already. It flows in a current beneath the stone bridge like a river. You help Criston empty the buckets that he’s placed under the spots where the ceilings leak and then head towards the kitchen to start preparing lunch. It’s a bit early for it, but you’re insatiable; you rest your scarred hand on your belly as you pause at a window to check the water level in the gorge again.

Lightning flashes, and you see him there on the bridge: tall, armored, half of his long hair held out of his face by a loose, haphazard braid. Stray locks the color of snow lash around in the wind. Rain pelts him mercilessly, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He is holding Caraxes’ reins in one hand. The other rests on the hilt of his sword. And beside him is something you hadn’t considered, although you should have. It’s a grey dog three feet tall and over a hundred pounds. It’s the surviving Scottish deerhound.

Sir Criston spots you at the window and approaches, concerned. “Your Majesty? Are you alright? What are you looking at…?”

You can’t answer. You can only stand there and remember what it felt like to have the dog’s teeth embedded in your hand, the way the blood gushed, the power and the quickness.

Criston looks through the glass and then immediately pulls you away. “Get behind the wall in your bedchamber.”

“The dog, Criston,” you whimper. “The dog…”

He stares at you and understands. It will be able to track you, to hunt you. “The wall,” Criston repeats, drawing his sword and leading you there. He pushes open the entrance to the secret passageway, ushers you inside, and shuts it tightly. Then he positions himself in front of you, both hands clutching his sword. Downstairs, you can hear Daemon pounding his fist against the door of Castle Rising’s main entranceway.

He whistles shrilly as if calling a dog, a child, a life that he owns. “Are you home, Navarre?” he shouts through the storm, and you know then that something in him has broken; there’s always been savagery in his words, his actions, but now there is a lilt that wasn’t present before, a lack of composure in his voice. There is only an animalistic sort of cunning that is more lethal than strategic. In the dim light of the passageway, Criston turns to you with raw fear in his dark eyes.

There is more banging at the door, and then it stops. Beyond the thunder and the rain, you can hear the distant boom of cannons.

“Do you know what that is?” Daemon calls. You can tell he’s still near the main door, but that he’s moving around. He’s devising a way to get inside. “It’s the sound of your men dying, Navarre. Soldiers under red banners being gutted and left to drown in the mud. What do you think will be the last thought that flies through Aemond’s mind as he bleeds out and rain fills his eyes? His brother fucking you, perhaps. He couldn’t have the throne and he couldn’t have you. And between you and me, I think that’s the true cause of his obsession. People want what they cannot possess. But then you finally get your hands on it and it decays, it withers, it starts hemorrhaging from all the wounds you’ve put in it with your own blades. It’s for the best that Aemond never had you. It wouldn’t have lasted. What man could honestly love a bitch like you? You’ve never had humility. You’ve never learned to recognize your betters.”

There is a deafening impact and then the feverish snort of a horse, and you know what he’s doing: he’s using Caraxes to kick the door down. There is another strike and the splitting of wood, a third and a great echoing crash as the door blows off its hinges. You hear Daemon’s footsteps on the stone staircase. You hear the gruff barking of his Scottish deerhound and its padding across the floor. One of Sir Criston’s hands settles on your shoulder.

“I know you killed her,” Daemon says, much closer now. “I found her. I cleaned the blood from her face. It was no man’s sword that did it. The wound was too small, almost needlelike. It was a woman’s weapon. It was yours.”

You reach for your sword and realize that you haven’t worn it since you bathed last night. It’s still on top of a heap of dirty clothes by the bathtub. You swallow noisily, full of frustration and terror. You couldn’t overpower Daemon under any foreseeable circumstances. Without your sword, you can’t even hope to defend yourself long enough to get the chance to run away.

“My dog can find you, Navarre,” Daemon growls. He’s in the hallway outside your bedchamber. “He has already smelled you. He has already tasted you.”

Now they’re in the room. Daemon is opening closets, moving pieces of furniture to check under them. The Scottish deerhound is sniffing by the entrance to the secret passageway. It barks twice, scratching at the stones.

“If he opens that door, you run,” Criston whispers in the darkness. “You run as fast as you can and as far as you can, and I’ll try to slow him down.”

“Do you want to know what I did with the Milanese girl?” Daemon says. He’s right on the other side of the stone wall. He rams it with his shoulder, grunting. “I fed her to the hogs. They eat everything, you know. Skin and bones, even the clothing. She always looked like a pig to me. Now she’s with her own kind. Isn’t that a happy ending?”

Sir Criston pushes you away from him and towards the winding path of the passageway. Go, he mouths, and you listen, tears streaming silently down your face: for him, for Nico, for Kunigunde, for Aemond, for yourself and the son you carry who may never live. And you are halfway down the corridor when Daemon gets the door open.

Criston bellows and rushes at him, forcing Daemon backwards into your bedchamber, their swords clanging together. The Scottish wolfhound, barking manically, bolts past them and down the passageway towards you. As thunder and cannons roar outside and shrieking metal rings through the castle, you sprint to the end of the corridor and burst through another hidden door out onto an open-air walkway. The dog is on you before you can slam the door shut; it’s snarling and mauling at your hand again, the same one, the dominant one, reopening old wounds and igniting familiar, dormant agony. You are reminded of how accustomed you grew to the pain of miscarriage, and the man who was responsible. When you manage to kick the dog away momentarily, you observe that you can see your own tendons and bones through the wounds in your hand.

I have to kill him, you think to yourself. No one is coming to save me. Criston is fighting Daemon, Aemond and Alonzo are in battle, Nico and Kunigunde are dead. I have to kill him myself.

Screaming, turning your face away so the dog cannot disfigure you, you grab it by the throat with both hands when it lunges at you again. It thrashes wildly and snaps at you, yowling, spewing saliva and slimy threads of your own blood. You heave it up and over the railing, feeling muscles tear in your back, your ribs, your arms.

Please don’t let this hurt the baby, you think as you watch the Scottish deerhound plummet into the courtyard below, landing with a nauseating, crunching thump. Please, God, if you’re there and ever have been, let this one live.

You can hear Criston and Daemon dueling, shouts and steel, though the sound is retreating from you; Criston is forcing Daemon down to the ground floor of the castle to buy you more time. You crouch down so you won’t be seen. Your injured hand is trembling uncontrollably. The pain is so overwhelming it’s difficult to think through. Despite the roof that covers the walkway, rain drenches you in sheets that spray sideways in the ferocious wind. Lightning flashes above you, and seconds later thunder explodes loud enough to shake the castle floors. You look down to see Criston and Daemon appear in the courtyard below, swinging and parrying swords as they step around the carcass of the Scottish deerhound. Daemon is more vicious, but Criston has the advantage; he’s steered Daemon to exactly where he wants him, away from you, away from the baby. But he’s forgotten something.

Daemon plunges forward with his full weight. He doesn’t manage to stab Criston, but he does knock him off-balance. Criston tumbles backwards into the pitch-black mouth of the well. You hear his screams all the way down and then the splash of water below. You blink as searing rain pours into your eyes, unable to believe it.

Criston?

CRISTON???

And then, for the second time: No one is coming to save me. I have to kill him myself.

You scramble to your feet and run back to your bedchamber before Daemon can ascend the steps again. You grab your sword off the filthy, bloodstained green velvet gown you arrived at Castle Rising in. You try to twirl it once; your hand, quaking and ruined, drops it immediately. You snatch it back up and soar out into the hallway.

Daemon is coming up the steps. You veer away from him, darting across the open-air walkways that line the interior of the castle. Your thoughts are a maelstrom of panic and horror and red, red pain.

What now?? Where now??

Daemon taunts as he pursues you, twirling his sword effortlessly: “What do you think, Navarre? When I cut that baby out of you, will we be able to tell if it’s a prince or a princess? Or have you not had enough time to knit those parts into being yet?”

“Regardless, they’ve already had more experience with killing than Jace or Luke,” you sling back, your bare feet flying over wet stones.

He roars, rupturing: “You stole a child from me!”

“Only one? Then we are not yet even. Fortunately, you have others.”

He swings at you and you duck into a spiral staircase too narrow for him to easily maneuver in. You race down towards the ground level, towards the earth.

The stable, you think frenziedly. Go to the stable, get Midnight, flee into the countryside and try to evade Caraxes somehow.

You won’t be able to mount Midnight by yourself unless you can saddle her, and that will take time. But it’s the only idea you have. You careen out of the bottom of the stairwell, get your bearings, run for the main entranceway and skitter over the felled door. Your ivy leaf necklace dangles precariously, swaying with the motion of your body. You can hear Daemon’s armor screeching against the walls of the stairwell. He’s nearly out of it. He’s only seconds behind you.

You make a sharp left turn out of the castle and follow the perimeter until you find the door to the stable. The mud is deep and slippery beneath your feet, coating your skin to your mid-calf; your gown is soaked with cold rain. It drips from your hair and your eyelashes, it raises goosebumps on your flesh. You’re still clasping your sword with your mangled dominant hand. With the other, you struggle with the stable door. It doesn’t open. It’s locked.

The key.

The key that’s tied to Sir Criston’s belt. And he’s at the bottom of the well.

“No,” you moan as rain covers you like ivy scales stones, slapping the door with your palms. You can hear Midnight inside neighing and huffing; you can hear her kicking at the walls of her stall.

Next idea, you think, your hand ablaze and throbbing. A new plan. Something to try, anything to try.

You can’t find one. You’re empty. You’ve had two years of suffering and disappointments and desperate, hopeless trying and now you’ve finally hit the bottom of what you can endure, you’re a dry well, you’re a voided eye socket, you’re full of nothing but pain and futility.

Daemon rounds the castle and spots you. He’s on Caraxes. The snorting blood bay Arabian jolts into a gallop. Daemon is monstrously tall in the saddle, his sword held aloft. Sobbing, frantic, you sprint for the bridge straddling the gorge that encircles Castle Rising like a snake, like a wedding ring. Lightning strikes close enough to startle Caraxes; he rears up on his hind legs and Daemon struggles to bring him back under control, pulling roughly at the reins. Thunder crashes overhead and Caraxes—squealing, the whites of his eyes showing—wheels in tight circles, a delay that gifts you threadbare seconds.

Your bare feet hit the stones of the bridge. The sun must be directly above you at high noon, but you can’t see it. Somewhere across the storm of thunder and screaming horses and cannon fire, Aemond is fighting for you and your child and the country you now call home, but you can’t see him either. You can see only rain and lightning and emerald grass that you chase like means something, like it will offer an escape, like it will swallow you up and take you away from here.

The pounding of hooves is very loud behind you. You can hear the whistle of Daemon’s blade in the air.

Next idea.

You drop to your knees as Daemon’s sword sweeps harmlessly over your head and bury your own blade in Caraxes’ chest. The Arabian shrieks and goes sprawling, blood gushing from his mouth and flaring nostrils, kicking and wheezing. One of his thrashing hooves hits you in the small of your back propels you over the side of the bridge. You yelp as you collide with the steep, grassy wall and roll all the way down, clawing at soggy earth that sheds off in clumps in your hands.

You plunge into the river at the trough of the gorge. On your hands and knees, the water is high enough to choke you, and there is more of it with each passing minute. You stagger to your feet, coughing rain and mud from your aching lungs. Your gown is drenched and freezing against your skin. You are half-blind from the torrents of raindrops that sting in your eyes like needles, like blades. Behind you, in the midst of the thunder, you can hear Daemon slide down the side of the embankment and splash into the pooled rainwater below. You stumble away from him, pitifully, hopelessly, your hands cradling your belly. When you glimpse back at Daemon, you can see the glint of his sword reflecting the lightning. Your own sword is up on the bridge, pierced through Caraxes’ heart.

Your bare foot catches in a particularly deep patch of mud and you lurch to the flooded ground, a petrified, mournful cry splitting from your throat. You think of Aemond, Aegon, Daeron, Nico, Kunigunde, Criston, Alicent, the Duke of Hightower, King Viserys, your parents and your siblings and your doomed children. If this was a song, a story, a poem, you would be able to feel them here with you. Instead, you feel utterly alone. You feel that your clock is rapidly ticking down towards zero. You feel that you will never leave this place.

“It’s time, Navarre,” Daemon says as he stands there gasping in the driving rain with his sword hanging by his side. A rod of lighting divides the grey sky above him. “I’ve been waiting for two very long years. But now it’s time.”

[1donoow]

MIX FANDOM FANFIC REC PT.1

[Fanfics i've read]

Edited

......

♡ - smut

Mostly fluff

......

The letter room [richard alonzo muñoz]

MPHFPC [Alma peregrine][Enoch O'Connor]

encanto [the madrigals][camilo madrigal]

a series of unfortunate events [klaus baudelaire][violet baudelaire]

harry potter [weasley twins][neville longbottom][luna lovegoods]

narnia [Edmund pevensie]

triple frontier [santiago garcia]

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

———THE LETTER ROOM———

richard alonzo muñoz

@marvel-and-mischief - matching pyjamas

——————MPHFPC——————

@dapperappleton - imagine being an ymbryne and having your own loop

- imagine taking care of clair and olive

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

Alma peregrine

@vostokovasmelina - sleeping next to alma lefay perigine would include

@multifandomfix - imagine alma loving it when you paint her and the children

@zafirosreverie - an special case

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

Enoch O'Connor

@she-writes-with-kisses - quiet

- space jump

@dapperappleton - imagine being able to create death and dating enoch

@clean-bands-dirty-stories - shirtsleeves

@klineinie - blanketed

@imaginefan - story time

@y2fandom - sending him cute things

@frost-queen - no pain

@maeby-bby - you fluster me

@pink-princess-pussy-pop - dating enoch would include

————— ENCANTO ——————

madrigal

@cloud-9ine - madrigal reacting to being called their full name

@camilosnovia - there's two of them

- Madrigal Adults reacting to child!reader giving them gifts

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

Camilo madrigal

@sesamestreet47 - camilo w/ a tall s/o

- Camilo with a shy, sweet girlfriend

- friends

@nixthewolf - camilo simping over reader

@radiorenjun - shape-shifting frolics

@madrihoes - camilo nickname

@cloud-9ine - with or without you

@magicalencanto - camilo's s/o having power like pepa

@multificsworld - ___

- Tu Alma Tan Hermosa, Como La Luna

@caramellahoney - future daughter-in-law

- wait no wait-

@luvrcami - camilo headcannon

@bumblesimagines - being friends with camilo

@mihlo - camilo with fem s/o who wears glasses

@dos-oroguitas - angelita

- ay mamacita

— A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS —

klaus Baudelaire

@strangerdangerwrites - incompatible

@a-second-hand-sorrow - goodnight

- Not a problem

@ssadumba55 - not that easy

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

violet Baudelaire

@trustsalvatorewriting - dating violet Baudelaire would include

————HARRY POTTER————

@archivesofthevoid - Pulling their hair while making out

- The boys (+ Percy) stealing a kiss on the way to class hc

@lithiumfae - sexy habits they have (marauders)

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

weasley twins

@therandomficwriter - The Weasley Twins Having A Crush On You

@lilahisntsadanymore - Slytherin sunshine (fred)

@moonlit-imagines - ___

@therandomficwriter - weasley twins with a non ticklish s/o

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

neville longbottom

@hogwartseighthyear - crush

@very-unsirius - blurb

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

luna lovegoods

@iamthemain-character - Falling in Love with Luna Lovegood

@fromforeigntofamiliarity - taming cowardly lions

@sublimecatgalaxy - ___

——————NARNIA——————

Edmund pevensie

@pink-princess-pussy-pop - dating edmund would include

@wrenwreads - she's enough

- wardrobe malfunctions

@witchthewriter - being king edmund's wife would include

@pariahsparadise - warm pt.2

———TRIPLE FRONTIER ———

@violentdelightsandviolentends - tethered ♡

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

santiago garcia

@stormkobra-5 - ___♡

[ansonmountdaily]

Anson Mount on theatre roles he'd like to play

When Anson was at Dragon Con in September 2022 promoting Star Trek: Stange New Worlds, a fan in the audience asked him what theatre roles he's always wanted to play.

Anson mentioned Hamlet by William Shakespeare, Uncle Vanya by Anton Chekhov (the role of Mikhail Lvovich Astrov, a country doctor), and The Changeling by Thomas Middleton and William Rowley (the role of De Flores, servant to Vermandero). The fan also brought up Shakespeare's Macbeth and Anson said he's played the role of Malcolm (Elder son of Duncan, king of Scotland) before.

In 2020 Anson played Uncle Vanya's Dr. Astrov in a virtual theatre production of the play (gifs here and here).

Uncle Vanya portrays the visit of an elderly professor and his glamorous, much younger second wife, Yelena, to the rural estate that supports their urban lifestyle. Two friends - Vanya, brother of the professor’s late first wife, who has long managed the estate, and Astrov, the local doctor - both fall under Yelena’s spell, while bemoaning the ennui of their provincial existence.

The Changeling is about young Beatrice who is in love with a visiting nobleman, Alsemero. However, her father has already arranged her marriage to Alonzo, another nobleman. Desperate to be with her love, Beatrice enlists the help of De Flores, a cunning but ugly servant, a deceptive man obsessed with her and determined to claim her virtue. While she initially resists him, Beatrice is drawn into lustful complicity with De Flores, and together they set in motion a chain of love, lust, madness, and death.

Source: Dragon Con panel footage (via Clayton Courtney)

[godeatershq]

Poderiam sugerir fcs masculinos e femininos por favor?

Aqui você encontra várias sugestões que ainda não foram utilizadas, mas alguns outros que eu gostaria de ver são:

F: Hannah Dodd, Alexa Demie, Grace Van Dien, Taylor Russell, Havana Rose Liu, Alisha Boe, Zendaya, Sadie Soverall, Ashley Moore, Niamh Mccormack, Ayo Edebiri, Camila Morrone, Ava Capri, Kim Lip, Suzanna Son, Francesca Reale, Sab Zada, Maris Racal, India Love, Emilia Mernes, Ava Capri, Gracie Abrams, Faouzia Ouihya, Claudia Sulewski, Anna Cathcart, Isabela Merced, Jenna Ortega, Jessie Mae Alonzo, Ruby Stokes, Phoebe Dynevor, Fukutomi Tsuki, Sophie Thatcher, Tashi Rodriguez, Olivia Rodrigo, Maggie Lindemann, Jessica Alexander, Megan Suri, Maitreyi Ramakrishnan, Ayesha Madon, Asher Yasbincek, Hunter Schafer, Ella Purnell, Courtney Eaton, Milly Alcock, Emily Carey, Phia Saban, Savannah Steyn, Quintessa Swindell, Maia Roberts, Brittany O'grady, Ryan Destiny, Ashley Puzemis, Sofia Black D'elia, Ama Qamata, Haley Lu Richardson, Stefanie Scott, Madelyn Cline, Kristine Froseth, Rachel Hilson, Marlo Kelly, Emily Alyn Lind, Madison Iseman, Auli'i Cravalho, Freya Allan, Mackenzie Foy, Sharon Alexie, Benedetta Gargari, Camila Mendes, Cierra Ramirez, Danielle Rose Russell, Danna Paola, Giorgia Whigham, Lovie Simone.

M: Park Serim,  Jan Buxaderas, Alex Fitzalan, Gabriel Guevara, Jacob Elordi, Henry Eikenberry, Avan Jogia, Damson Idris, Joshua Stradowski, Maxence Danet-Fauvel, Jeff Satur, Taylor Zakhar Perez, Jordan Fisher, David Castro, Nicholas Cirillo, Keith Powers, Jeremy Allen White, Drew Starkey, Charles Melton, Joshua Heuston, Thomas Weatherall, Darren Barnet, Noah Centineo, Brenton Thwaites, Zethphan Smith-Gneist, Michael Cimino, Evan Mock, Felix Mallard, Dylan Minnette, Froy Gutierrez, Barret Carnahan, Gavin Leatherwood, Ross Lynch, Ruairi O'connor, Harry Collett, Tom Glynn-Carney, Jabari Banks, Luka Sabbat, Algee Smith, Rome Flynn, Will Poulter, Charlie Gillespie, Chase Stokes, Léo Daudin, Jonathan Daviss, Caelan Moriarty, Willem De Schryver, Alex Aiono, Aramis Knight, Archie Renaux, Deaken Bluman, Jorge Lopez, Mason Gooding, Reece King, Rudy Pankow, Drake Rodger.

[sirenjose]

Thoughts about Season 30 Essence 2

Updated to include comments about the Essence Design Notes.

We know Matthias' essence is connected to Checkmate (Galatea's S), as we see her appear in his showroom.

Checkmate mentions "castling" (when the king moves two squares to either side, with the rook moving to the other side of the king).

Matthias is a king. Louis is a rook.

Checkmate's description involves asking if "castling" will be the winning move. Based on Matthias' showroom, Checkmate seems to be the "player" while Matthias' essence are her pieces. We don't know if Checkmate wins, as her design notes do mention her suffering a loss in the past.

It's possible Pawn (Galatea's B) could more refer to her past loss, while Checkmate could be her when she's trying to make up for her past loss. Maybe that could mean the game in Matthias' essence is when she wins. Though I'm unsure as the end of the trailer shows Matthias down.

Despite the lighting, I think the downed king piece behind Matthias is the black king, based on an earlier scene showing Matthias and Louis in place of the King and Rook piece (likely king side rook if Matthias is at h1), so I doubt they'd show another White king piece.

Though if both the White and Black kings are down, that makes it difficult for me to tell who won. I assume the last scene of the trailer, with all the downed pieces, is meant to connect to sacrifice since Louis mentioned "sacrificed piece" earlier.

Louis may be the "sacrificed piece", potentially tying to how Matthias tried to burn him to ashes in his story, as we see Louis about to get attacked in the trailer. Louis was on the opposite end from Matthias, who was by his chair being guarded by Weeping and Sangria.

Louis was the 1 about to be attacked, while Matthias wasn't near an enemy, yet Matthias is the one we see down while Louis stands over him. I wonder, like how Matthias and Louis swap in-game, if maybe Louis swapped with Matthias here too? Maybe even in terms of roles sorta?

The crown was knocked off Matthias' head, but it fell right before Louis, who could wear it himself to become the king. Matthias could swap with Louis to instead become the "sacrificed piece", taking the hit we saw Louis about to take?

That could potentially explain how the black king as well as Matthias, who should be/was the King, could be down but how there could still be a winner? I could be wrong, but this is my best interpretation so far.

I did wonder if the chess game in this essence could be based on a real chess game that took place. I haven't found a perfect fit that lines up with the positions of the pieces given in this essence, but I did find 1 that involves castling being the winning move for White.

While researching, I found a chess game that occurred in 1850 between Paul Morphy (White), a genius chess master, and Alonzo Morphy (Black), his father.

Paul wins via castling despite giving himself a handicap (rook odd, meaning he played without his Queen side rook).

I also found a number of games that teach the value of sacrifice. Like the Immortal Game in 1851 between Adolf Anderssen and Lionel Kieseritzky. Anderssen (White) sacrifices 2 rooks, a bishop, and his queen at the end to win. No castling is used here though.

The Opera Game in 1858 uses both castling and considerable sacrifice. Paul Morphy (White) was against both Duke Karl and Count Isouard (Black). The game was played while they attended a performance by the Paris Opera. Morphy sacrifices most of his pieces yet still manages to win.

The Opera Game is also a bit ironic considering the next essence (Season 30 Essence 3, with Vera's S-tier) is based on an opera (and Sangria is in both this and that essence).

Other thoughts: Matthias is a King. He’s the most important piece in the game, valued. S-tiers sometimes seem to tie to people’s desires. So in this essence Matthias may get what he wants, which is to have people care about him.

Yet if Louis switches with him to be king while Matthias is sacrificed, that makes me think of when Matthias tries to destroy Louis by burning him, a fire that also causes damage to himself as well as causes his parents’ (and others’) deaths.

So in this essence, Matthias is the 1 people care for, while Louis is just a rook, a piece that can be sacrificed. Yet the story in the essence is reversed from canon, as now it seems Louis is the one to essentially take out Matthias, rather than Matthias trying to take out Louis.

(I could be wrong. These are just a few thoughts I had while trying to think about any meanings that come with this essence.)

EDIT:

I'm happy I was correct that Louis takes the crown from Matthias!

Backstory adds something about Checkmate being cursed to carve a chessboard with a will of its own? Having their own will would explain what we see in the trailer and why Louis acts how he does.

Not quite sure about the translation, so please feel free to correct me if you know better!

It also mentioned Lily thinking she could control everything, but "not realizing the hand of destiny is closing in on her". That feels like a line that could parallel her story somehow 🤔

[mako-designated-driver]

Day #12: Queen Asha of Antiva

There are those who believe the tale that Antiva owes its independence to the looming threat of the Crows. Yet this story—largely spread by the Crows themselves—is no more credible than the promises of a market-stall huckster. For the truth of the matter, we look instead to the Palace of the Kings in Antiva City. A grand statue of a woman in Rivaini royal garb towers over the entrance, her watchful eyes keeping sight of everything happening within those walls: Asha Subira Bahadur Campana, Queen Mother of Thedas.

When the matriarchs of Rivain arranged the marriage of Princess Asha of Ayesleigh to King Alonzo Campana of Antiva, it went unnoticed and unremarked by their contemporaries; the eyes of Thedas were on the wars of Orlais and Nevarra. The marriage of a minor princess of Rivain to an almost powerless king was beneath their consideration. Yet this wedding was, in retrospect, perhaps the most important event in Thedas's history since the blackening of the Golden City.

Queen Asha was a skilled tactician; seeing the military ambitions of Tevinter, Nevarra, and Orlais, she concocted a plan. Antiva was too prosperous to escape its neighbors' avarice, yet had no means of raising an army capable of fending off both Tevinter and Orlais without impoverishing the kingdom. If she was to safeguard her people, it must be through measures stronger than steel.

The queen spent decades making alliances in the ancient Rivaini way: marriage. She wed her many children and grandchildren strategically into nobles houses across the continent. Within thirty years, Antiva was so well-connected that any hostile action against it would force half the nations of Thedas into war.

The blood of Queen Asha runs in the veins of the Empress of Orlais, the Prince of Starkhaven, the King of Nevarra, and seven of the Dukes of the Anderfels; even some magisters of the Tevinter Imperium have ties to the Antivan royal family. Asha's web of blood ties forces most of the continent to remain at peace with Antiva, or risk terrible consequences at family dinners.

—From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi

[dance-world]

Shomari Savannah - Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater

Shomari Savannah (Burtonsville, Maryland) began his dance training under the direction of Monica Harris and went on to train at the Dance Institute of Washington. He is a graduate of the University of the Arts, Philadelphia, PA where he earned a BFA in Dance. 

As a scholarship recipient, Shomari attended summer intensives at the Rock School for Dance Education, Alonzo King Lines Ballet, Dance Theatre of Harlem, and most at The Ailey School from 2013 – 2016 in both the Scholarship and Independent Study Programs. Shomari has been a recipient of the Nadia Chilkovsky Founders Award and the Pennsylvania Ballet’s Choreographic Award, choreographing for Pennsylvania Ballet’s second company in 2015.

He has performed works by a range of choreographers including Alvin Ailey, William Forsythe, Alonzo King, Ray Mercer, Matthew Rushing, Zane Booker, and Meredith Rainey. While at The Ailey School, Shomari performed Memoria by Alvin Ailey with Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater in 2014.

From 2014-16 he performed numerous ballets by established and emerging choreographers as a member of the Ailey Student Performance Group. He has also danced with DBDT: Encore, the second company of Dallas Black Dance Theater, and with the Dallas Opera. In 2015, Shomari joined the Teaching Artist roster of Ailey’s Arts In Education & Community Programs.

[isthlsfate]

*ೃ༄ That’s All Right

warnings: LONG, tooth rotting fluff, slight swearing, time skips, mentions of the colonel, smut (mdni!)

pairing: 50s elvis presley/austin!elvis x black reader

word count: 2.3k+

*:･ﾟ✧ 07.59

“(y/n), i don’t usually do this but i need ya to perform tonight.”

at the sound of her boss’s words she drops the dishes she was washing, flinching at the loud “clank!” they make. (y/n) quickly dries her hands off and heads up to the front where she had heard his voice come from.

“m’sorry, alonzo, i-i don’t think i heard ya right.” she stutters, resting her arms on the bar counter. alonzo chuckles, taking one last look at the club before giving her his full attention.

“ya did, sweetheart. i’m expectin’ a big crowd tonight and i don’t have enough entertainment.”

the brown skinned girl opens and closes her mouth in disbelief, “why not have b.b. perform twice? or w-what about lil’ richard?”

the elder of the two gives (y/n) a stern and knowing look.

“ya tryna tell me this ain’t somethin’ you’ve been dreamin’ of?”

she sighs, glaring at the elder man before nodding nonetheless.

alonzo lets out a noise of contentment and pulls her in for a hug.

“go on upstairs and get changed, we’ll be openin’ soon.”

𓍊𓋼𓍊

as usual, the club handy crowd was huge and lively. (y/n) sat at the bar taking small sips of her drink, attempting to ease her nerves.

she wasn’t used to being out in the open like this, usually hidden away in the back washing dishes. every now and then she couldn’t help herself and she’d sneak to the front, perched behind the bar jamming along to the soulful rhythm and blues of big mama thornton, b.b king, sister rosetta thorpe and artists alike.

her heart pounded in her ears as she eagerly awaited her turn to wow the crowd.

“let’s dance, honey. get those jitters outta ya.” b.b’s voice sounds beside her, causing her to jump in her seat. she visibly relaxes at the sight of him, taking his outstretched hand without hesitation.

b.b. guides her into the crowd of sweaty, dancing bodies, doing a little shimmy to encourage her. (y/n) lets out a giggle, following in his footsteps.

its not long before she forgets the feeling of anxiety and angst, moving along the floor as if no one else was there. the electric feel of lil’ richard’s voice overpowers her, her body taking over and her head running empty. she spins around, wiggles, and shimmies.

the song soon changes from upbeat to the sensual, fervent kind she’s used to, her body becoming one with the rhythm.

she doesn’t even truly notice as a pair of arms snake around her waist, a warm body filling in behind her and following her movements.

(y/n) spins around in the strong arms and faces the stranger, her right leg wrapping around his waist as he step backwards, swaying their hips.

“you ain’t b.b.” she smiles, allowing the person to turn her around once again, her back against his front as they continue swaying.

the raven haired male lets out a sultry chuckle, his lips touching her ear as he speaks.

“don’t sound so disappointed.”

“do i know ya?”

“would ya like to?”

she tuts, pulling away, both intrigued and unsettled by his quick yet smooth responses.

his touch remains on her, the two of them still dancing softly, seeming to forget their surroundings.

“what’s your name, stranger?” the brown skinned girl smirks, moving her hips in a way that make her look even more irresistible.

“elvis.” he can’t stop himself from pulling her closer again, needing to feel her velvety skin against his, “what about you, doll?”

“it’s (y-“

“(y/n)! you’re up!” alonzo pushes through the crowd, his eyes widening a bit at the sight before him before quickly returning to normal.

the younger woman nods, bidding elvis one last look before rushing towards the stage.

she stands before the crowd with sweaty palms, her once calm and collected aura now tainted with fear and anxiety.

b.b., who she had lost in the midst of dancing now sat stage left with his guitar, giving her a thumbs up and a huge grin.

she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and gives him the cue to start.

“mmm, black snake crawlin’ in my room” ♪

her voice entrances the crowd, like a siren in the middle of the sea. her confidence boosts at the stunned silence of the group, her hips starting to sway along.

her body was on fire, a tingling sensation rushing from her toes up to the tip of her nose.

she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be okay with not performing in front of a crowd again.

she especially couldn’t stand the thought of not performing in front of a crowd with that elvis standing in it.

she could feel his sapphire eyes burning holes into her skin, she fought hard not to look right back at him.

it was like he was enthralled by her, she wasn’t sure if he’d even blinked this entire time.

by the time her song was coming to a close, the young folk of the group had begun dancing just as she had been dancing before, bodies rubbing against bodies, even a few kisses being shared here and there.

nothing in her life could ever live up to this moment.

b.b. strums a little solo at the end of the song and then rises up, giving the female a huge hug and joining in on the multitude of cheers from the crowd.

(y/n) steps down, immediately earning congratulations from alonzo and other fellow employees.

she smiles in thanks but her mind is only half focused on them as her eyes scan the room for her raven haired brute.

“ya didn’t tell me you could sing, sugar.”

the girl grins at the sound of his voice and the feel of his body heat behind her, spinning around to meet his dark gaze.

“ya didn’t ask.”

elvis grins back, grabbing her hand and tugging her further away from the crowd, who had begun to indulge in another performance.

“(y/n)’s a beautiful name.” he tells her, smile deepening at the little scrunch of her nose.

“elvis ain’t so bad either.” she jokes, her eyes searching his face for any sign of discontent at her faux idiocy towards his popularity.

truth be told she recognized him as soon as their eyes met, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of being drooled all over like the other women did.

the blue eyed male only laughs.

“so you can sing, you can dance, what else?”

𓍊𓋼𓍊

four months later!

alonzo had given (y/n) the day off, so after taking a small stroll around beale street in the early hours of the morning, she decided to relax in her room atop club handy.

her radio lowly hummed the tune of ella fitzgerald’s “blue skies” as she rearranged her closet, her feet moving along to the rhythm.

she’s so caught up in the music and the task at hand that she doesn’t hear the room door open, nor the footsteps coming near her.

at the feeling of hands grabbing her waist she lets out a scream, immediately swinging at the person only for her arm to be caught.

“whoa baby, it’s just me.”

“damnit, elvis! ya almost gave me a heart attack. did alonzo tell ya i was up here?”

the raven haired male chuckles, making himself comfortable on her bed.

“he didn’t have to, you’re always cooped up in here if ya ain’t doin’ dishes or performin’.”

(y/n) rolls her eyes, turning her radio down slightly before welcoming herself on elvis’ lap.

“things with the colonel goin’ alright?”

the male sighs, “as alright as the colonel can be.”

he grabs her by the chin and makes her look up at him, his eyes searching her face. he smiles, watching her nose crinkle as it always did when he did something to make her shy.

elvis was glad to have met her when he did. despite the tough, mellow man facade he put up, his up and coming fame was beginning to take a toll on him.

it was nice to stop by club handy and visit his girl, get a taste of reality for a little while.

(y/n) jumps off his lap abruptly, pulling him out of his thoughts. he watches with curious eyes as she scurries back over to her radio and turns the dial, the volume increasing.

at the first sound of his own voice playing through the speaker, he falls back onto the bed with a groan.

his girl only giggles, rushing to his side and pulling him up.

“well it’s down at the end of lonely street, at heartbreak hotel.” ♪

she sings, her lips puckered as she tries to copy his signature smolder.

she bounces on her tippy toes, making faces at elvis, coaxing him to join her. it’s not long before he does.

(y/n) watches in adoration as the music swallows him, just as it does her. she could watch him perform day and night.

elvis notices her staring as he backs her towards the bed, still singing along. he gently pushes her down and climbs atop her, his hands holding her face.

“i’ll be so lonely, i could die.” ♪

he sings in a hushed voice before capturing her lips in a kiss.

(y/n) lets out a soft moan, her hands roaming his body as he grinds his hips into hers.

elvis kisses down her neck, unbuttoning her blouse in the process, lips following quickly after his fingers.

he stops below her belly button and lifts up, connecting their lips once again.

“i-im ready, e.” the sound of his sweet girl’s words cause his breath to catch in his throat. he backs away from her a little to look her sternly in her eyes, his eyebrows furrowed.

“are ya sure, doll? we don’t have to.”

(y/n) rolls her eyes, “i been sure since the day we first danced, elvis. just been waiting for the right time.”

“oh really?” the male teases, unbuttoning his black lace shirt in the process. his girl only nods, her attention focused on exploring his body with her eyes.

elvis flips them so that they’re facing one another, his hands gently pulling down her panties and pants altogether.

she whimpers at the cold air grazing against her now bare body, her hands grabbing his face and pulling him into a kiss.

the raven haired male pulls his own pants down before he lifts her leg over his hip, his tip teasing her entrance and eliciting a sigh from the both of them.

with a deep thrust he enters her, reveling in the sounds that leave her lips. he kisses all along her face, whispering words of praise.

his hips pick up in speed, his own moans leaving his lips as he feels himself nearing his climax.

he opens his eyes at the soft touch of (y/n)’s hands grabbing his face, tears brimming her eyes at the overwhelming pleasure. of all the sights he’s seen her, this one had just become his favorite.

“i love you, elvis.”

those four words send him over the edge, his lips sloppily meeting hers as his thrusts get sharper, his load spilling inside her. he keeps his pace, bringing her to her own orgasm, his kisses swallowing her moans.

elvis buries his head in her neck, not quite ready to leave her just yet. he places gentle pecks along her sweaty skin.

“i love ya too, darlin’.”

𓍊𓋼𓍊

*:･ﾟ✧ 02.60

“calm down now, alonzo! i still wanna have my independence, i’ll come in an’ work whenever ya call me.”

“i know, it just ain’t gonna be the same without ya living here, honey.” the elder man pulls (y/n) in for a hug, careful not to squeeze her too tight due to her growing bump.

she glances over at elvis when the two of them pull away, a small smile adorning her face at his fond expression. he knew asking her to move to graceland with him would be a huge step, alonzo had damn near raised her.

he was beyond grateful to her for making his dreams come true and saying yes. the house was cold and lonely without the warmth of his mother. he had fired the colonel soon after her passing, but there was still a lot of damage to be fixed and it felt easier with her right by his side.

“i never took ya for such a sap.” she teases alonzo, welcoming the warm embrace of her boyfriend who had scurried over to them.

“y’all get on now! tell your daddy “hi” for me, elvis.”

“yes, sir.” the raven haired male salutes, grabbing (y/n)’s hand and leading her out to his cadillac.

once she’s settled in he rushes to the driver side, sitting down and taking a minute to admire her beauty.

“stop starin’.” she deadpans, her nose scrunching.

elvis reaches forward and gives her a big kiss.

“i’ll stare all i want, you look damn gorgeous carryin’ my baby.”

𓍊𓋼𓍊

the ride to graceland goes by shortly—elvis had sped a little, the excitement of showing his girl her new home taking over.

he opens the front door for her, eyes never leaving her frame as he watches her take in the home.

after some time, (y/n) turns to him, “where’s the radio?”

the blue eyed male laughs a genuine laugh, shocked at her question. he quickly grabs one from the kitchen and hands it to her, contemplating what she could possibly be doing.

she immediately switches it on, her eyes widening at the song playing.

“that’s all right mama, that’s all right for you” ♪

elvis groans, it’d be just his luck a song of his is the first to play.

(y/n) saunters over to him, a little shimmy in her step as she does so.

“can’t really dance to your version the way ya can mine.” she teases, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

elvis brushes his raven locks out of his face, a grin taking up his face.

“ya can’t even dance that way no more, lil’ mama. not with a lil presley in ya.”

(y/n) rolls her eyes but the smile on her face is apparent.

she rests her head on elvis’ shoulder and sways with him, reveling in the life and the man she had been so lucky to be gifted.

[mysticalcats]

alonzo, king of side eyes and eye rolls and sighing