#and I made the suspenders the colour they are in the show to distinguish them better from the. whatever gay thing he's wearing

[beastwhimsy]

minifig accurate red son because well. uh. bursts into tears

[geminiamethyst]

Skyline Gang: Trial of Darkness. Chapter 24

Chapter 1: click HERE

Chapter 23: click HERE

Chapter 25

How long has it been now? Five minutes?

With the Darkness blocking everything outside, there was no way to tell what time of day it was. At least it wasn’t a vacuum situation like it was with the Skyline. Dude could easily tell since one of the windows of the temple didn’t have glass until a couple of minutes ago. Dawn’s Darkness had decorated it according to her tastes. Black marble pillars and walls instead of the dark beige that the stone once had. The floor was stark black. However, it was hard to distinguish any other colours due to the black mist that gracefully danced over it. All the windows had gothic stained glass painted various shades of grey. Any plant life that had previously grown here had been stripped away. At least she had some torches to light the place up a little; but even the flames were very dim as if they were threatening to go out from the smallest of breezes. It was like Dawn had made this place her brand new home. In a sad way, it was. Dawn was practically born here from the woman she once was. Dude briefly wondered that if he and his friends never came to the Skyline, would Dawn turn the place to look just like this.

Dude tried not to think too much about it. He can’t give up. He needs to either work a way to get out or stall for time. He didn’t know where the others were but they had to be close by now. They’re probably thinking of a plan. Do they even know if it was Dawn residing here? Unless Dawn made herself known to them, it was impossible to say. Either way, they’re putting themselves in danger if they’re not careful. He needs to try to break out. Dawn was nowhere to be seen; she left him all alone not long after she tormented him. At least his feet were on solid ground instead of being suspended like a marionette. He thought that it would give him a better chance to try to escape. However, he couldn’t. The shadows that Dawn circled around him continued to hold him still. His body from the neck down might as well be stone at this point; he couldn’t even twitch a finger or toe, let alone his entire body. He didn’t understand something that was glaringly obvious. Dawn was so happy to nearly kill him during their last encounter. So why was he still alive? Bait? A trophy? Possibly both? It didn’t make any sense.

As Dude mulled over that puzzle, he was interrupted by something. A figure that was all grey suddenly appeared in front of him. At first, Dude briefly panicked, thinking it was one of Dawn’s shadow creatures to torture him or something. However, that didn’t feel like it was the case. Within seconds, the grey faded away, revealing who was standing in front of him.

“Misty?” The name automatically flew out of Dude’s mouth. Misty had vanished when Dawn showed herself. He thought that she was just wandering around somewhere. Why did she come back to see him?

“Save your speech.” Misty hissed bitterly. Dude held his tongue. He was just ready for whatever snide remark that Misty had up her sleeve. However, her next words were something that not even a crystal ball could tell him it felt like. “Just answer me this: what do you know of the old Skyline Gang?”

“Not much. I’ve only just learned a little more about them and Dawn’s connection to them now.” Dude explained, overcoming his brief moment of shock. Why was Misty suddenly asking something like that? She never seemed that bothered to learn about the past Gang. She’d always pretend to not listen whenever the subject was brought up. She only piped up with interest if Dawn came into the topic on rare occasions. Now that everything up to this point has happened, it made a bit more sense.

“And?” Misty urged on impatiently.

“She used to be one of them, but something happened. I think it was an accident.” Dude explained, recalling all those moments during that vision. Was it really an accident? Or was something much darker behind Dawn’s origins? Either way, the Sceptre of Shadows played a part of it, that he was certain of. “It changed her, made her something that she wasn’t before. I don’t even think that Dawn is her real name.”

“So that woman…” Misty suddenly muttered.

“What woman?” Dude asked. Misty’s eyes went wide for a brief moment. She probably didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Doesn’t matter!” Misty snapped, turning her back on Dude. She took a couple of steps forward, intending to teleport away again. Stop her! Try again to speak to her!

“Misty, listen to me. Please.” Dude begged. Misty froze to the spot. She’ll humour him. It’s not like she’ll take anything from him seriously. “Dawn killed the previous Gang. I don’t know if she was manipulated or not, but she did it anyway. They were her friends.”

“So?” Misty sighted with an eye roll. She heard that story before. Over exaggerated in all honesty.

“She’s going to kill my friends-our friends!” Dude pressed, trying his best. Surely there had to be a part of Misty that cared? Right? Dude’s eyes suddenly caught sight of Misty’s hand, the white bandages standing out from the dark of the room. A small memory flashed in his mind: Misty getting her hand cut out of nowhere. Then he remembered another thing. It made him think of something. He might be wrong with this, but he hoped that something good will come out of it either way. “And you and Candi are linked!”

Misty flinched at those words. She remained silent, mulling over Dude’s words. It’s working. Keep pressing the issue. Even if he’s wrong, Dude hoped that his next words would change Misty’s mind; if Misty didn’t care about the others, maybe she’ll be vain enough to save herself (and hopefully Candi) by helping the others.

“What do you mean?” Misty asked, turning around to face Dude. She looked shocked and confused at the same time. Keep talking. Don’t let her have any doubt. Even it ends up being nothing but a bluff, this had to work somehow.

“You know that cut you got on your hand, and you can’t remember how you got it?” Dude asked, gesturing to Misty’s injury with his eyes. Misty cradled it gently, as if she were holding a fragile creature; her eyes were clouded with confusion and a split second of realisation. “After we were reunited with the others, I noticed that Candi had the same exact cut. She told me that she cut it on a rock while climbing. Same injury, same place, same time, different locations.”

“What’s your point?” Misty asked, a flash of doubt in her eyes. Don’t let that doubt fester. Keep trying! Keep pushing!

“What do you think will happen if Dawn kills Candi?” Dude drive the point home. Misty had a flash of different emotions cross her face: confusion, anger, fear. Don’t give up! “You might die too! And even if you somehow survive, Dawn won’t let you go! You’re her puppet! And one day, she is going to cut your strings!”

Dude’s voice echoed through the temple. His declaration hung over Misty like a cloud. Her eyes shifted all over the place, as if she would find evidence to argue against Dude. She processed every word. Each word that she heard didn’t leave her alone. Normally she’d shake off so many words with reckless abandon. This time, however, she actually felt a chill run through her spine. Was that true? It would explain her injury. No. It’s a coincidence. It had to be. Dude was just talking nonsense. She can tell that he just thought of this on the spot. However, that major part of her had this dreadful feeling that Dude was right.

“I…” Misty hesitantly spoke. She’s changing her mind? Or is she in some state of limbo?

“Misty, I told you not to talk to him.” Dawn’s voice ripped through the air. Misty spun on her heels, meeting face to face with the tall woman before her. The feeling of ice trailing down her back persisted as she looked up at the ice cold eyes. The two were so wrapped up in their conversation that Misty didn’t feel Dawn manifesting behind her at all.

“I was just-” she shivered slightly.

“Just what?” Dawn pressed. Misty couldn’t say anything. Was she scared of Dawn? “He is playing with your mind, you stupid girl!”

“I just wanted to mock him!” Misty shouted, desperate to avoid the punishment.

“Don’t lie to me!” Dawn shouted back, glaring right down at Misty. She raised the Sceptre at the girl in front of her. Dude didn’t understand what was happening for a moment. Then he heard Misty inhale sharply. Her hands flew to her neck, as if she was trying to grab something. Finally he heard the gasping.

“Misty!” He exclaimed automatically. He had been in this position before. His neck twinged at the awful memory. It intensified as Misty’s body slow levitated, her feet kicking the air a little. Dude’s eyes narrowed at Dawn. If he was right about the link between Misty and Candi, then Candi could be getting hurt too. He can’t allow this to happen! Two lives were on the line. “Leave her alone!”

“Silence!” Dawn growled, glaring at Dude for a moment. Dude was ready to shout again, however, there was this chill on the lower half of his face. He couldn’t get his mouth to move. His jaw literally felt like it was wired shut. Dawn refocused her attention to Misty. The grey girl had stopped kicking the air, her legs hanging limply. She clawed at the invisible force holding her; she grasped at something cold but it was futile. The pressure got tighter, she can’t even get a word out. Her eyes started to roll to the back of her head as she started to lose all feeling in her body. Dude let out as loud of a shout as he could manage. He tried to pull himself free but it was all futile in the end.

Maybe it was an act of mercy, or just some kind of satisfaction, but after a few more seconds, Dawn relented. The pressure on Misty’s neck disappeared. She let out a gasp as her body fell to the floor; the force of her fall was so powerful that her body bounced like a ball upon impact. She gasped and breathed heavily, desperately grasping at whatever oxygen her lungs would allow. Dude watched intensely as she slowly propped herself a up little with her elbows. She looked up at Dawn, unsure of how she should process this. She could’ve been killed. Dawn could’ve killed her that easily.

“Now, get out of my sight!” Dawn ordered, unmoved by her actions. She had taught Misty a lesson. Maybe now this little brat will just follow her orders like she had done all this time. “And let me know if his “friends” show up!”

Misty didn’t hesitate in disappearing. She didn’t want to stay anywhere near this witch until she has calmed down. As she faded from sight, Dude couldn’t help but feel relieved. As he let out a sigh, his mind raced a little. That was way too close. If he was right about the link, and if Dawn kept going until Misty was killed, Candi would’ve been lost too. He could’ve lost two people; one that he cares about, and one that he hoped would change before it’s too late.

“As for you.” Dawn continued, her focus now entirely on Dude. Before he knew it, his body was once again in the air. He was brought close to Dawn. Did she look a little more solid now? No, it’s the dark playing tricks on his mind. Dawn glared right at her prisoner. He almost ruined everything. Now he’s going to pay for it. “You had a lot of nerve doing that, pipsqueak. I ought to snap your neck. Unfortunately for me, I need you alive. Don’t think that you’re off the hook completely. That doesn’t stop me from torturing you.”

She needs him alive?

What is she talking about?

Before Dude could think about it any further, he felt this intense pain in his body. He let out a muffled scream as he felt like his soul was being ripped right out of him. As he writhed in pain, Dawn smiled sadistically. She’s going to enjoy all of this. The only thing that would make it better was if her audience were here.

Oh well. She’ll be patient. She’ll win in the end. That she is certain of.

[angelicdestieldemon]

Doppleganger (NSFW)

SHIP: Brian Kneef x Carmen (SVU)

Request: Carmen being in love with Barba but when he leaves she turns to Kneef

Carmen Noble had one rule: keep her personal and professional life separate. It wasn’t always easy, but she managed until she met Rafael Barba.

She had never been interested in her the lawyers she assisted, they were all the same – arrogant, self-important, thought themselves above the assistants, paralegal and interns. Rafael was different though. Her job at a law firm was becoming more and more uncomfortable, her boss’s lecherous looks down her blouses made her want to cover up; sometimes he would call her into his office just to remind himself she was at his beck and call. So, when a friend, Caroline, informed her of a personal assistant’s position with a lawyer in the DA’s office in Brooklyn she jumped at the chance to apply, anything was better than where she currently was.

She did her research though in advance, wanting to know what she was about to get herself in for. Rafael Barba was a first-generation Cuban American who came from the Bronx, got himself a full-ride scholarship to Harvard and then came back to the city working his way up to Brooklyn SVU. With a reputation of being arrogant, sarcastic and a pain in the ass, she almost didn’t apply, but Caroline did her best to reassure her.

“I’m not saying he’s not a dick, god knows he can be, he focuses on maintaining his status as the best prosecutor in the city with the highest conviction-rate. But unlike a lot of the guys here, he’s never tried it on with anyone in the office, if you don’t like him you can find someone else - once you’re in the building, it’s easier to transfer to someone else.”

So, she applied and when she got an interview, Caroline helped her prepare. He’s more attractive than the pictures online portray, his well-fitted suits and brightly coloured ties let her know he’s confident in his appearance. She tries not to smile when he hangs his suit jacket over the back of his chair and she sees matching suspenders that he somehow manages to pull off, Caroline had told her he wore them as well as a belt but the hadn’t believed her.

The interview goes rather well, he seems impressed with her CV and references, and even comments that she might be a little over-qualified for an assistant. Not once does he stare at her chest or enquire into her personal life other than subjects concerning the job.

“Why do you want to leave your current position?” He asks, looking directly at her.

She smiles politely and answers: “I’d like a new challenge; I’ve worked primarily in law firms, but I’d like to be involved on the prosecution side of the law for a change.”

He doesn’t even blink, “What’s the real reason?”

Carmen doesn’t know how to respond to that, having expected him to just accept the half answer and not really care about her reasons for changing jobs.

“Today is the first day in a long time that I’ve been able to wear a blouse that doesn’t button all the way up, every time I wear them to my current job my boss stares down them,” she answers more truthfully than she intended, there is something about Rafael that makes her feel like the truth is the best answer for him.

She sees a flash of anger in his eyes but other than that he doesn’t react.

“When can you start?”

Working for Rafael was as hard as Caroline had warned, he is very specific in the way he wants things done, and the order she should do them, his calendar is always full, and it takes a while for her to learn how to schedule his meetings to make his day easier. Meetings with Rita Calhoun are always in the morning as she likes to drag them into his lunch or arrive early to interrupt him eating. Buchanan is always at the end of the day leaving it the most likely meeting to get rescheduled. Everyone else fits somewhere in between.

A few weeks in she realises that if she doesn’t remind him to eat, he’d exist solely on coffee and pretzels, so she takes note of his regular orders from various takeaways and has it delivered when she can give him time to eat.

They work well together, he doesn’t leer or make suggestive comments, his arrogance is plain as day, but she can see a lot of it is a front to survive in the office. He avoids gossip and focuses on doing his job which she can appreciate, and he sends her home hours before he does, only letting her stay late if he really needs her there or she wants the overtime.

It doesn’t take long for the lines to blur though. Unlike all the people she has worked for before Rafael doesn’t show any interest in sleeping with her. If it was anyone else, she wouldn’t be complaining but she can see Rafael being a man she would break her rule for, but he doesn’t look at her like that or anyone for that matter. She knows almost nothing about his private life other than he is single but even then, she has no idea what he likes, he never goes on dates and she would know as he puts everything on his calendar including visits to his mum and grandmother.

When he moves to the Manhattan DA’s office, he takes her with him and gives her a bonus which she appreciates and then he meets Sonny, and everything changes. She can see the way he looks at the detective and she realises she never had a chance. It hurts more than she expected it to when he starts dating Sonny, but she’s also happy for him, he deserves someone who makes him smile like a love-sick idiot.

Even with the revelation of his sexuality she can’t stop the dreams she has at night, they started in Brooklyn, getting more explicit the longer they worked together and now it’s not even a possibility.

When he leaves the DA’s office after being cleared of a murder charge, she asks him where he’s going, he hugs her for the first time, and she feels guilty for enjoying the embrace but then he pulls away, kisses her cheek and wishes her luck in whatever she chooses to do now.

“Rafael!” She shouts after him, he turns. “Give me a call when you decide to come back, I don’t like the new guy.” He gives her a watery smile and walks away.

Carmen mopes for weeks after he’s gone to the point where Caroline appears at her apartment one night with a bottle of wine and ice cream.

“Ok, times up! You’re going to tell me what’s wrong, we’re going to get drunk and eat ice cream until you’re happy again,” she tells her, walking through the doorway before Carmen can stop her.

Carmen doesn’t have the will power or energy to resist and tells her everything.

“Oh honey… you need to get laid,” Carmen almost falls off the sofa at that.

“I tell you that I fell in love with my boss, he turns out to be gay and leaves and you’re only reaction is to tell me I need to have sex?” Even if she wasn’t drunk, she’s be confused by her friend’s logic.

“What you need is to get over him. I’ll bet my Christmas bonus that you haven’t had sex since before you became his assistant…” Caroline raises her eyebrows in challenge.

Carmen doesn’t grace her with a reply, instead taking a sip of wine straight from the bottle.

“I knew it, the only sex you’ve had is in your dreams, so on Friday you are going out and you’re getting laid.”

Carmen grabs the nearest pillow to groan into.

Friday comes fast than it should, and Carmen finds herself in a bar, with fairly decent music and a crowd closer to her own age if not older. It’s not as crude as the clubs’ Caroline wanted to drag her too, she was in no mood to have her eardrums battered by terrible music with nothing but a heavy bassline or have college kids trying to get into her pants with cheesy pick-up lines.

Carmen is taking a glance around the room when she spots him. She almost chokes on her drink at the sight of a man looking almost exactly like Rafael. She knows it’s not him, but the stranger looks so much like her old boss that she almost forgets it’s not him.

He has a thick dark beard, a few grey hairs here and there but not enough for him to look old just distinguished. He wears a suit well and from working with Rafael she knows it costs a lot of money. He catches her looking and she doesn’t glance away for a vital few seconds before dragging away her gaze to her drink, wondering if he’ll take the hint.

He does.

The stranger carries his drink over to her, taking the empty seat next to her, moving it closer in a bold move she would otherwise find off-putting, but his resemblance to Rafael gives him a little leeway, not that he knows it.

“Can I buy you a drink?” God, he even sounds like him.

Carmen mulls over the question, drinking the last of her red wine. The whole point of tonight was to get Rafael off her mind, would letting this stranger take her home help or hinder that objective she doesn’t know but she’s tempted to throw all caution to the wind and let him have his way with her.

He has an air of danger about him, nothing that would set alarm bells off but there’s definitely something about him that warns her he’s not as kind as Rafael but maybe that’s what she needs.

“Is that all you want, to buy me a drink?” She responds with her own question, trying her best to play this cool and not come across over eager, he’s around the same age as Rafael which makes him at roughly ten to fifteen years older than her.

He responds with a wicked grin, and she feels her stomach tingle with a warmth no other man has been able to ignite since she met Rafael.

“What I want is to see you writhing with pleasure in my bed,” he answers, and that flush of warmth becomes a fire, her underwear beginning to dampen.

She shouldn’t enjoy the filth he then whispers in her ear, laughing darkly when she grasps the wrist of his hand that’s gripping her upper thigh.

Everything after that it a bit of a blur, she learns his name is Brian and he is a lawyer from Chicago, just moved to his firms New York office. But she hardly cares, he’s everything she needs, his looks helping her fulfil her fantasies and his polar opposite personality helping her remember why she’s doing this, other than the effect his words have on her body.

He doesn’t bother with the unnecessary formalities other than to tell her that this isn’t the start of a beautiful relationship and that if she’s here it’s for sex and nothing else, that it ends when she leaves the apartment.

After that he pushes her down on the bed, taking off his suit jacket, leaving him in an expensive white shirt before he locks their mouths in a kiss that’s so dirty and hot, she almost climaxes then and there. Every move he makes is dominating but when she pushes back, he yields until she hands back the control.

He removes her dress and bra but leaves her underwear on, his fingers toying with the material as he lavishes attention on her breasts, he sucks on the skin of the valley between her breasts, his eyes meeting hers as he sucks and nips harder and harder, when she doesn’t stop him, he works on a mark, soothing the sting with his tongue before leaving another mark just above the hem of her panties.

The minute his mouth touches her bare centre she stops thinking, her mind completely overcome with the pleasure his tongue and fingers are invoking.  He works her to her breaking point again and again until she’s trying to grind down on his face in frustration.

“Now, now, be a good girl for daddy, you don’t come until I say so,” he grins darkly at her frustration.

Carmen has never wanted to call a man daddy in bed, anyone who has attempted it with her ended up making her laugh until the mood was killed but with Brian, she doesn’t laugh, if anything she almost comes at the word, much to her dismay Brian notices.

“Do you like that? Do you want to be daddy’s good girl?” If it wasn’t for his thumb still circling her swollen clit, she would leave but she can’t help the voice in her head crying out to be wanted by this man and if he wants her to call him daddy, she can’t bring herself to object.

“Please daddy, I’ll be good.” If she wasn’t so turned on, she’d cringe but she secretly enjoys the effect it has on him, his eyes flutter and his tongue pokes out to taste her on his lips.

He strips her of her panties and rids himself of his clothing until they’re both completely bare of any boundaries and she can see his intimidating length, he’s thick and long and she worries about being able to walk home.

“Don’t worry baby, daddy’s going to take care of you, I’ll make you scream for all the right reasons.”

Brian pushes her legs wide open holding them up by locking them around his elbows. The initial stretch burns a little, but he takes it slow and stimulates her clit until all she can feel is the pleasurable sensation of being completely filled. After that, he’s rough in his thrusts, adjusting her for his own pleasure, his length drags along her sweet spot almost every time and every time he changes position she almost screams at the new stimulation.

They end up with her back to his chest, kneeling on the bed, her legs spread as far open as they can go, one of his hands locked around her waist and other gripping her neck but not squeezing.

“That’s it, tighten that sweet little pussy up for me, I want to feel every pulse of your walls as they clench around my cock,” his words are filthy in all the right ways, every one sending a pulse through her core until finally her coil snaps.

Her whole body tightens as pleasure rocks her down on to him, she feels herself clench down on his length until she can feel every vein on his cock as he comes, releasing his grip around her waist to grab her hips and drive himself through his orgasm milking every wrought of pleasure out of her body before pulling out.

Carmen is still shaking when he returns from the bathroom, she doesn’t expect him to care, but he brings her some water and sugary sweets. Pulling her into his arms and sitting her in his lap he whispers soothing words and strokes his hands softly up her back and down her arms until the tremors stop.

“Rougher than you’re used to?” His voice returns to normal, no longer talking to her like a spooked animal or child.

She nods her head, moving to get off his lap, feeling embarrassment at what happened.

“Stay. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” His grip tightens around her and she curses the feeling of warmth in the pit of her stomach already trying to ignite again, this side of him is closer to Rafael, the caring attitude.

“You told me no feelings, just sex,” she counters, wondering where that side of him went.

“No offence sweetheart, this isn’t feelings, this is aftercare. This isn’t nearly as rough as I’m used to but if this is the hardest you’ve been fucked then you’re going to need a chance to calm back down again. If you still want to leave in half an hour that’s fine but you need to sort your head out first,” Carmen nods reluctantly, leaning back into him again.

She’d heard of aftercare before, but she always thought it was for really rough sex or ‘scenes’. But she understands what he means, her partners have always been gentle which she always thought was nice, but none of anything she experienced compared to what just happened. Her whole body felt like it exploded, the pleasure her invoked made her scream, going back to before didn’t seem all that appealing.

She remembers what he said earlier though: this ends when you leave the apartment. Her immediate thought makes her shiver, and his hand continues in the soothing motions on her skin.

“You said this ends when I leave your apartment,” she begins, looking up at him, his eyebrow quirking up in either amusement or intrigue.

“I’m not back to work until Monday…” he responds to her un-sked question.

Is this what she wants? To spend her weekend writhing in pleasure with a man who looks like the man she was in love with for years. She already knows the answer, even if it’s not the smartest decision she’ll make, she’ll take what she can get.

[steve-rogers-new-york]

Pre-WWII Television  Mid-1930s to 1945

In the last month, I’ve read no-less-then THREE separate fics referencing Steve and/or Bucky having more than a passing knowledge or experience of television pre-21st century — and I really wanted to clear that misinformation up. 

Television, like most new technologies, existed for some time before being adopted by the wider public, and early models were prohibitively expensive for the everyday person. While yes, I think the boys would have seen a television demonstration at least once, they would not have owned one, nor would anyone they knew have owned one (except Howards, but when would they have seen it?).

First Commercial Televisions

The first ‘electro-mechanical’ televisions of the mid-to-late-1930s were grand, expensive affairs. The two of the main producers in the US were RCA with their TRK-12, TRK-9, TRK-5 and TT-5 models, and DuMont with their Model 180, and Model 181. These set would be handcrafted, with polished wooden cabinets modelled in the popular Art Deco “streamline” style of the times. Rather than an accessory, televisions of the 1930s and 1940s were large pieces of furniture and had little resemblance to today’s sets. Despite the large bodies, the screens themselves were only some 10-15″ wide diagonally.

These sets were sold in large, high-end New York department stores like Macy’s, Bloomingdale’s, and Wanamaker’s. They went for anything from $199.50 to $600 per unit, which when calculated for inflation, is about $3,500 to $11,000 in today’s money. 

Around 7,000 sets were made in the US before WWII, and with such a massive price-tag, only around 2,000 sets were actually sold and in use across America. Most of the unsold units went into storage until after the end fo the war.

The first practical demonstration of television sets outside of those high-end department stores was the 1939-40 New York World’s Fair. There, visitors could visit the RCA Pavillion to see the “Hall of Television” with its thirteen TRK-12′s in action; as well as the “Radio Living Room of Tomorrow” and “Radio Living Room of Today,” which showed the technology at home in domestic settings. There were also live NBC broadcasts and opportunities for guests to be televised and see themselves on television — a unique novelty that came with an “I was televised” souvenir care to go with the experience. Other manufacturers at the World’s Fair also had their own television demonstrations, including General Electric, Westinghouse, General Motors, and Crosley.

So, what could those lucky 2,000 Americans watch? Well, televisions of this period could receive channels 1 through 5, and New York City had the only broadcast station. NBC began broadcasting regularly scheduled programming in 1939, along with CBS and Don Lee. Broadcasts ran for around 2-hours of content in the afternoon and 1-hour in the evenings. Programming during this time included all manner of content: sports, plays, operas, cartoons, cooking demonstrations, travelogues, fashions shows, skaters at Rockefeller Centre, and numerous live telecasts. The rest of the time viewers would only see the station’s test pattern.

WWII

All this slow progress came to a grinding halt when the US joined WWII. While some broadcasts continued, they were on a limited basis and included civil defence programming. All production of televisions was ceased, with engineers instead using their expertise for the production of radar and communications equipment for the military instead.

Post-WWII Growth

It wasn’t until after the end of WWII that television really got its explosion in popularity and became a household item for any aspiring middle-class family. At the end of the war, most people still didn’t know what a television even was, but only four years later, the majority had not only heard of them but wanted one. By 1949, the price of television sets had dropped and people were buying then at a rate of 100,000 a week! In addition to the drop in cost due to mass-production, families also benefited from suddenly having disposable income thanks to the post-war economic boom. By 1954 55.7% of households owned a television.

 Steve, Bucky, and Pre-21st Century Television

So, realistically, how familiar would our boys have been with television before post-thaw/deprogramming? Well, going on my own favourite headcanon than the 1939-40 New York World’s Fair can be used as an almost direct analogue to the 1942 Stark Expo, I think there were two scenarios in which the boy would have even come across a television in the US: 

Manhattan Department Store — Now I say Manhattan specifically, as despite Brooklyn having its own high-end department stores in Abraham & Straus and Frederick Loeser & Co., however, it doesn’t mean that they stocked televisions. My research seems to indicate that they were pretty exclusive products and only specific department stores stocked them — kind of the same way only certain car dealerships will sell you a Ferrari. Thus, I think if you were to go with the idea they say one in a department store display, you would have to assume they were inside one of the those gig-name Manhattan stores to even catch a glimpse. Seriously, they would not be catching a glace walking past a storefront, these would be deep inside for the distinguished partons.

Stark Expo — Again, assuming a degree of similarity between the real World’s Fair and the fictional Stark Expo, I think it’s fair to assume there would have been some sort of television demonstration. Now, whether the boys would have seen it is another thing. Bear in mind that these World Fair style attractions were MASSIVE, covering hundreds of acres of land, requiring internal transportation and remaining open for at least a year. Now, even if the Stark Expo was on a smaller scale, I doubt they saw even close to everything in just the evening they were there. So really I’d say its a 50/50 chance they saw a television there or not.

The only other place I think they would have possibly come in contact with television might be during the war, either:

While in Britain — Both Steve and Bucky would have (at least briefly) been in Britain during the war. Bucky, prior to deployment on the continent, and Steve with the Howlies during meetings with higher-ups. Television was actually more widely adopted in the UK, than in the US. Around 19,000 sets (compared to the US’s 7,000) were made in the UK, which assuming the rates of sale were similar would mean more than twice the number of sales. Broadcasting also started some years before those in the US. So, which all broadcasts were suspended the moment the war started, there is a chance that they would have come across a set sitting dormant somewhere or another.

Steve while on the USO tour in the home of a rich/famous donor — So one thing to consider is that Steve would have spent a while before Azzano hob-nobbing with the rich and famous as part of attempts to raid money for the war effort. And it’s not too outrageous to think that at least one of them would have owned a television and shown it off.

Other Points of Note

The first colour televisions did not come onto the scene until 1954.

There were, of course, no remote controls — not until 1950.

Image Sources

TRK-12 Promotional Photo, two women and one man | Source RCA TRK-12/120 (1939-40) | Source RCA TRK-9 (1939) | Source DuMont 180 (1939) | Source Working 1939 Art Deco Television Set | Source World’s Fair “Hall of Television” from the back w/o guests, 1939-40 | Source World’s Fair “Hall of Television” from the front w/ guests, 1939-40 | Source “I was Televised” Souvenir card (Front and Back), 1939-40 | Source

The full research document for this topic is available on the Discord’s “Patreon Clubhouse” channel ($3+ donors)

This post has been sponsored by my much loved and long-time Patreon supporter Joanna Daniels. She and I would like to dedicate the post to the loving memory of her mother Joan Daniels. She will be sorely missed.

[ Support SRNY through Patreon and Ko-Fi ] And join us on Discord for fun conversation! I also have an Etsy with upcycled nerdy crafts

[hereliesbitches--me]

Full name:  Toruga ( Winchester ) Nicknamed:  The Good Doctor, Father, Doc, Purple Pimp

Gender: Male Species: Demon Age: Immortal, appears to be in his late 30s, early 40s Sexuality: If its a shade of royal purple, its within that field of interest. Otherwise, he couldnt care less Nationality: Travels about, German based design. Dude is a demon imitating human design City or town of birth: The Enigma , The realm of Neikan and the Emotions Currently lives: Moves where there is work, primarily between Europe and the United States, where is assets are located Languages spoken: English, Spanish, German, Russian, Korean, Japanese, variations of the chinese dialect (fluent in Mandarin) , Hindi -- basically a workable understanding of many mainstream languages of varying countries. He’s old, he’s been around, and he is able to retain and learn easily Native language: prefers English and German Accent/diction: Speaks with refined annunciation with his English, but in a more relaxed state he has a slight German accent. Relationship Status: A widower still obsessed with his monsters and his creator but she just wont see him in such a way rip the man

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Height: 6’6 Weight: 160 pounds in human form, his dark form varies in weight Figure/build: Tall, stocky built. His muscle is primarily in his arms, legs, and chest, with a faintly noticeable gut (lowkey dad bod) Hair color: Black, peppered with grey strands Hairstyle: keeps it medium length but professional, Eye color:  A deep orange Skin/fur colour: His skin is a sandy beige complexion littered by dark discolored scars. Having tiger features, he has inverted colors with black fur and white stripes. Tattoos: Neikan’s branding is on his left inner forearm. Tends to stroke it absentmindedly  Scars/distinguishing marks: Toruga is littered by minor discolored scars all over his arms and chest, but his iconic scar is the 3 clawed slashing going down his face. Preferred style of clothing: In a button up collared shirt and black dress pants, coupled with his lap coat, He never really goes anywhere without his labcoat. He has no real sense of.. Dressing casual. If not his lab coat, he still wears a kind of trenchcoat in some way. And suspenders for a touch of extra class

HEALTH

Bad Habits: -Cant form real human connection - sees everything as object variables to dissect ,explore, and use for experimentation. - Regularly abuses the fuck out of the other negatives because they are inferior idiots - Sociopathic murderer (“for Science”). -Obsessed with Neikan, the demon who created him, and will turn on anyone in her defense, friend or foe. -Views any personal connection to a person like having a pet you're fond for, but nothing is above Neikan. -Stress smoker.

Addictions: -Sexually infatuated by the color purple, - Takes Sadistic pleasure in watching the bold break down, - Gets off on taking control and causing pain in the act of intimacy.

PERSONALITY

Personality: Toruga is a deceptive man by nature, a demon conjured up and hand made by Neikan herself, inspired by Josef Mengele which she had seen in the lives of one of her vessels. Being based on the mad doctor, Toruga himself is brilliant in the fields of genetics, biology, and the anatomy of anything he can get his hands on. Despite the basis, Toruga is simply a being that never was a child, thus has formed a persona that imitates human emotion and relations to get his way. He doesn't feel true connection, he doesn't feel empathy, sympathy, or guilt for what he does, as long as it feeds into the goal of appeasing his mistress and furthering her goals. Which makes lying and altering his persona to the liking of his associates quite easy. Toruga presents himself like a fatherly figure -- even tempered, soft but confidently spoken, and constantly utilizing praise and interest in another when he’s looking to make nice. He’s a master of manipulation and will not hesitate to research a person’s history, or gauge a weakness from conversation alone, and exploit it if it makes them more agreeable or himself more appealing.   He doesnt respond to insults or physical attacks,  not a single thing in the world bothers him, save for the failure of the negatives to complete a task, or if the insult is directed at his mistress. Or if it is impeding his work, because that would make him unappealing to Neikan. Only then will he react. And he will do so swiftly and violently to make his point known. He is not afraid of death threats, or to be beaten or dismembered or tortured, because of his inability to die (Thanks to his connection to Neikan. For as long as she lives, he can) He finds those sorts of threats mildly amusing, because he has been here for centuries, and he will continue to be well after humanity is nothing more than bones and Ash beneath their feet. His personality can swivel on a dime, but overall he is a fairly pleasant person to interact and talk with. He;s had plenty of time to master human expression.  Toruga also tends to be very physical when he shows interest, with subtle touches, unbroken eye contact, and closeness. Its simply the spider tossing the silk of his webs to capture the poor fly that has no idea the fate to come. He can be incredibly jealous and spiteful when it comes to what diverts the attention of his mistress

Strengths: Determined, Even tempered, charming personality. Incredibly intelligent and gifted with holding conversations. A great asset if you need a doctor to work on any sort of viral or bacterial bioweapon, or if ya need a guy that likes to alter and play with mortal genetics. His inability to stay permanently dead makes him quite the threat in theory, and with that demonic origin he does have supernatural strength compared to the average mortal. He has no real blood, just inky mass of dark matter that makes up his form and drips in imitation blood.

Weaknesses: Neikan. Divine weaponry and magic also hurt like a bitch and would require he directly return to neikan to get fixed up.

Fears/phobias: Failing Neikan to the point she abandons him or makes another negative to replace him.

Favourite color:

P U R P L E 

Did I say purple?  Very important to know. And any shade that compliments it.

Hobbies: - Kidnapping subjects indiscriminately based on their viability and their chance of being pursued, disfiguring them, wiping their memory, and then using them as test subjects for his viral bioweapon projects. - Making handmade clothing for his test subject children. He’s quite the skilled tailor. He especially loves dressing up his daughter before she ran away - Traveling about to meet with and work closely with assorted allies towards an end goal of toppling human society and shifting power - Taking out his anger and frustration on the negatives because they dont die - Talking to his dead husband he keeps perfectly preserved in a case down in his lab

Theme Song: - “Pet” by perfect circle - “Trust me” from the Devil’s Carnival

SKILLS

Talents/skills: - Tailoring clothing of all materials - Extensive knowledge of the medical field - skilled virologist and biochemist - Manipulative - Skillful liar

Education: Multiple lifetimes of trial and error through multiple dimensions and a variety of different levels of technology he’s explored with. Lacking any formal training, being an extension of his mistress means he also inherits the knowledge of her vessels. Coupled with his own experimentation and studied through multiple worlds.

Abilities: Being a demon made of dark matter means he’s endowed with an assortment of natural abilities, however unlike the more well known hell spawn demons, the negatives and their abilities from Neikan are typically only physical based.  Those abilities include: - Enhanced Strength and Endurance (built up after years of handling monsters, and the lack of human limitations/strains on the body) - Complete Regeneration (as long as the weapon is not enchanted or by divine means) - Minor shapeshifting, limited to his true forms. From human, to the black mass in the shape of a man, to a beastial tiger form - A photographic and auditory memory that retains just about any information he finds worthy of withholding. It also allows him to learn any language with ease after being exposed to it for a period of time

FAMILY, FRIENDS AND FOES

Personal history: Created around the time period of Pride’s((The Vessel) lifetime, 6 vessels prior to Nikki, Toruga was formed at first out of curious reasons and the need for a friend, but her intent with him became malicious shortly after her grief in the following life which split her soul into two halves. Left with nothing but malice and hatred for humanity, with the worst aspect of her being, Neikan utilized all her negativity to create a figure that would help speed up the process of ending the lives of the future vessels. Toruga was based on Josef Mengele, which Neikan had been exposed to as a child through the eyes of her second vessel, Hate. The demon was never a child, born as a perfectly capable adult to keep this young grieving woman company, it was at the start of his existence which paved the way to his obsessive love for his Creator. Toruga was her friend, her pet project that she left responsible with overseeing any of her new creations were given a job and set in order. While not active at first, Toruga observed humanity from the distance and learned the art of imitating them perfectly to blend in and manipulate what he understood. He studied their texts, he studied their culture, the array of species, their anatomies, their science and their technologies, absorbed it all until he could put it to use at the very end. Toruga is in love with his mistress, but with her fixation on her vengeance and the delicate heartbreak, she refuses to see him in such a way. Which, in turns, drives his unyielding determination to please her to make her see him. Coming to the existence of the last vessel, Nikki, things got complicated. Neikan assigned him a task to make a malleable beast that can infiltrate, a living machine to be the wolf in sheep's clothing, so when the last life became known, this being would be sent to kill it. Unfortunately for them, that bio weapon became the last life. Once inheriting Neikan and all the previous lives, any of the previous wiring he had instilled in the fetus were completely wiped away with the new presence of thought and free will -- the result, which would send Toruga on a wild chase to retrieve his experiment , all the way back to Earth. He spends years having to establish bases and connections on earth, all while scouring for his little project, taking well over 10 years before finally finding her. When he eventually does kidnap her and attempt to reset her mentally, Nikki retaliates and flees, leaving him with the iconic face scar he has now, but his project was now an unstable mess.  

Toruga is a man who juggles many projects at once. Despite a singular failure, he is always looking to make improvements, which would have eventually led to the creation of Malakaid as a failsafe to getting rid of Nikki, then immediately lost after yet another raid by Rosie and the authorities. But there is no stopping, there is always alternatives to getting what he wants. His web is vast, his determination and will unyielding. The world will fall to his mistress, one way or another. As of now, Toruga works closely with a variety of associates, primarily the Branches of Virtues because of their plentiful assets, and acts as a kind of apostle for Neikan to gain more souls willing to join their cause. His main project is a viral mutagen called the Uxoru virus, and helping work towards a modified super soldier serum made from Angel’s blood.

Parents names: Neikan Shadou (Sheila Lunarcrest)

Siblings: The other negatives, including John, Sebura, Kura, and Joku. By technicality, anyone made by Neikan is a kind of sibling.

Relationship with siblings: Toruga is the head honcho of the show, responsible for directing and punishing the others for their failures. Their stupidity and clumsiness prove to be incredibly irritating to him, and because they cant die he has no hesitation in brutally maiming and abusing them for it. They all have a bitterness, but a respectful fear towards him, and he knows it well. None of them are his equal, for he was the first, and he intends to keep it that way.

Partner/Spouse: -Vermont (Former husband, now deceased. Murdered mistakenly by Toruga himself after Vermont questioned Neikan’s intentions and plans. )

Children:

- Nikki Ai (His first experiment, artificially created and planted within a mother. She has no recollection of him as her creator, but rather this monster that hunts her down. She never came back as she was suppose to, and thus is a nuisance he needs dead)

- Malakaid (The second improvement to Nikki’s design , made from Nikki and Jacob’s dna, spliced with his own. Malakaid was stolen as a baby by Rosie and imprinted on her. Because of this, he will not go back to Toruga.)

( From his relationship with Vermont)

- Veronica Winchester (Eldest daughter, ran away at 12 years old.)

- Toby Winchester ( A young boy, still living with him. He drags him around on his work trips when he’s able to. Because he witnessed his birth parent murdered as a toddler, Toby is practically a skittish mute of a boy that fears his father but will not dare leave the way his sister did.)

Enemies:

Basically got beef with everyone bcuz he probably fucked over your loved ones at some point and just doesn't recall it. He primarily has enemies with Rosie( A very personal vendetta) and the Angel Project, the Divine Calvary, and any enemies of the Branches of Virtues. He doesn’t try to make enemies but if people are gonna try to stop him from completing his work because its “unethical” and “Inhumane” then a bitch gonna go into the cage with the rest of the subjects. But he’s a hard man to hate because as long as you are blissfully ignorant, he seems like such a pleasant man to keep company with.

Associates:

- The Branches of Virtue

- Nathair Elerdand

- Neikan and the Negatives

Affiliated verse:

Tag: :The Good Doctor (Toruga):

- Iniquitous Essence (The info above)

- Pokeverse : Toruga is a scientist of the Aether foundation , working on a secret specialized project for Lusamine, to create a world where human and pokemon are one -- as halflings. He experiments using genetic information gathered from the ultra beast data, along with splicing human dna with that of Pokemon, varying from adults to unborn fetuses. Everyone of which failed (dying in a matter of months, if born. Dying and resulting in a stillbirth. Or death induced by the Human body rejecting the intrusive genetics and triggering a shut down response) until finally there was Rosie. He studied her for the entirety of her childhood, a secret success he dare not report until certain she would not die like the rest, only to be lost in a fire (as far as he knows) aimed at silencing her rowdy father.

Much to his dismay, Toruga continues his research on human genetics, milking the foundations of its assets to feed his curiosity, with no real loylty to anyone but himself. But those skulligans are a promising bunch of nobodies to utilize for testing. He’s on the hunt to get his pet project back

[evoedbd]

Queer Advice

Summer -  Emily Collins is terrified that Dracula's Brides will need a virgin sacrifice, and she knows exactly who that person would be. Havenfalls finest are LESS than helpful with their brilliant plan to protect their virgin huntress. ((Meshed in Mac having a version of her MC, because she’s the only character who truly NEEDS her MC to reach her full potential.)) *******

“Alright. This is serious business. We’ve found out more of Dracula’s plan and i- SERIOUSLY?” Emily started out seriously, striding into the closed bowling alley with purpose. Once the door swung shut, however, the party lights revealed something that nearly made Emily blow a gasket. A cuddle pile! An honest to whatever god may exist cuddle pile! During what was meant to be a meeting to save lives. Not just A life, but multiple. On a potentially world dominating scale. This was serious business and yet four bodies remained tangled together; a series of semi naked limbs and plaid that became indistinguishable from each other.

 Mackenzie Hunt was the easiest to distinguish amidst the chaos. The Alpha was an absolute beast of a woman, in no uncertain terms. A copper skinned goddess standing at 5.11ft high, with muscles that appeared to be forged from literal copper by an artist of ancient times. Forest green eyes kept careful watch over the bowling alley, even though the gentle smile on her lips betrayed her affection for the others. Her duty as pack leader and town sheriff seemed to weigh her brows down ever so slightly, a fact emphasised by lighter hair against darker skin. Her short, choppy hair was ruffled, suggesting she had been running a little earlier. Or perhaps fingers had been running through her hair, like she now ran her own fingers through Aisha’s chocolate dust locks. Just as Atlas allegedly held the world, Mac supported the tangled individuals on her lap. Even then, she positioned herself so that she could break away and spring up at the first sign of trouble.

 Aisha Collins appeared content enough with her head resting on the arm of the couch. Aisha looked so similar to Emily one might mistake them for twins, with their high angled jaws and blazing blue eyes. Aisha had grown into her grace, keeping her head held a little higher than Emily, which made her features seem finer. Her sharp edges were softened, as if the world around her was constantly caressing them into tranquillity. The cargo pants she wore hid her lanky legs, even as they tangled with another pair of fine legs clad in designer jeans.

 Annabelle Shepard lay facing the other direction; legs tangled through Aisha’s. Her chest rose and fell with the gentle contentment of peaceful slumber. It was easy to forget how fierce the young woman could be when one looked at her soft face. From gentle curves to large, expressive eyes, Annabelle was disarming. When awake, her cheer was almost infectious, yet she held a certain bite to her. An unnameable quality that exposed the truth of the hardships she had faced. That made you respect her without even knowing her. Her lithe arms remained folded against her chest. As always, her arms were covered by long sleeves with buttoned cuffs. The few times Emily had seen Annabelle’s bare arms, she had been greeted with thick, unsightly scars. They were vicious and deep, as if she had been savagely attacked by a rabid animal.

 Damien Ryder took the weight of the cuddle pile. He supported Annabelle’s sleeping form, with his nose tucked into her hair. His arms wrapped around Anabelle, with one of his hands holding Aisha’s legs. The tussles of his signature jacket tickled over plaid and denim, offering something for Aisha to twist around her fingers in her half-conscious state. Looking at Damien, the most striking thing about him was the pain. It darkened his ginger ale brown eyes; dragged on his broody brows. Even in a relaxed setting, his squared jaw seemed hardened and his lips downturned. That along with his shoulder length fawn hair gave Emily the impressions of a western outlaw. All that was missing was the twig of barley for him to chew on.

 “Pack thing.” Aisha sleepily explained, waving her free hand in a dismissive manner. It seemed as if she believed that nobody would understand it, so she did not bother explaining. There was a gentle cheekiness to her tone; a happiness which Emily couldn’t bring herself to attack. It was with a long-suffering sigh she directed her attention towards the literal devil in the room.

 “You just want time off work.” JD accused, a smirk touching their lips as they leaned back against the bar. Jordan Davies was the epitome of teenage angst turned into professional anarchy. Lanky and long, JD was only a smidgen taller than Emily, yet appeared to be half the weight. Beneath the biker’s leather jacket and baggy red singlet, Emily was positive she’d find nothing but a ribcage. That leanness was matched in JD’s youthful face. Mischief twinkled in ember coloured eyes, as always. Nobody could look at JD’s troublemaker getup; numerous piercings, and flame orange hair without feeling as sinful as if they were sneaking out after curfew. Something about the Jersey Devil invited chaos and trouble of the best kind. The kind where you’d wake up hungover, married to a goat and wondering where your trousers were.

 “It would mean you’d have to actually do your job, Jordan.” Razi commented, an amused smile forming beneath his elegantly groomed facial hair. Razi was a picture, with only one stylish lock out of place. With his broad, defined features and luscious dark hair bound into ponytail, it was amazing he settled for a bowling alley in a backwater town. Mythical blue eyes shone; sapphires gleaming against his bronzed skin. As usual, the hunky Djinn wore a silken button up shirt, with the sleeves folded up to his elbows and dark suspenders. The half-popped buttons showed off his defined chest, along with the many hairs curling across his skin. When the light caught those hairs the right way, Razi appeared to glow, adding to his calm mystique. This, along with his dazzling smile, was truly what made Emily think the only way to describe Razi was “An exotic gentleman.” ... yet Razi’s sister called him the ugly duckling. If that was true, Emily doubted the world was ready for the Nassar family.

 “Come on, Razi. Hikari has that locked down.” Aisha called teasingly, her lips peeling into a troublemaker’s grin to match JD’s. Emily could only wince in sympathy as she looked over to the poor demon, who was struggling to rearrange the bowling balls without breaking them.

 Hikari barely passed for human, being half Fae and half, well, Satan. Her soft, youthful features were only hardened by the copious amount of eyeliner surrounding her neon pink eyes. Darkness was a theme for Hikari, with her full, blackened lips and tiny black horns which sprouted from her coloured hair. Her long hair was perhaps the most colourful thing about her, fading from pink to purple the lower one went from her scalp. Two tiny buns sat on top of her head, little spirals of colour that were almost disarming... almost. Nothing could disarm Hikari’s attitude or sharp tongue.

 “Look! This is serious! I was doing my homework on potential rituals which the Brides may preform to resurrect Dracula and it turns out that, aside from me, they may ne-“

 “Wait... don’t tell me. A virgin sacrifice.” Aisha snipped in, appearing awfully amused when she spoke. When the entire group remained silent, powerful blue eyes widened in absolute alarm.

 “Seriously? I thought that was bogus... talk about cliché.”

 “Well, Van tried to correct things apparently, but nobody took him very seriously. If he were around, Vanessa is convinced he’d have a lot to say about the current state of things.” Emily informed, her own brows pinching as she went to speak again.

 “Of all the things to get right, eh?” JD laughed, only to grow silent at the look on their friend’s face. For all JD’s chaos, they knew when someone was hurting, and they knew when their common brand of humour wasn’t going to add to the situation.

 “Not any virgin. The closer to the intended, the better. We already know I’m the intended, with that kidnapping proposal and me being the only human Collin’s woman in town. The virgin sacrifice, well I think I know who that is. I assume it can’t be any of you. Or Diego. I already know it can’t be Grace-“

 “Definitely not Grace. We can both confidently confirm that.” Aisha agreed, causing both her and Emily’s faces to flush furiously. Grace’s prom night had not ended with her date dropping her off, rather with Emily and Aisha chasing a teenage boy out of her room with a mixing spoon and a coffee mug. It was an uncomfortable enough moment that all the Collins women did their best to avoid discussing it, yet none of them could ever bleach it from mind. Aisha had seriously considered trying it once she became a wolf. Thankfully, Mac had convinced her not to test out her new powers. JD also refused to erase the memory, finding it too hilarious to see Emily and Aisha squirming.

 “I don’t get along with any other family members. Don’t have any friends outside of Havenfall. The only other person I am close to is Vanessa. What do I do? She’s already in the crosshairs, if they catch onto this...” Emily appeared to dissolve into panic, her brows contorting. All the way from her shoulders to her hands appeared to vibrate, blurring subtly due to her trembling.

 “If you don’t want her to be the virgin sacrifice, just have her lose it.” JD suggested rather casually before they took a swig of their drink. Emily could only gape, her eyes almost bulging out of their sockets as she did her best impression of a guppy fish. Mouth agape, lips flapping as she tried to find the words.

 “Wow. Just wow. Is sex literally the only solution you can offer, JD?” Emily demanded, almost on autopilot. She was in shock. The idea was ludicrous! Insane! Utterly bonkers! She couldn’t just go up and offer to sleep with Vanessa! The huntress was already so shy about most interactions, given that she had never even had friends, let alone a boyfriend or girlfriend. If a compliment left her utterly flustered, and proximity took her breath away, then what would suggesting making love do? No, it wouldn’t be making love. Vanessa couldn’t be in love with her. It’d be sex. A physical convenience. It’d rob the hopeless romantic Vanessa of her first experience with love if she agreed to it.

 “I’m just saying. A good shag would solve several problems for her.” JD pointed out, once more grinning like a cat who had gotten the cream via nefarious methods. Emily was ready to burst. To smack the demon over the head with a bowling ball. Better yet, ask Hikari to do it. The Scene Demon would probably love to dish out some payback to JD.

 “And who would you suggest we get her into bed with? You? Diego? Razi?” Emily demanded harshly, bringing a hand up to pinch at the of her nose. Her thumb rubbed over the small scar beneath her glasses, which bounced over her knuckles as Emily attempted to purge the images from her mind by rubbing at her eyes. Picturing Vanessa with JD did not bring images of love, only an image of the Huntress kicking a demon’s flaming backside out of her van. For Diego, she could only picture a holy sword shooting out the van to decapitate the vampire, or a stake plunged into his heart. Hardly romantic. Razi... might at least be allowed to speak, but he’d wind up with the door slammed in his face.

 Emily was so caught up in her musings that she missed the look shared between Aisha and Mac, yet she did not miss the words her cousin spoke.

 “Actually... you’re the best candidate.”

 “What? Why me?” She almost shrieked, feeling as if she’d been sucker punched in the gut. Was it because Vanessa was her bodyguard? Did they just assume that it’d be acceptable? Was this how boys felt when paired with their female friends? Pressure? A touch of violation? Great. First it was a girl and boy couldn’t be friends, now it was automatically that if two women were close, they had to be lesbians. Would the clichés and stereotypes ever truly die?

 “You’re the only single human woman here.” Mac pointed out. Ok. Emily could concede to that logic.

 “Huge flaw in that, guys. You’re all just assuming Vanessa is gay!” Emily stated the obvious. Instantly, she was met with various looks of amusement and pity, all of which made her brows feel heavy and her lips ache with the urge to tip into a scowl. Honestly, for a group of outcasts and Queers, their lack of consideration was astonishing.

 “Or kinky. Come on. The leather? The whip?” JD unhelpfully added, miming a whip with their left hand when Emily fixed her glare upon them. The human felt her brow twitch even as she opened her mouth to snap back at the overly satisfied demon. Before she could even utter a single sound, a snort from her cousin cut her off.

 “It’s true. No Straight woman would wear that much leather.” Aisha added, smoothing out the moment with logic.

 “That’s a value judgement!” Emily scolded on instinct. A rather calm, deadpan stare was the only response. It only got worse as Emily felt her cheeks flush a brilliant cherry tomato. A flush which she was convinced spread to her collar given her spike in body temperature. She wasn’t stupid enough to blame it on the room heating up, not when she was the only one suffering. Okay, so maybe Aisha had a point... slash the maybe. Emily had to concede. She’d never met a woman who kept her nails short and wore so much leather who wasn’t somewhat inclined towards women. Thinking back over their interactions, Emily remembered when she had raised the question about dating history. Boyfriends? Girlfriends? Vanessa had stated explicitly she had no time for girlfriends... ok. So that had to be a hint, right? Vanessa had been so flustered even saying it. As if she expected backlash. So maybe she was a little bit gay? A little. But that was only one half of the sexuality equation.

 “She stares at your ass when you walk away. Seriously, she wants a piece. The biggest piece. I can see the gay from across the bowling alley.” Hikari’s voice rung out, drawing Emily’s focus to the approaching Fae daughter of Satan. Hikari had a look of utter condescending disbelief on her face, as if she was utterly flabbergasted that Emily could be so stupid. The intensity of that look sure made Emily feel more foolish than she had ever felt in her entire life, even if she was unsure why.

 “She looks at you like you’re chocolate cake, but she forgot to bring a spoon to eat you with.” Razi continued Hikari’s logic in a much gentler fashion.

 “Are we forgetting the little issue my last partner had? It’s called a penis!” Emily strained the word “little” with her voice and her fingers, thumb and forefinger held apart to depict the size.

 Mark had started out a wonderful partner. A caring man who was decent looking. He had a good job, solid family and had been involved with his church. Early on, Emily had thought he could be the one. Or rather, the best she would ever land with her background. When she had brought him to the bowling alley to meet her friends, however, things had gone south. Fast. Mark had torched his pristine image within minutes by his relentless attack on JD’s lifestyle. Mark exposed a traditionalist streak; which Emily couldn’t overcome. At the time, she hadn’t understood why everyone found Mark’s shouts that JD was going to hell so funny. She’d been busy dumping the tool.

 “Ahha! So you admit it was small.” JD cheered, leaping on the chance to have another dig at Mark. The Demon’s grin was victorious; so full of malicious glee that Emily couldn’t even bring herself to defend her ex. Not that she would ever feel inclined to.

 “So not the point.” Emily groaned, dropping her face into her hands. Maybe if she pinched the bridge of her nose hard enough, she could repel the building shitstorm which was her massive headache.

 “Does it matter?” Hikari demanded in an almost aggressive manner. Shocked, Emily removed her hand and stared at the Fae daughter of Satan. The Faemon appeared impassioned, her neon pink eyes blazing with such intensity it could be compared to a blast of heat straight to Emily’s face. As if she’d stepped from an air-conditioned building into 116 degrees.

 “Like, seriously. Who cares if you’ve only been with men in the past, they ain’t the shit.” The Faemon continued, earning an almost amused snort from Emily. JD smirked, Razi coughed. An actual laugh came from Aisha, whilst the rumble of a chuckle echoed softly from Mac.

 Emily had always known she found both men and women attractive, yet no woman had ever fit the bill of Girlfriend material. Usually because they were straight. Men had always been easier when it came to dating, thus Emily had learned how to handle her foolish crushes and attraction to men. Women not so much. They still left her tongue tied, overwhelmed her thoughts when she found one she deemed attractive. She still couldn’t flirt in any capacity, and she absolutely could not contain her thirst.

 “If you actually connect with Vanessa, go for it. She’s cute, she’s single as fuck and into you. Are you seriously telling me a vagina is getting in the way?” The Fae continued, driving her words home with several firm pokes to Emily’s shoulder. The human could only blink. Hikari had an excellent point.

 Vanessa was gorgeous. There was no getting around that. All lithe muscle in a highly feminine frame. Dark hair spilling down her back; hair which seemed to absorb the light in a lilac black cascade. Breathtaking violet eyes, which shone with every single emotion Vanessa ever felt. Yes, Vanessa was physically stunning, yet there was more beauty to her than just her appearance.

 Vanessa was just so earnest. Everything about her was so sincere and true that is knocked Emily off her feet. Vanessa’s bravery; her capacity to make Emily believe in the impossible with her blistering passion and steadfast loyalty. It was inexplicable. Emily was forever awed by Vanessa as a Huntress, as well as a person. Whilst Vanessa’s heroism was undeniable, so was the woman beneath the legend. The tender concern in Vanessa’s eyes was almost blanketing; a warm comfort in the night. Vanessa’s genuine smiles transformed Emily’s heart into a prism of light, reflecting the warm glow of happiness throughout her entire chest. Watching Vanessa’s wonder as she was exposed to new things was addictive. To Emily, it felt like watching a whole new world birthed from nothingness. The gentle warmth and pride Emily was a constant undertone for her excitement to engage Vanessa. To learn more. Every scrap of information given by Vanessa was a treasure; a clue leading Emily deeper into a labyrinth. The journey alone was worth more than any treasure. Each moment a glistening point of connection that Emily felt content to exist in. Vanessa’s laughter... melodic. An angel’s song. The sound alone made the world fade away and infused Emily with a sense of unequalled joy. Such a pure, sincere sound as a happy Vanessa gave Emily’s heart wings.

 “They sell solutions for that.”

 And with Aisha’s comment, Emily’s joy came crashing down. She plummeted, feathers falling from her metaphoric wings with every flap of logic and confusion tangling around her. One moment there was an argument that just because Vanessa was a woman it didn’t mean Emily couldn’t like her, or even, lord forbid, LOVE her. Then, the next moment Aisha was starting to talk about changing Vanessa? It was in jest, clearly, yet that didn’t stop the violent impulse to shout surging within Emily’s veins. Vanessa was PERFECT the way she was. Why would Emily need a silicone attachment to try to deceive her when... Ok, so maybe she was completely into Vanessa. But with angels song and happiness, why would Emily want to ever leave? Or violate that trust?

 “I wouldn’t tolerate the townsfolk bothering you two, you have my word.” Mac chimed in, noticing the increasing furrow in Emily’s brow. That was enough to break Emily out of her outrage. Mackenzie was being sincere. Worrying for Emily as if she were one of the pack. That was enough to draw a soft smile to her lips, a gesture of gratitude to the Sheriff.

 “Seriously. Humans are so hung up on this shit.” Hikari huffed in annoyance, pausing to blow on her bubble-gum. The bubble grew for a second, then the pronounced pop rung through the silent air. A gunshot before Hikari delivered her perfected opinion on humanity.

 “Losers.”

 “Gods, are all supernaturals Queer?” Emily didn’t even realise her question had been out loud before she noticed the group pause.

 Razi appeared to have been stuck by lightning. His utter shock at the question was reflected by his parted lips when he went to speak. Instead, no words escaped, and his elegant jaw snapped shut. Hikari simply resumed blowing bubbles, evidently indifferent to the question. JD let forth a bark of surprised laughter, followed by a series of eyebrow wiggles at their shocked boss. The Djinn took it in good humour, simply sighing. Meanwhile, Mac and Aisha shared a knowing look; a secret amongst the pack perhaps. Annabelle appeared rather amused as she cast her sight on Damien, who coughed subtly when faced with the weight of his pack’s stare.

 “Most are open. Even the ones in typical relationships.” He strategically answered, his eyes lingering anywhere save the almost smug grins of his pack.

 “Its a small community, we don’t judge.” JD chipped in. If the devil was burdened by the focused attention of the room, they didn’t show it as they leaned against the bar. In response to the silence which followed, they gave an all too casual shrug. That irritating silence was broken by Emily, who let out an unspeakably pained groan as her head to fall forwards into her waiting hands with a rather pronounced thud.

 “This conversation has veered so far off track it’s stuck in the gutter.” Emily’s voice was muffled by the palms of her clammy hands, which were shielding her face. In another universe, the one flashing behind her closed eyes, this conversation had not taken such a turn. They had remained logical and avoided all embarrassment as they came up with the perfect plan to protect Vanessa. There wouldn’t be a literal pile of attractive Supernaturals snuggling on the beaten down old couch. No devilish devils or sexy, well dressed Djinns making jokes. This wouldn’t have dissolved into a discussion about sexuality... and Emily’s temples wouldn’t be throbbing in time with her marching band for a heart.

 “I get it, this topic is uncomfortable. That doesn’t change the fact it would reduce Vanessa’s eligibility to practically zero.”

 Whether Aisha was genuinely trying to help, or was teasing was uncertain. Her deep eyes held the gentle understanding of a mother; matured and nurturing with a underlying protectiveness that was enough to knock an elephant off track. However, the subtle tilt of her lips betrayed amusement. Restraint. The entire wolf pack seemed to somehow snuggle closer together.

 “Look, I’m not about to go up to my friend and be like Hey, so you’re a virgin. Let’s change that so Dracula won’t sacrifice you. That is so tacky, even a porn film would reject that script!” Emily practically exploded, turning to make endless gestures to emphasise her points. Hands and hips became a second language, crudely mimicking out points in a manner equally as explosive as her booming voice. Honestly, the AUDACITY of these people! If Emily had cared a little less or was just a little braver, she’d have already bitch slapped all of them.

 She paused, taking a moment to breathe. Deep breaths. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. Her thumb sought out the small scar across the bridge of her nose when she pinched it, almost as if the gesture could contain the storm about to explode from within her.

 “She deserves someone she wants to share her life with, not just some convenient exchange.” Emily concluded, pouring every ounce of sincerity into her words. It was true. Vanessa was a romantic, behind everything. For such a vulnerable thing as physical intimacy, Emily wanted Vanessa to have the dream. The perfect first time. Candles and romance with the person she was in love with. The person she wanted to spend eternity with. Emily couldn’t even imagine a world where she took that away from Vanessa. A world where duty claimed the last piece of Vanessa; the piece only protected by lack of time. It was Vanessa’s ONE true freedom. The only part of her life that the Order hadn’t dictated or infected. How could anybody ask Emily to take that away from Vanessa? How could they even THINK it?

 “It’s clear you care about her. That must count for something.” Mac’s gentle tones drew Emily out of her internal raging. When Emily turned her gaze to the Alpha Werewolf, she met kind forest green eyes. Mackenzie Hunt understood, at least enough to sympathise with the Collins girl. Mac bore the weight of her power so well that it was all too easy to forget Mac was only a couple of years older than Emily. As far as werewolves went, Mackenzie Hunt was a young Alpha. Barely more than a pup. Yet, she saw Emily’s struggle. Even without a word of it, she offered her full support. Her approval. Even without being a wolf, Emily could feel the power in it. The warmth that emanated from the Alpha’s care.

 “Yeah. A better time.” JD added in a remarkably sincere tone. For a split second, Emily almost believed it. Then, the devil’s lips curled. Moment ruined.

 “I’m not listening. La La La.” Emily announced, lifting her hands in a weak effort to cover her ears. Still, she couldn’t help letting her mind wander. What if they didn’t have a choice? Would Vanessa be willing to accept her? Could she even live up to even a single dream or fantasy Vanessa had? Vanessa’s lavender tinged grey eyes were so expressive. Would those purples tinges darken to black with lust? Could Emily hold her gaze, or would Vanessa’s gaze devour her soul? How would Vanessa’s soft skin feel beneath her lips? Would hardened abs twitch underneath loving a kiss? Would Vanessa even want that? Could she have the patience to allow Emily to truly make her feel divine with gentle explorations and sincerely sweetened words? Or would she be inclined to take the reins? How would those battle forged hands explore if given freedom to do so? What would she want? Maybe the whip...

 “You’re blushing.” Aisha’s amused tones dragged Emily’s mind from such a salacious place. She had to get out of the bowling alley, before things became even more awkward. Before she started imagining things more explicitly. She lowered her hand to her pocket, wiping clammy palms against the coarse material before she pulled out her phone. A lifeline to save her from humiliation.

 “Oh look, I got a text! Gotta go!” She stumbled over her blatant lie in a rush to get the words out. Her phone had not chimed. Without waiting, she broke into a brisk walk towards the door.

 “To ensure Helsing’s safety!” Came a quip from behind her. Emily didn’t hesitate in raising her middle finger over her shoulder, shouting out to the chorus of laughter chasing her into the streets.

 “LA. LA. FUCKING. LA.”

[padfootagain]

To Light Our Way (II)

Part 2: A Very Unusual Afernoon on Umber Street

Here I come again with a new chapter!! Yep, yep, yep! I'm still excited by this idea of mine!! And here we go, the reader appears, and with her, CUTENESS!!!

Right, let's go then. A little warning for mentions of warfare. Nothing thoroughly described, but be careful nonetheless if you're sensible to this theme, then skip the beginning of this chapter.

Awww, it's gonna be so cute!!!

I hope you all like it!

Gif not mine (I think I’ll use a lot of gifs from Moulin Rouge! (and possibly Young Adam as I did in the first chapter) because it’s basically the only film where Ewan wears outfits that could match the 1920s and don't look too rich. I don't feel sorry for using gifs of Christian though. Look at this cutie!!!)

Word Count: 4172

What time was it? Was it day or night? Obi-Wan had lost all notion of time. He had kept count of the flying hours the first few days, but now it was all a blur. It had been more than a weak that he and his men had been captured, of that he was certain.

Where were they? Even that they didn’t know. On the other side of the front, that was all he knew. They had been blindfolded and taken in this sort of bunker, where no window gave any sort of connection with the outside world. By his side, Cody was asleep, a large cut on the side of his face colouring his features with dry blood.

Obi-Wan was so hungry that he was nauseous. He tried to estimate when was the last time the German soldiers had given them some bread. More than a day, that was for certain. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find out it had been.

A thin ray of light came inside the room from the large keyhole and the space between the uneven stone floor and the metal door. But the light that reached in clearly came from bulbs or candles. It never faltered, or only for a few minutes, Obi-Wan had paid attention to it.

He was about to close his eyes as well, when he felt Anakin moving behind him.

"Did you hear that?"

The fifteen men focused on the sounds around them, and soon, indeed, they could hear the distant whisper of approaching voices.

"On your feet," Obi-Wan ordered. "Everyone up and against the wall."

He didn’t need to repeat himself, they were all standing against the wall of the back of the room in the blink of an eye.

He was shoulder to shoulder with Anakin and Rex. The fifteen men were terrified, but none of them had any intention to show it.

Were they going to be killed? Tortured?

The door opened wide, the warm yellow light blinding all the prisoners. From outside, the German troops turned on the light in the room as well. Only one lamp suspended to the ceiling, but it was enough to see quite clearly through the little space. Once his eyes had adapted a little more to the new light, the first thing Obi-Wan distinguished was a rather big black form moving on the other side of the room, before disappearing in a hole in the wall that would have been big enough for his to pass his hand through it. He guessed it was a rat or some rodent of the same kind. He hated rats… the mere thought made him shiver, before he focused again on the task at hand.

Obi-Wan recognized the rank on the German uniform of the two men standing in the light. A Major and a Captain.

They exchanged a few words in German, before taking a couple of steps back to let several soldiers walk inside. Their rifles pointed at the unarmed prisoners, there was no doubt the British soldiers had little choice but to wait for their jailer’s move.

The Major walked away but the Captain advanced in the room, staying with three more armed soldiers. He scanned the uniforms of the British, before his eyes settled on both Obi-Wan and Anakin. Of course, they had the higher ranks in the room.

He walked closer to them, and Obi-Wan could take a better look at his features. He was barely older than Anakin. A long scar ran across his cheek. Two brown eyes that burnt with a fire full of hate. Obi-Wan was certain that he would never forget these two elements of his unfriendly face…

He stared at Anakin and Obi-Wan for a while, before speaking with a heavy accent.

"When are reinforcements coming?"

Nor Anakin nor Obi-Wan said a word.

"We know you are waiting for reinforcement. When are they coming?"

Again, the captain was met with only silence. This time, he took a step towards Obi-Wan and punched him hard in the face. The loud cracking noise was enough to prove that his nose was broken.

Anakin and Rex both made a movement toward the German officer, but their friend held them back. It was too much of a stupid way to die…

Instead, Obi-Wan stood straighter again, not caring about the blood flooding down his face. Holding his enemy’s glance, he waited for the next strike to fall. And indeed, he was not disappointed. The punch in his stomach had him fall to his knees, all air taken away from his lungs. It took him a full minute to be able to breathe rather normally again. Anakin helped him back to his feet.

"When are reinforcements coming?"

Again, his question was answered by nothing but silence.

"We will not lose the Somme. Now, speak."

The next second, the tip of a gun was pressed against Obi-Wan's forehead.

"When?"

The security was lifted with a loud click.

Obi-Wan knew that by his side, Anakin was waiting for a sign. There would be only one chance to get out of this alive.

"No need for such uncivilized manners," Obi-Wan finally answered, pointing at the firearm pressed against his skin.

"You will give me the information I want. Or I will kill all your men one by one."

"What a lovely way to treat prisoners of war…"

"No need to play the funny one."

"Oh, just you wait," Anakin smiled. "He’s just getting started. Next he’ll make a comment on your food."

"Well, indeed, the bread was far from freshly made. The taste was terrible. I hope it doesn’t represent German food, I'm sure your country can do much better…"

"Enough. Answer the question."

"Why would I do that? You seem pretty disposed to kill us all anyway."

The officer gave Obi-Wan a cruel smile.

"I could let your men go," he offered. "You would have my word. From a Captain to a Captain."

"Don’t," Rex shook his head.

But Obi-Wan remained silent.

"What do you say?"

Obi-Wan threw a side glance at Anakin, who merely looked back at him. There was no need for words. The two men knew each other so well, they knew what the other meant.

"I think we should discuss the terms of this agreement," Obi-Wan answered.

"Nice to see that you can be reasoned."

"Captain, you can’t be serious…" Cody shook his head.

Obi-Wan turned to him, and with an intense stare, he spoke a hidden message.

"Well, fighting is not always the way. Remember the Major?"

The story of how Major Windu had escaped after being taken prisoner was well known in their trench. There was no difficulty in letting all his men know that they would have to fight their way out of this.

Just a second. Obi-Wan barely had time to turn towards the German soldiers again, and Anakin was punching a soldier and taking his rifle. Obi-Wan's fingers wrapped themselves around the gun set against his forehead and he just managed to push it enough upwards to avoid the shot. A kick in the German’s shin, and he managed to snap the firearm out of the officer’s reach. Shots started to be fired on both sides, and Obi-Wan turned the gun towards its owner. He aimed for the head too.

And then the detonation was deafening…

 --------------------------------------------------------------------

 Obi-Wan woke up in a sweat. Despite the chilly air of his apartment, he was covered with perspiration.

The blood and broken pieces of bones and torn out tissues were still carved in his eyelids as he blinked, chasing sleep from his eyes. He was out of breath and unable to calm down, adrenaline running through his veins. He sat up and rested his brow in the palms of his head. Slowly, he tried to calm down. He breathed in and out deeply. Along the years, he had found out that it was a good way to make the wave of panic pass.

So, he breathed in and out deeply through his nose, closing his eyes and trying to think about something else. The faces of his goddaughter and godson appeared before his eyes.

In….

Out…

Leia laughing.

In…

Out…

Padmé and Luke playing together.

In….

Out…

Anakin telling a story to his children.

In…

Out…

Cody and Rex playing cards and laughing.

In…

Out…

The sunrise on the Thames.

In…

Out.

His heartrate slowed down again, his breathing more regular. He blinked a couple of times, but all he could see was the darkness brought by his eyelids.

He heaved a sigh, stood up and without turning any light on, walked to his bucket of cold water. He washed the nightmare away, shivering with the cool liquid hitting his face.

A mere look by his window and the countless stars told him he should go back to bed and try to get more sleep.

Cody had managed to get him an interview for the lamplighter job. But he wouldn’t have to get up before the sun.

Would his night be clear of nightmares if he tried to sleep again though?

Instead, he turned on the light, grabbed his copy of Moby Dick, and began to read.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------

 It was a clear day. The London sky was of a deep blue shade, with barely any clouds wandering off with the wind. At such a time of year though, a clear sky meant a more vivid cold, and Obi-Wan was soon shivering.

It had taken only four questions for Obi-Wan to be hired, as he came recommended.

Was he good at repairing things?

Had he fought during the war?

Did he have any health condition?

Was he afraid of heights?

All Obi-Wan’s answers were satisfactory, and he was soon dispatched to learn how to light up and turn off a lamppost.

He was now going through how a lamppost worked with Cody’s friend, Adam. A few technical points had to be presented, as Obi-Wan would have to make basic repairs as well if necessary. For anything that required some particular tool or skill, he would have to report the broken lamppost instead.

After a couple of hours spent at the top of a wooden ladder, examining a lamppost in the cold, Adam seemed satisfied by how much Obi-Wan had learnt.

"See? Nothing complicated," Adam smiled, his blond hair shining in the sunshine. "Actually… I know jus’ the right task for ya. There’s a broken lamppost on Umber Street. ‘Been so for a couple o’ weeks, but looks like no one was dispatched to repair it. At least, before ya! It’s fine if you can’t repair it, but try to see what’s wrong with it. Here, take me tools for today. Ya’ll get your own tomorrow."

And so, Obi-Wan was given the precise address and sent to repair a lamppost, when he had never even lightened one properly yet. But he wasn’t the kind to ever refuse a challenge.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------

 For once you would be going home before the sun was down and night had filled up every street and alley with thick shadows. The line you worked on at the factory was to be repaired this evening, you and your colleagues could thus enjoy a little bit of sunshine for once.

The clear blue sky made you smile, the lazy cotton-like clouds drifting above the polluted London. And you felt much safer as well, walking through the poor streets of the East End in bright daylight rather than by night time. Moreover, for two weeks now the lamppost before your house had been out, and that meant walking through darkness for several minutes. You could barely find the keyhole on your front door too, the moon and starlight being far from enough to see the tiny opening. At least today, you would be spared the problem.

You left the large passage of Cable Street and aimed north towards Commercial Road to go home. You reckoned that your street was set on the edge of the East End, not so far from the richer part of the city surrounding the Tower of London. It didn’t mean that poverty was already wiped out of your street though. When children played outside, it was with empty cans, broken ropes and cheap circles of metal.

The cleaning of the slums through the East End had been going on for several decades already. With it came the taller buildings cut in tiny apartments instead of poor houses. Forgotten were the tiny backyards by now, most people lived in these buildings already, although the rehabilitation of this part of town was far from over.

After a little bit more of walking, you reached Umber Street, the sun still licking the rooftops in warm rays of sunshine that contrasted with the cold wind. You tightened your dark coat around your frame, blocking the cool air and the sensation it brought of cutting through your skin.

You walked through the street trapped in both sides by houses that were darkened by the coal coming out of the chimneys and the gas pushed out of the motors of the cars and buses. The pollution had invaded the whole town.

But as you walked closer to your eyes, a surprising scene played before you. A man was up on a tall wooden ladder, apparently repairing the broken lamppost before your home! A grin formed on your lips at the sight. First you were freed from work early, and now someone was repairing your lamppost. Without a doubt, it was a good day.

You hurried on to join the lamplighter, and waved at him from afar. He answered with a shy wave too.

"Hello!" you called as you arrived next to the lamppost, protecting your eyes from the sun with your palm as you looked up at him. "I’m so happy to finally see someone taking care of this!"

You couldn't see his features for now, the sun blinding you, and he couldn't distinguish your face either as it was mostly hidden by your hand.

"It should work fine now," he answered.

To prove his point, Obi-Wan lightened up the lamppost, smiling at you.

"See? It’s fine."

"Well, thank you so much. I mean… I usually go home from work after nightfall, and it’s so easier to go home with light in the street!"

"I can imagine."

"Would you like a cup of tea?" you bluntly asked.

"I… I don’t think I should, I’m working."

"I’m offering tea, not whiskey," you laughed. "Besides, I would really like to thank you for repairing the lamppost. It might not seem to be much, but it’ll make my life much easier."

Obi-Wan thought for a second more, but eventually shrugged his doubts away. After all, it was only a cup of tea, and he had been given the rest of the afternoon to repair the lamppost. As long as he dropped back to work before twilight, it was all fine. He wouldn't stay long anyway, and after many hours spent in the cold, he would appreciate a warm beverage.

"Thank you, then," he accepted with a nod.

He climbed down from the ladder, and you could finally take a look at his features, the sun not blinding you anymore. Dark blond locks trapped under an old cap but a few strands falling before his eyes anyway, a short beard to colour his pale cheeks and two blue eyes that had you falling into them without a hope of getting out again. You noticed the freckle on his cheekbone as well.

Why had your heart made such a leap, and why was it beating so fast now?

You couldn’t seem to move for some reason. Why were you lost in his eyes?

If you seemed dumbstruck, you were far from looking ridiculous, as Obi-Wan had the same mixture of surprise, confusion and awe painted all over his features. His lips parted slightly as he dived in your gaze, and he took in all your details, from your lopsided brown beret to the shape of your jaw and cheekbones and the curve of your lips, in only a second. For some unknown reason, he knew that he would never forget your face. He had seen it for only a moment, and yet an instant was enough to make him certain that your features were carved in his memory forever.

You remained standing on the sidewalk like this, both of you motionless, lost in the other’s gaze and your lips slightly parted. It was as if time had stopped. Your brain had frozen and you were unable to do anything but admit the simplest of truths.

He was very attractive.

And you were very beautiful.

But the feeling went beyond appearances. You could see so much of him in his eyes beyond his looks and he could already see right through your soul. And you both immediately adored what you saw then.

The spell remained unbroken until three children ran down the street, passing behind Obi-Wan while shouting, and finally pulling your attention back to the world around you.

For how long had you been staring at each other like this? A minute? An hour? A thousand years? You had no idea.

Anyway, as you finally broke eye contact, you cleared your throat and shook yourself.

"Right… so… what about that cup of tea?" you asked with a voice that sounded more hoarse than usual.

"It would be lovely."

"I’m Y/N, by the way," you added, offering him your open palm, and he hurried to shake hands with you.

"Obi-Wan. But you can call me Ben, everyone does."

You gave him a mischievous smile.

"I think I still prefer Obi-Wan though. It’s more original."

He gave you a smile that he hoped seemed humorous, but he reckoned that it looked quite stupid, and he mentally slapped himself for it.

You guided him to your apartment on the third floor and invited him inside. It was little but welcoming. Clean and warm even if you didn’t own anything of value. He smiled at the sight of branches of pink heather set on the table. The large window faced the street and the sun was set to hit it at this hour of the late afternoon.

"Would you like some sugar or milk? I’m afraid I don’t have any honey," you offered.

"No, thank you. Just tea."

He remained awkwardly standing next to the table as you reached for the teapot and cups and spoons and put some water to boil, his hands behind his back. And you couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

"You can sit down," you nodded toward a chair and he took place around your little wooden table. "So… far how long have you been working as a lamplighter?"

"It’s my first day, actually."

"Really? Well, I reckon you did well for your first day. A real professional already."

"Just wait and see what I can do in a month."

You chuckled, and the sound warmed his heart. It spread through his entire body as a warm feeling, and he didn't know how to control it, how to stop it. Why did you have such effect on him? He didn't even know you.

"What do you do? You said you came home at night," he asked.

He gave you a warm smile as he thanked you and took the cup of tea you were handing him.

"I work in a factory. Tin cans," you answered. "I leave at 8 pm, so… during the winter it’s pretty dark by then already."

"I see. For how long have you been working there?"

"Almost ten years," you answered, sitting down opposite him and taking a box of dry biscuits that you put between the two of you. "I started during the war."

"Ammunitions?"

"Aye. They hired anyone they could find at the time. Were you around during the war?"

"No, I enlisted three months after the war began. I didn't come back home before it was over."

"I’m sorry to hear that."

He raised a surprised eyebrow. That wasn’t the kind of reaction he was used to. For people like you who had never seen a battlefield, he was often praised for serving his country. From other survivors, there was a silent understanding of all the misery fighting truly meant. But now, you were looking at him with grief in your eyes.

"Why do you like so surprised? Did you enjoy it?" you asked with a frown.

Obi-Wan shook his head with a sad smile.

"No. No, I didn’t. But I'm… usually I don't get this kind of reaction for coming back alive."

"I've never found anything glorious in killing another human being."

"Me neither."

"Why did you enlist then?"

He shrugged with the intension to not reply. But for some reason, he felt like opening up to you, at least a little. He didn't know why. Another mystery that came with you, he guessed.

"My best friend wanted to fight. And everyone was going around here, actually. It was… I mean it didn't feel like I had a choice. We were called, and so we went. We didn't have a choice, really. Besides, no one really knew what war meant before actually being there."

He cleared his throat, focusing on you again. As he spoke, his gaze had seemed to be drifting back to days long gone, memories and shadows of a time that had disappeared with the sand of time.

"It was a long time ago," he smiled.

"What were you doing before rescuing lampposts then?" you asked, choosing to guide the conversation in another direction.

You took a biscuit, and he imitated you. He caught himself glancing at your left hand as you brought the biscuit to your lips. No wedding ring. He hated himself for feeling happy about it, and he pushed the thought away. He wondered if you were a widow and had a family anyway.

"I used to sell newspapers," he answered. "Done a lot of jobs before that. It's hard to get anything stable these days."

"I understand," you nodded. "I see it happen a lot around here. I hope you don't have troubles with your family. I mean… with money…"

"I… I'm not married. I don't have children. So, I only have myself to take care of."

You bit your tongue hard, feeling guilty for the rush of satisfaction that washed over you to learn about that fact...

"I hope your work pays enough for your family though," he went on. "A friend of mine works in one of the factories too and… he's not paid much for it."

"I… I'm not married either. No children either. So, I guess it's just me I have to take care of too."

"Oh, I see…"

He used to have a way with words, why was his mind completely blank now? Maybe it was because he didn't want to show how his heart was beating faster because of your answer.

He found himself ridiculous for having such thoughts to cross his mind. His life was complicated enough as it was. A crush on a stranger was the last thing he needed. He was being silly, and he needed to wake up from the reverie he had entered the second he had dived in your eyes.

So, he hurried to finish his tea in one long sip, and he gave you a polite smile.

"I really should be going," he said, standing up, his voice shaking a little for some reason. "I have to go back to work, it's almost the evening already. Thank you again… for the tea."

"Well, thank you again… for the lamppost."

You exchanged a pair of stupid smiles, both of you standing now, facing each other across your tiny wooden table, unable to move again. The same spell that had you frozen on the sidewalk seemed to be back as you stared at each other again. Would you ever see him again? London was a big town. You could spend your whole life without bumping into him again. So you took great care at making sure to remember his features. And perhaps, dozens of years from now, you would tell your grand-children about that lovely stranger that made your heart beat so fast just for the time for a cup of tea to grow cold.

He didn't have to make any effort to remember your features though. He already knew he would never forget you.

Eventually, Obi-Wan did break the moment you shared: he touched the tip of his cap as he gave you one last nod, and walked to your door.

You watched him walking down the street through your window until he was gone, his silhouette drenched in pale sunlight disappearing behind a corner. Before you would walk away from the window again your eyes settled on the lamppost before your home, and you couldn't refrain a smile at the thought that without a doubt, from now on, everytime you would see this lamppost, you would think of him.

***********************

Tag list : @ponycake27 @horsesreign @xinyourdreamsx @jbluevelvet @notkeppeki @daynigt-dreamer-stuff @fudgeflyss @stuckupstucky @snek-shit @suchatinyinfinity @i-padfootblack-things  @buckybsarmy @heyohheyitsgabi @yana-versio @goldenor5  @madamrogers

[stickfeet94]

Fashion Rings: What You Have to Know Before Buying Them

These fashion rings make sure to blend throughout exquisite patterns along with necessity. Necklaces is not really a thing that a woman is respected regarding putting on but rather just how their particular gem displays typically the thoughts and character of the individual. Women are willing to spend a new substantial sum associated with time and money investigating different outfits in addition to clothing, yet may not think just as much regarding which piece they will should put on. Jewelry expert? s recognized as fashion rings consider to support narrow down jewellery selection process by offering treasured jewelry that makes everyday dressing searching more elegant. and eye-catching. Pop nicely culture takes on a new significant role stylish jewellery, because company create typically the searches for popular clothes and clothing lines. There are a lot of forms of style bands that folks can select through like while silver, gemstone, metallic, pearl plus gems engagement ring. Yellow metal is definitely by far the most well-known metal amongst precious jewelry because that provides an extended background of being provided by a person's moms and dads throughout their wedding ceremony. Gold rings have got a long great being given simply by an individual's parents as well and may fluctuate in color such as yellow, white, rose gold and even additional. With this particular selection of colors, yellow metal is typically the virtually all popular metallic between jewelry. Metallic wedding rings are often put on for religious events such as funerals and weddings.

Fashion Rings will give you that simple and easy stylish look every single day with the 7 days, not only for particular date evening or unique occasions! Anklets and even bracelet are typically the ideal way to sparkle in your up coming particular date! Click here to store our choice of fashionable rings with a selection of colours and models! Whether looking intended for a bold statement pendant, or an easy beauty pair of earrings, we have something for everyone. Promoting the brand or promoting a particular product or service can easily be completed by using rings. Although an individual will need to choose in case the ring is sterling silver, gold, or titanium. There are various varieties of bands which may have their very own individual relevance plus meaning such as proposal bands. You will certainly possess to distinguish the target consumer in addition to see what they are wearing just before delivering an unique variety regarding ring to them published in fashion and even color build they like, since this? s not everything regarding the particular ring but that is also about the demonstration. What will be several facts that show the importance of fashion rings? Precisely what events will they will I assist? Precisely what occasion is considered the most ideal to use all of them? In improvement, precisely how can that they end up being personalized and what degree of customizability do these cards supply? These types of necklaces slots retail outlet rings both horizontal over every single some other or suspending in a few setups. Usually made along with tough plastic material,

Dimension issues, and your current wedding ring is the same. A ring that's also tiny can result in irritability within the little finger and even make an individual experience as when it's choking their own hand, while a ring gowns too big may well go around on the particular finger, creating pain or embarrassment. Is actually important in order to try out different sizes prior to deciding to make investments inside one particular, to be able to make sure of which you aren't receiving the best in shape.

[mostlymovieswithmax]

Chaos Walking (2019) [initial thoughts]

I’ve just discovered that some of my favourite books are going to be made into a movie to be released next year. The Chaos Walking trilogy is a series of novels by author Patrick Ness (author of A Monster Calls) that I read a few years ago and am now starting to read again. In a quick Google search I discovered that these books are being made into one movie to be released next year. With a director (Doug Liman) and cast (such as Tom Holland and Daisy Ridley) already established, I was very taken aback by this news and I’m really not sure how to feel about it.

I won’t give away too much of the plot for these books because this isn’t a review so much as it is a general musing on what I think of the announcement of the movie itself. However if you haven’t read the books and you want to then I would advise not reading any further until you have read at least the first book as I don’t think I can avoid all spoilers (provided you don’t want even the slightest detail spoiled). I also cannot recommend the books enough so if you’re even just a little curious then I suggest buying the first book pictured above (which can cost as little as £2.80 used on Amazon if you’re in the UK) and having a read through. As a fan of the Chaos Walking trilogy, I think it’s only natural to be sceptical about the movie adaptation or even scared as to how it might turn out. Generally speaking I think the consensus for movie adaptations is that more often than not, the books are better. This I think is usually down to the leniency books have in that they’re not limited to the amount of story that they can tell or the pages they can contain, whereas a movie, especially one made for cinema viewing, has rules to the length it can be. Now these books aren’t exactly Lord Of The Rings in terms of popularity and with those movies being 3-4 hours long each as a result of one book, I can’t see Chaos Walking as a singular movie from three books really trying to be pushed to that long. Rather I can see this movie totalling around an hour and half to possibly two and a half hours at a stretch. So we’re bound to get a lot of condensed story telling and I suppose that’s just what happens when you adapt a book into a movie and is the reason a lot of people say “the book was better” to a lot of these adaptations. Maybe if there was one movie dedicated to each book, the story might be told a bit better. However this isn’t the case and a format like that might even hinder the success and enjoyment of the movie. Let’s talk about casting. As star-studded as it is I would particularly like to talk about the two main characters: Todd and Viola played by Tom Holland (Spider-Man: Homecoming) and Daisy Ridley (Star Wars: The Force Awakens). I like these people as actors and in the right circumstances I think they could work well together. Despite this though, I wonder if this is the right circumstance. Their characters in these books are supposed to be, by our own standards, children (or very early teens, to put it another way). Now I understand that casting children/young teens in movies, especially as the main characters, is a tough business because more often than not, they aren’t any good. However the fact that this movie has cast a 21 year old and a 25 year old as characters who are supposed to be around 14 years old is something I can’t imagine I’ll take to and it’s not even as though they could dance around this fact because the age of the characters is so integral to the plot of this series. If this factor was however taken away then I would be incredibly disappointed. There is no way I would be able to suspend disbelief enough to reasonably accept these two actors, who are in their own respects incredibly talented individuals, as young teenagers. There would have to be something major done to the appearance of these actors for me to think they looked the part because just looking at the only picture I can find of the movie, I couldn’t look at it and say they looked like 14 year old’s.

Another factor I believe will be incredibly difficult to replicate and also another very important plot point (as it’s really one of the key aspects of the books) is the communication of the Noise (or the physical and auditory manifestation of the thoughts of men). This is going to be a movie that will not be able to have a quiet moment as long as it’s running. Because for the most part, the atmosphere is filled with Noise. I’m incredibly curious and confused as to how Liman thinks he’ll be able to pull this off. Not only the Noise itself but the spoken words of characters in contrast with the surrounding Noise; how he’ll choose to control the volume and prominence of each sound. It is stated early on in the first book that specific Noise depends on the people or animals it comes from. For example, in the swamp it is said to be “quiet” however this is only in comparison to the volume from the town. In the pub, it is easy to hear the Noise from outside because of the people inside it; so loud in fact it is remarked upon that even the music the pub is playing is overpowered by the Noise of those inside. As well as volume control, I wonder how Liman will tackle the personality of each characters’ Noise. Each character emits Noise that is unique to them and what they’re thinking. Some Noise is loud and messy and some thoughts overpower others from the same person resulting in a scramble of sound that although can be distinguished, is also muddled as if people are talking over one another. Other Noise however can be neat and orderly from the men who’ve learned and trained to control it. My issue with this is that, though this contrast is portrayed well in the books, I’m unsure of how it would work in a movie when portraying perhaps: a character that, though their Noise was quite jarred and on paper was physically wobbly, had it in one track in order to convey a solid and coherent message to another character prominently over the rest of his Noise. In comparison to possibly: a character such as the Mayor, of whom is explicitly in control of his own Noise, so much so that the physical wording on paper is very neat and tidy in order to show this. In terms of how characters are portrayed, I like them in the books very much and I like that the stories are told in first person. However I do acknowledge that the way in which certain things are said aren’t considered proper English as the books are littered with spelling errors and words that are pronounced wrong because it’s told in first person by a character whom cannot read well and was never properly educated. In the movie, I feel this is a factor that can’t be overlooked and as a result of this might result in clunky dialogue and conveyance in a way that might get annoying.

Surely there’s always an internal struggle within readers when they discover their favourite book is being adapted to a movie. As a fan and someone who has invested time and love into reading these works of artistic literature, you want the movie to be good (if you even want it made at all). More than that, you want it to be fantastic. It should be true to the source material and I would expect the people involved in making it to have as much passion for the books as I (as well as other readers) do or that the author had for writing them. I want Chaos Walking to be as good as it can possibly be and I want it to reflect the books. Obviously not word for word and shot for shot but I want this movie helmed by someone who loves the books and has read them all cover to cover and having been almost 10 years since the first book ‘The Knife Of Never Letting Go’ was published, I see no reason as to why that is not ample time to get to know each book intimately. As well as this, I would hope that Patrick Ness himself had a say in what was happening in the movie instead of taking a back seat and letting the director get on with it. Chaos Walking, to me, isn’t a movie I think needs to be made. It works well as a series of books and I don’t know how it will break from them to condense into one movie. However I hope I’m proved wrong and that it goes on to be an amazing piece of cinema like it has the potential to be. I just don’t want to see it done poorly (because I will see this movie) or mismanaged. The story of these books is wonderfully original and I enjoyed reading every page so I’m interested in how the movie will differ from others to set itself apart by use of the cinematography, editing, acting, colour use, etc. Because it deserves to be set apart from everything else purely by story alone. Now I don’t have a lot of experience with Doug Liman as a director. I have seen Edge Of Tomorrow, which I thought was good though not hugely original and I’ve seen Jumper which was... Well that wasn’t too great let’s be honest. Liman is also directing Marvel’s Gambit to be released next year as well which I am also excited for. Hopefully they both turn out great and aren’t hurt by the other in terms of how much dedication Liman shows each of them in order to make them the best they can be.

In summary and in truth, I am scared for Chaos Walking as a movie but I am also intrigued and hopeful. I just want the trilogy to be done justice and I’m excited to see how it’s done. I know I’ve not given a lot away in terms of what the story is about but as I said, this isn’t a review; I just wanted to be able to articulate my thoughts on the matter. If you’ve read this far then I thank you and I ask: what are your thoughts on this upcoming movie as a concept? If you’ve read the books, are you excited for Chaos Walking? Do you hate the idea and just want them to stay as books? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

[todonintendos]

The Lovely Story of Tingle

Try to think of as many Zelda characters as you can in just a few seconds. Tingle shouldn’t take too long to get to your mind. Love or hate him, that doesn’t matter, as he’s undoubtedly one of the most memorable Zelda characters in the entire franchise. Could it be because of how cheerful and nice his attitude towards Link is, or simply because of how much his weird design and nature contrast with the rest of the main characters? There are opinions of all shapes and sizes, so it’s really hard to tell.

The real question is... what made Tingle more popular than other main characters with the same amount of game appearances?

Tingle debuted in The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask, released for the Nintendo 64 in 2000. There, Tingle is introduced as just one more character that gives the player useful resources for advancing through the game, these being maps of the Termina region. He does these maps by deploying a balloon to suspend himself in mid-air and get the best possible view to draw the maps manually.

Majora’s Mask also allows the player to know certain smaller facts about Tingle’s personal life, such as his age, 35, and the identity of his father, who happens to be the man who runs the pictograph contest at the Swamp Tourist Center, also in Majora’s Mask. By talking to him, he reveals that he isn’t proud of him at all, but rather disappointed. Tingle skipped school to “pursue forest fairies” and is surprised that he still does this, and his characteristic green clothes don’t quite suit his father’s tastes.

Tingle’s magic words “Kooloo-Limpah” are a play on “kururinpa”, the Japanese word for Cuccos and to talk about a crazy person.

The other major appearance of Tingle was in The Wind Waker, released for the GameCube in 2003 (2002 in Japan). Tingle was present in Oracle of Ages, released in-between Majora’s Mask and The Wind Waker, but his role was rather insignificant as he just gives Link a map for one single location in the game, the Crescent Strait. Wind Waker might mark his most important role in any canonical Zelda game to date, as the game digs really deep on his personal life and his hobby of drawing maps, even providing a full backstory of Tingle as a secret in the Tower of the Gods.

In The Wind Waker, players first encounter Tingle jailed on Windfall Island for presumably stealing a Picto Box, which Link can obtain after freeing him. Short after, Tingle will give Link a special map with the locations of the Eight Triforce Charts, which he needs to decipher after finding them. Doing this is mandatory to complete the game (unless you’re a speedrunner, that is), as they show where to find each Triforce shard in the game. And you guessed it right, the Triforce happens to be a preeeeeeeety important item in the game.

All good things come with a price. The Triforce may be the key to beating the game, but Tingle won’t help you find it for free.

The Wind Waker also introduces us to Tingle’s brothers, who are identical in appearance, only distinguishable by the colour of their clothes. However, only Knuckle, the one dressed in blue, is a twin brother of Tingle. Ankle, the one dressed in pink, is a much younger brother and David Jr, the white one, is just an ordinary human rescued by Tingle in a shipwreck so, despite looking exactly like Tingle and his two brothers, he isn’t related to Tingle, so let’s just call him an “adoptive brother”. The opinion of Tingle’s brothers regarding him isn’t positive at all, as they state that he makes them work all-day while he just slacks on a side, but his attidude changes while Link is on the island with them.

Earlier I mentioned that Tingle’s backstory can be found hidden in the game. However, I did quite a bait there. This secret can’t be found in the remake as a Game Boy Advance is required, and what you get is a parody of The Wind Waker’s intro, stating that “the fairy saved the Hero of Time by handing him a map”. It doesn’t tell anything that we didn’t know from Majora’s Mask, but you can find it here if you’re interested on reading it.

Official art of Link and Tingle from The Wind Waker. What Link is holding is the Tingle Tuner, exclusive to the GameCube version.

However, from this point in time, Tingle’s presence in the core games doesn’t go much further. In Phantom Hourglass he appears on a wanted poster in the Milk Bar, in Spirit Tracks there are two statues of Tingle throughout the game and a picture of him in Ferrus’ home. In Four Swords Adventures, he’ll attempt to grab Force Gems left on the floor for too long before Link does, this being the only instance where he acts against the player. Finally, in Skyward Sword all we have is a Tingle doll in Zelda’s room, and a special suit for Link in Breath of the Wild.

While Tingle himself is nowhere to be seen in Twilight Princess, I wanted to talk briefly about Purlo, a character from the game whose design looks surprisingly similar to Tingle’s. Purlo hosts the STAR Game in Hyrule Castle Town, is a greedy man and has and obsession with rupees, just like Tingle. However, he has an unfriendly attitude, doesn’t draw maps or think he’s a fairy. It’s said that the design was indeed based on Tingle’s, as they liked to imagine how he’d look in a more realistic style, but this hasn’t been confirmed by Nintendo.

Concept art of Purlo from Hyrule Historia. It’s easy to tell how this design can remind us of Tingle.

After remembering Tingle’s history through the core games, we could ask ourselves, why did he end up getting an spin-off for the Nintendo DS and how did he make it to Hyrule Warriors? What’s next, seeing him in the Smash Bros roster? But most importantly... did he really deserve all of this? After all, he’s the only Zelda character, other than Link, to have games where he’s the main character, having Impa, Sheik, Ganon and even Zelda as possible candidates for an spin-off. Well... the truth might be, Tingle isn’t a character made for your tastes.

According to Eiji Aonuma, Tingle is that weird because a person who flies around in a giant balloon only to draw maps had to be a weird person. The entire character was based on Peter Pan, which is easy to understand not only because of his green clothing, but since he’s a 35-year-old man stuck in childhood who refuses to grow up. These weird characters are more common to see in Japanese media, as American and European creations like these tend to avoid these “creepy” characters, specially around the time Tingle was conceived. I’m pretty sure your parents think Japan is a place filled with crazy and weird people, and that makes them dislike or even reject that culture. That’s simply because they don’t understand or are used to creations such as Tingle, among others.

The fact that Tingle is such a weird character serves both as a reason to love him or hate him, depending on your tastes.

It’s likely that, earlier, when I mentioned that Tingle had an spin-off for the Nintendo DS, the first thing you thought was that other DS Tingle game I missed. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about it. I was just only focusing on the only spin-off that was released out of Japan, Freshly-Picked Tingle’s Rosy Rupeeland. Europe was really lucky to get this title, as the American public didn’t even have a chance for unknown reasons, although I guess it’s because such a creepy character like Tingle in a world where money means everything and your sidekick is a female with a pretty revealing design wasn’t a concept made for the American player.

The other spin-off I didn’t mention is Ripened Tingle’s Balloon Trip of Love, a direct sequel to Rosy Rupeeland. If the main theme of its prequel was money, this time it’s women. Of course that’s going into a much more dangerous terrain, specially seeing what Tingle looks like, and they didn’t even consider bringing this game out of Japan. Fortunately, a group of fans released an English version of the game not long ago, which you can check out here!

This is an official art posted by Nintendo of Europe a few months ago, guess we’re getting used to Tingle by now!

There are two more games about Tingle for the Nintendo DS, though, a remake of Balloon Fight featuring Tingle himself that was given as a gift via Club Nintendo, and a DSiWare game containing many minigames featuring Tingle that was only released in Japan in order to promote Balloon Trip of Love. However, they’re much smaller and don’t really give stuff to talk about. Also, days ago we knew about a cancelled horror game featuring Tingle that never saw the light, because reasons.

In the recent years, Tingle has appeared as a character in Hyrule Warriors and as a trophy in Super Smash Bros, but his presence in the main games has been slowly fading away. Nonetheless, Tingle will never be forgotten, both because of the love he’s gotten and the hate he’s received. I also wanted to point out how non-playable characters in Breath of the Wild get scared when Link walks nearby with the Tingle suit... guess Nintendo really cares about Tingle haters, after all!

...and you reached the end of the article!

You’re free to like or dislike Tingle, but I believe it was worth going through his history as a videogame character. Hopefully you found this article interesting enough no matter what you think of him! Thanks for reading!

~TodoNintendoS, as part of Daily Nintendo Fact #200

[huberleo]

Once upon a time there was a strange man standing in front of a strange house

Lenny finds himself in Vienna, dislocated, dispossessed, lost. There is no flock to lead anymore, no divinity to represent. Lenny needs this feeling of power, this machinery around him that listens to his every whim. Lenny is obsessed with legacy, with power made real. I wish to remain an eternal enigma to myself and to others.[1] Lenny needs to rule over someone. Something. Lenny doesn’t fit in what he perceives as the rest of society. Lenny stands in front of the house. Ludwig is a kingdom. A realm complete in itself, surrounded by a wall. What king did not seat him at his table [2].

Prepare for Battle

Lenny stands in front of Ludwig. I'm ready to wage a war without end against you.[3] He sees himself as a being of greater glory and importance than his fellow men. He was of so great ability, even as a private citizen, that one who writes of him says he wanted nothing but a kingdom to be a king.[4] Lenny wants to build himself a monument, he wants to become immortal.

Ludwig likes rationality, Ludwig likes a good encyclopaedia that defines the world and its inhabitants and divides them into categories. Ludwig likes do divide the world into right an wrong, black and white. Ludwig knows his truth and how it is superior to earlier truths. Ludwig is a house.

Lenny likes to place himself in the pantheon of emperors, conquerors, military geniuses and deities. For he is not man, but legend. Humans are mortal; their glory may escape death. [5]

Do they fight to the death? [6] That's the fate of power.[7]  Lenny wants to conquer Ludwig and make him his subject, make Ludwig a representation of his divine glory. Ludwig prepares for war.

Siege

In the eyes of contemporaries, siege warfare unfolds like a classical drama.[8] You hesitate before entering a new world as an intruder, and becoming an alien. The anticipation of the moment may be more than you bargained for. Or it might be less. The city lives suspended in history, always waiting for someone or something, condemned to remain in precarious balance, always on the verge of resurrection but also a step back from the brink, exaltations following depressions.[9].

A dog believes his master is at the door.[10] Ludwig is no dog. Ludwig is well read in the art of battle. Ludwig knows what to do, for when the battle begins: here we are plunged into a world entirely mechanical. [11] In extreme conditions, when he was under siege, the gates were closed, the battlements were manned, and the house became the city became self contained for the duration.[12] It is the way Ludwig relates to his surroundings and their history, as a place that withstood siege. Ludwig has a high wall all around him. Ludwig is a fortress.

War What is it good for?[13]

The Threshold

A gate. A door. A void. A place between worlds. Between the two, there is threshold and fiber, symbiosis of or passage between heterogeneities. [14]  It is the momentary realization of leaving and entering at the same time. In a fraction of a certain time that cannot be measured you are both at once, past and future simultaneously without a present. Then you step into another world as another self and leave the alien in its pure form on the threshold, only to assume its form again once you step back into the past.

A gate in a wall. Lenny had expected something massive with at least one portcullis, something he would have to fight his way through. This is why fairy tales often had medieval architectural environments – to house their battles where good triumphs over evil, in a land far away, once upon a medieval time. [15] But it was only a simple door, almost hidden in the fabric of the wall. So devoid of ornament Lenny almost doesn’t notice. Almost.

Lenny stands on the threshold, he has breached the wall and the house is his. Ludwig is ready, the door behind Lenny falls shut, becoming part of the wall again. And though he, as the house is the most precise product of modern processes there will be entrenched within it this ancient loyalty invulnerable against the siege of our machines. [16] Every part of Ludwig is ready to fight. To defend itself with a selflessness that inspires legends. These assurances produced a degree of calm. [17] It was a dangerous calm, the one that makes you uneasy and dying to leave. Yet both fear the moment of truth when they have to confront each other not only in mind but in body. Lenny takes a step. Leaving any roots he had behind, for this step completely unearths him. The structure of reality has been fragmented, for the abolition of the mythical horizon has destroyed the divine mystery that lies beyond it. [18]

After the breach

The Garden surrounding the house in front of him feels strangely calm, almost surreal.  The garden was somehow baroque in geometry, but devoid of anything Lenny would have perceived as baroque ornamentation. In front of him, a door. His next objective. It too, was devoid of ornament of any kind, which made it appear more intimidating than the last.

Ludwig studies the strange form in front of him, intrigued by this strange creature staring at him from his garden.  The unfamiliarity of their situation made both of them uncomfortable, very much so. Both wanted to escape this weird stalemate. It felt wrong and yet there was a fascination with a pull that was impossible to ignore.

Entering the house

Lenny enters the house, the door seemed to carry the weight of the entire building.[19] His moment has come, the door was meant only for him.[20] Right behind that door: Hell.[21] Lenny stands on a threshold once again, determined to make this house a home, by any means necessary —a Modification of general features [22]  for a start. He needs everything to be about him. He finds himself in a room, completely bare yet decorated with a variety of doors to go through next. The apparent lack of ornament disturbs Lenny, he wants Ludwig to become this bastion of his personal power far away from Rome, a temple to enshrine himself in, like the emperors of old. A new Vatican. The object of a cult, subjected to varying interpretations, the bearer of many different values, this house will become a memorial, a monument to the glory of Lenny and of his immortal self.[23] No reasoning power, no commandment, no force can override his inclination or his choice.[24] The throne admits not two. [25]

Ludwig is intrigued by Lenny. But Ludwig detests what Lenny perceives as vital for representing power. He thinks it a crime. How dare he change proportions Ludwig sees as a product of perfection, how dare he disguise the truth Ludwig represents in each little detail with meaningless follies.

As bare as the house appeared to Lenny, he quickly realizes it is a maze. Absent were the features Lenny usually used to distinguish antechambers. For him every room needed a theme, be it in colour or allegory.  But when Lenny goes about the house, his manoeuvre was accompanied by another change. [26] With every threshold Lenny passes the alienation of a new room, a new world is like a blow to him. With every threshold Lenny leaves something behind. A trail consisting of fragments. Like an animal shedding fur, Lenny sheds parts of himself.

Lenny gets fully immersed in the labyrinth. Ludwig watches Lenny rummage through his rooms, rearrange his features. With every new room Lenny enters, his presence becomes more familiar to Ludwig. Room for room Ludwig becomes less himself, he thinks the outside finally caught up with him, for Lenny must represent the world outside Ludwig’s little universe.

The core of the labyrinth is Ludwig’s brain, his heart, his archive. As Lenny enters it he feels as if he just entered a holy place. Before him Ludwig’s identity is revealed. The vast archives containing all the knowledge of the past. In the middle Ludwig’s own thoughts are positioned like the sun, everything revolves around. The hierarchy of truth is clear to Lenny. He feels a sudden respect and unease, as if he had seen something he shouldn’t have. To rule completely he must put himself in that place. But that would mean to bare himself to Ludwig, his enemy. Or his host, he wasn’t sure anymore. For a moment Lenny questions his true purpose. Somewhere in the labyrinth he had lost any track of time, he entered the timeless plane of existence Ludwig had existed in until now. A sudden burst of fear drives Lenny away from this room, gripping the sleek handle he crosses another threshold. Hoping the unfamiliarity of the next room will make him forget.

Ludwig watches in astonishment as the intruder leaves this vital part of him intact, yet how could he connect his thoughts to his features anymore? His features had been dressed up, distorted. And so there would be neither accord nor conflict here,[27] just two lost souls questioning their conviction.

Lenny stands on a threshold, before him a room as grand in proportion as he once imagined, a throne room. It is a room suitable to act as a monument to him. It would have been for another Lenny. Ludwig watches Lenny wander around the full extent of the space. Ludwig doesn’t know where this room came from, it feels wrong yet it is there. It feels like a part of him. Ludwig questions his truth. The design of the History was very much an expression of his mind; he hopes it may stand, not unworthily, as a monument to his work. [28] Lenny stands in the room, his room. He has won. The thought crosses his mind. But what has he won. He has found just another room in a maze of rooms. He has gone from epic invader to ghost endlessly wandering beyond time. Lenny is lost. Ludwig is numb. He tears a rip into his wall, a door for Lenny.

Standing at the threshold of the house he looks over the whole garden.[29] Neither the parterre nor the surrounding groves show any original features.[30] Change is evident. [31] Lenny stands in the garden. He doesn’t remember there being a garden in the first place. He studies the massive wall encompassing the garden as he puts out his cigarette. Just another room in the labyrinth. A cage for his Pyrrhic victory.

Hortus conclusus

Enclosed space, a walled world, a wall around your own mind – eternal state. Every time the being that occupies this safe space ventures into another, it is as if it travelled to another realm of reality. As soon as it enters the new space it becomes alien from the old one. Therefore the hortus conclusus has to adapt to accommodate the changed needs of its resident every time they come back to what they perceive as home. It is a place of personal refuge. A place of dreams, longing and desires made real.

Standing in the garden Lenny looks at the house. It appeared calm and serene to him, but then it was a house. Even to the most prosaic it always holds something of a promise of the peaceful and pleasant place that lies within. [32]

A door in a wall

He didn’t go out through a door? [33] Once you leave your creation there is need to revert back to what you were before. Your own universe has become strange to you and the process of making it yours has to begin again. Now the same thing can’t be both known and unknown. [34] A perpetual state of rebirth on the threshold. They eagerly seek the agent of this metamorphosis, and hasten to his door. [35]

Lenny stands in front of a threshold, he still has to build himself a monument, he still needs to make these rooms fit for a god. Ludwig feels someone disturbing his peace, always crossing thresholds, always ripping him out of his eternal rest. Thus the struggle goes on. [36]

Here we go again. [37]

 [1] Ludwig II [2] Cervantes, Don Quixote [3] The Young Pope [4] Machiavelli, The Prince [5] Acocella, Stone Architecture Ancient and Modern Construction Skills [6] Seneca, Complete Works [7] The Young Pope [8] Alder, Engineering the Revolution [9] Payne, Renaissance and Baroque Architecture [10] Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations [11] Serres, History of Scientific Thought [12] Mitchell, Me The Cyborg Self and the Networked City [13] Strong Whitfield, War [14] Deleuze Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus [15] Rudolph, A Companion to Medieval Art Romanesque and Gothic [16] Ockmann, Architecture Culture 1943 1968 [17] Wollstonecraft, Complete Works [18] Voegelin, Order and History 4 [19] Sudjic, The Edifice Complex [20] Zizek, Less Than Nothing [21] The Young Pope [22] Kerr, The Gentlemans House [23] Serres, History of Scientific Thought [24] de Montaigne, The Complete Essays [25] Seneca, Complete Works [26] Summerson, Architecture in Britain 1530 1830 [27] Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations [28] Schmitt, The Cambridge History of Renaissance Philosophy [29] Gothein, A History of Garden Art [30] Gothein, A History of Garden Art [31] Leatherbarrow Eisenschmidt, Twentieth Century Architecture [32] Stickley, Gustav Stickley s Craftsman Homes and Bungalows [33] Schumacher, The Autopoiesis of Architecture Vol 1 [34] Eco, The Name of the Rose [35] Aquinas, Selected Philosophical Writings [36] Sloterdijk, Critique of Cynical Reason [37] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[dyggot]

Hey, I made a thing for my dnd character! Her name is Jane Beck Oliver, and she's a warlock!

Just a warning, the post is pretty long. I get the template from deviantart, but I cut it down a bit and changed some things. I plan to write down her full backstory at a later date.

First name: Jane

Middle name(s): Beck

Surname: Oliver

Age: 25

Date of birth: may 13th

Species: human

Gender: demigirl

Sexuality: pansexual

Traits of Voice

Accent (if any): liverpool

Language spoken: english

Other languages known: elvish and abyssal

Style of speaking: screechy

Volume of voice: loud

Physical Appearence

Height: 5.10

Weight: 123 lbs

Eye colour: none, her eyes do that thing in cartoons where under her glasses are just black dots

Skin colour: white

Shape of face: round

Distinguishing features: her boney and veiny hands and her sharp teeth

Build of body: malnourished and lanky

Hair colour: brown

Hair style: shoulder length and straight

Posture: slouched

Typical clothing: she wears a ash brown suspender dress over a plain white turtleneck, white stockings, and a pair of large circle frame glasses.

Is seen by others as: weird looking and kinda creepy

Personality

Likes: reading, writing, poetry, and others who enjoy the same books as her

Dislikes: cults, slight disapproval, bad writing, and anything by Lewis James Nermal (if you don't know who he is, it's something I made up so that I could make an avgn reference

Education: amazing at english, writing, and social studies. Bad at everything else

Fears: cults, nail files, rack torture, and demonic monsters

Personal goals: become a famous writer

General attitude: starts out as rude, but gets nicer as you warm up to her. She's also somehow both extremely concided and extremely self loathing at the same time

Religious values: misotheistic towards her own patron (asmodeus)

General intelligence: extremely academically intelligent, but little to no street smarts if that makes sense

General sociability: bumbling idiot. The only reason she has such a high charisma stat is because asmodeus blessed her

Health

Sleeping habits: all over the place

Eating habits: unhealthily low appetite

Any unhealthy habits: biting her arm when she's really nervous. With how sharp her teeth are, sometimes she breaks skin.

History

Childhood: boring

Teen years: living nightmare

Adult years: recovering from living nightmare

Briefly explain life story: she tried to join a writer's group when she was 15, but they ended up being a cult to asmodeus. They soul her soul to him and did things like starving her, filling down her teeth until they're as sharp as shark teeth, and stretching her on a rack. After she escaped them at night, she wrote a book and tried to get it published. However, the publisher would either die or go bankrupt before it hit shelves. Assuming that it was from being stuck to Asmodeus, jane decided to go and start giving out her book on her own.

Combat

Peaceful or violent: extreme violence

Weapon (if applicable): ruby staff of Asmodeus

Style of fighting: magic

Others

Occupation: writer

Guilty pleasures: writing and reading crappy fanfiction about her favorite stories (though she's never showed them to anyone)

Talents: writing and casting spelling

Favourite type of music: whatever genre "everywhere at the end of time" was

[jordanknightcdc]

Nerri Oxman - Lazarus Death Masks

I have deiced to research Nerri Oxman’s work “Lazarus Death Masks” as a part of my project due to her impact on my practice and how I wish to represent myself as a Craftsperson moving forward.

The decision of choosing Oxman’s “Lazarus Death Masks” was due to the impact they have had on me since first witnessing the exhibition in 2016 while studying in college. The moment I entered her exhibition seeing the clinical, pristinely encased distorted forms it gave an unmistakable feeling of unease. I could almost hear the dialogue between myself and these imposing, cavernous faces. I then read the description of their intended meaning and I became paralysed, the feeling of loss and contemplation accompanied with the harrowing nature of its origin.

The Lazarus masks, described by Oxman as "air urns", are modelled on the facial features of the deceased individual. Each 3D-printed structure encompasses colourful swirling patterns that have been informed by the physical flow of air emitted from their last breath."Traditionally made of a single material, such as wax or plaster, the death mask originated as a means of capturing a person's visage, keeping the deceased alive through memory," said the team.

Description taken from https://www.dezeen.com/2016/12/12/neri-oxmans-lazarus-death-masks-visualise-the-wearers-last-breath/

After reading the description and studying the masks myself I was overcome with the most visceral reaction I have ever experienced from craft or Art in my life. The concept that you could dare to encapsulate the last moments of life in a physical form felt sacrilegious. I knew I loved the work and what it represented but the feelings of repulsion that I now recognise as fear were so instinctive. The works name “Lazarus” couldn't have been more fitting. the final dying moments of a beings essence suspended in a form you may bare upon your face. There was something about this piece that even today makes my core tremble. There is a perversion in these masks in the ability to suspend and craft a persons essence into something immortal. but only within there weakest moment where they slip into the unknown. 

The most daunting or disturbing factors in this incredible work to me was the stages, personality and wearability. The function to wear these masks evokes a sense of gratification in an almost tribal act of pride. I resist this almost primal desire due to my modern conditioning but if I were given the opportunity to capture loved ones essences I could not decline. I wonder what benefits people derive from bearing these masks but I may not have the emotional experiences available to understand it yet.

However the stages as I mention earlier are very interesting to me as they clearly show the deaths creeping progression aggressively confronting the viewer with not only there morality but also the deterioration of oneself in only moments. Oxman manages to extract a matter of seconds and create something that can be experienced for a lifetime. You can see the ebb of life fade so differently between the individuals and how that is realised visually. Even within death people are unique but also exactly the same. 

The last note I wish to make on “Lazarus Death Masks” refers to the facial properties of the work. The mask was created via mapping the air patterns created by the passing individuals breath and also the facial make up of them too. These factors are combined to produce the death masks you see. 

The primary interest is the way in which the facial qualities of the person may alter your experience when wearing the mask. This experience may vary based upon many factors including how people differ in grieving. These facial features we see in the work is subtle and may only be noticed by the people who it belongs. i think this makes a large distinction between the pieces intended audience and how the exhibition viewer interprets the work. 

It is easy when attending an exhibition to invest in the idea that the work is about you and your narrative in some way, which it is in many cases. An example is my own current project and how it does focus on the larger audience completely. This however is not universal and “Death Masks is an example of this in its purest form possibly. The work has been described as an “air urn memento” something that belongs to a family as a private and very intimate thing. When viewing Death masks I and everyone should be reminded that they are viewing what could be considered a wake. This fact changes the space completely into one of grief and ultimate deterioration. This again is reflected in the facial features of the individual and how you cannot distinguish them. you are looking at a strangers passing moments in a space of reflection and asked to experience it. When looking through this lens I feel an indistinguishable sense of intrusion, uncomfortably and appreciation. The appreciation is for the chance to be a part of a strangers eternal instant of departure from this plane of existence. The privilege of being able to peek through the curtain into someones loss.

Ultimately I hope that moving forward my work will be able to navigate such sensitive topics with the same decorum and knowledge. This Cathedral project thus far has been my first departure into the work I truly enjoy making and it is a large learning curve dense with alterations and doubt. However I feel like I’am working towards creating work I can be proud of and is representative of what I wish to convey.

[souslejaune]

Soon after Auntie Dee Dee’s burial... (Folio 1: Part 3)

Soon after Auntie Dee Dee’s burial, in sleep and wakefulness, a new buzz hovered over my existence, a filmy sub-ocular glaze of super sensitivity. I didn’t tell anyone what was happening, but my father saw me taking pictures of a dead lizard with my bright yellow battery-less camera from China.

“Ebo, what are you doing?”

“I want to compare it with the picture in the Encyclopaedia,” I lied.

Since I spent my entire youth flipping through volumes of the 1979 World Book Encyclopaedia, it was a safe lie.

“Oh, I see. Come to me if you need help, OK?”

“OK.”

In the next few weeks I took pictures of an endless collection of dead creatures: shy geckos, almost transparent with hunger; rats, still in the rigour of greed; flea-bitten dogs, dust-beaten cats, startled rainbow dragonflies, and a face-making toad.  I had no sympathy for dead animals generally – especially not rats and lizards. They were always encroaching on strictly human territories, like kitchens. One of my older cousins even told me that some of the boys in boarding school had the soles of their feet gnawed by rats sometimes.

I felt sorry for the toad though. It was the victim of one of our random playground challenges. Spotted while we were in the land by the local garbage dump playing a football game called four corners, it immediately became the fifth target. Four corners was played by four persons with each one defending a small target. You got two touches of the ball: one to defend your goal, and one to shoot at someone else’s. I was playing with Yaw a.k.a. Table-head, a short, wide-shouldered boy with a flat head and tooth-packed grin; Ato, who we called Tom Brown because his hair always faded to brown as soon as it grew beyond half-an-inch; and Kofi. Kofi used to be called Silas Marner because he always seemed to have more money than us and never wanted to share, but the name Silas Marner ebbed out of use after Ato named him Fagan and it stuck. We actually called him Kofi Fagan; it sounded nicer. Most of us were named after characters from the English books we were made to read at school. I was sometimes called Pip because I loved Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations so much.

Soon after the toad was spotted, all our shots started to head in Yaw’s direction as he was closest to the toad.

Ruffled by the unfair attention, he exclaimed, “I won’t play anymore!”

“OK Table, let’s stone the toad,” suggested Kofi Fagan grabbing a handful of pebbles. “First person to hit it wins the game.”

It was a ploy by Kofi Fagan to turn the game in his favour. He was lethal at throwing stones. He could rescue a ripe mango from its tree with a single shot.

Tom Brown grimaced.

“OK.” Table flung a smooth brown pebble towards the toad as he spoke.

He caught the toad as it was reaching its pink tongue out to catch a fly. The pebble flew across a suspended haze of dust, sneaked into the toad’s mouth and choked it; with its long tongue still out, decorated with a live fly. I ran home to get my camera. In secondary school I would show this picture to Mrs Ogbogu – my Nigerian biology teacher – when she remarked how rare it was to see a toad with its tongue out.

In addition to pictures, I had a single mounted creature. A giant spider. I had an illogical fear of spiders. Size was irrelevant. Once a creeper made the transition from six legs to eight, insect to arachnid, it had me shitting in my shorts. I accomplished many remarkable physical feats when confronted by spiders. Tom Brown, Table and Kofi Fagan often testified to that. I hurdled fences, jumped down trees, and outran cars. This spider, I caught because of the dreams that followed Auntie Dee Dee’s funeral. To confront my fear. I even wrote instructions for it.

Locate your fear

Find a suitable glass

Trap your fear under the glass

Lifting the glass slightly, spray perfume into it

Watch from a distance until your fear dies

I mounted it on a round piece of yellow card and labelled its body parts in a scrawl with sharper edges than my usual handwriting. Testament to the fact that I had perhaps not fully conquered my fear.  I had learned more about it, but it lay beneath the surface ready to stump me if I didn't remain vigilant.

In the dreams, black and red spiders swarmed the food that was served to me by dancing cadavers. I had to swipe them away to eat, but they kept multiplying and making a webbed playground of my body. My body became a living interpretation of Miss Havisham’s wedding room in Great Expectations.

After I mounted my fear, and learned to distinguish the cephalothorax from the abdomen, the spiders disappeared with a single swipe into the dark subworld of the tables around me. I was often the only guest at a cadaver cabaret with four faceless waiters to attend to my needs. On a green stage of knitted vapour, cooking and singing, was Auntie Dee Dee, her face still stuffed with the cotton wool the embalmers used to fill her cheeks.

“Dad, when you die, do you stop breathing first or does your heart stop beating?”

If I weren’t so curious nobody would have guessed that my interest in death was growing at the speed of sickness. I had done everything as I used to except for the pictures, which I had a good excuse for, and reading Great Expectations over and over again; wondering why, if there were so many cobwebs in Miss Havisham’s house, no spiders were ever mentioned. I later found that all the books we had read at school were obscure abridged versions produced locally. The full version – the one produced based on the serialised tale Charles Dickens published in his weekly journal All The Year Round – had “speckled-legged spiders with blotchy bodies.”

My father raised his eyes from his shop’s inventory list, crinkling his forehead in the process. He studied me with unwavering eyes – a spider contemplating a daring fly.

“It depends son. I guess if you die from a heart attack your heart stops beating first. If you drown you stop breathing first. The only way to know for sure in to ask a doctor…”

“…Or a dead person,” he added laughing.

“They don’t talk about it.”

“What?”

The fly was webbed. The room was suddenly too small. I felt like all the photos on our living room wall were watching me: My sister holidaying in Trafalgar Square with pigeons pecking her feet out of view; Grandma fanning flames under last year’s family feast, the entire Oppong-Ribeiro clan – my family – squinting and smiling at the Odwira festival… What year was that? Why wasn’t I in the picture? A photo of my father with his right arm lawfully draped over his Datsun iterated his silent authority. It was too late to change what I had said.

"What did you say?" My father persisted, his voice softer.

“They don't talk about it; I asked them.”

The creases in my father’s forehead deepened. “Who?”

“The dead people.”

“You’ve been talking to ghosts?”

“No, dead bodies.”

“Dead bodies?”

It sounded really silly once I had said it. I tried to make it sound better.

“In my dreams.”

He inclined his head slightly to the right.

“I don’t speak to anyone I don’t know. Just Auntie Dee Dee…”

“… and sometimes the waiters.”

“No, no, no.” My father sensed my fear of punishment. He had large rough palms that he rarely used on us, but, when he did, we felt the ridges of his rage on our buttocks for days.

“I’m not angry. Tell me about the dreams. Can you tell me?”

I told him about the cabarets and the food; platefuls of steaming jollof with the rice enlivened with colourful vegetables and geometric invasions of meat; endless bowls of oil-speckled groundnut soup; delicious fried plantain streaked red, orange and black by a ridged saucepan, accompanied by a bean sauce that climbed all over your senses in tracks of spiced palm oil, mouthfuls of tiger nuts – crunchy and juicy; yam and cocoyam graffitied with strips of chicken and kontomire; silver spoonfuls of strawberry ice cream; trays full of groundnut and coconut brittle; palmwine, “I didn’t drink it, Daddy”; and mangoes, mangoes, mangoes… Then I told him about the spiders and why I had to mount one.

“I had to eat. It was Auntie Dee Dee’s cooking.”

My father listened. Then he cried. Silver rivulets of sorrow that made him look old. He reached for me. Watching my father cry pulled a cord inside me and I began to sob.

“I’m sorry son.”

He shook. His dark skin felt like a minor earthquake beneath my hands.

“I’m sorry son.” He wiped his face and looked at me through glistening lashes. “Death is difficult for everyone.”

I never made sense of the dreams, nor did I understand why my father apologised, but the dreams stopped. They came back once. This time the food was devoured by the spiders before the plates got to me. The only evidence of the food’s existence was the intricate brown tracks left by the spiders, like dust patterns. I woke up with an acute hunger. It was early 1983.

In the same year there was a terrible food shortage in Ghana. Everything was rationed. The queues of people waiting to buy their provisions lasted for hours and criss-crossed the city. Brown patterns as intricate as a dust-stained spider web. Still, we were invisible. The West was reluctant to help a Ghanaian government that was sending its students to Castro’s Cuba to study. People begged. You can’t afford pride when you have children. The head of state called us comrades. He was thin too. We learnt to make a single meal last an entire day. A stillness enveloped the entire nation. School suddenly seemed difficult. We lacked the energy for endless football games and I soon forgot the spider dreams in the vortex of hunger.  

—–

continued >> here <<… | start from beginning? | current projects: The City Will Love You and a collection of poems, The Geez

[waterbasedmedia]

Watercolor (American English) /

Watercolour (British English) /

Aquarelle (French) /

Brush Painting (East Asian) :

A painting method in which the paints are made of pigments suspended in a water-based solution. Watercolor refers to both the medium and the resulting artwork.

The traditional and most common support—material to which the paint is applied—for watercolor paintings is paper. Other supports include papyrus, bark papers, plastics, vellum, leather, fabric, wood and canvas. Watercolor paper is often made entirely or partially with cotton, which gives a good texture and minimizes distortion when wet.

Watercolors are usually translucent, and appear luminous because the pigments are laid down in a pure form with few fillers obscuring the pigment colors. Watercolors can also be made opaque by adding Chinese white.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Watercolor_painting

On the Western History and Tradition of Watercolor:

From Watercolor: History and Technique, Walter Koschatzky -

The History of Watercolour Painting:

In the early days of printing it was customary to colour engravings in emulation of illuminated manuscripts; the latter were rare and costly and printing allowed illustrated texts to be produced cheaply and in great numbers, but the printers nevertheless clung to the convention of colouring the woodcut illustrations. The illuminators of manuscripts used opaque tempera because it allowed the initials and miniatures to stand out of the parchment page, but in printing it was not necessary or desirable to hide the lines of the engraving with colour: transparent watercolour was found to be the appropriate medium for colouring woodcuts. It was in taking an everyday ancillary technique and turning it into an artistic medium in its own right, in his sudden recognition of the potentialities that lay in the colour alone, without the support of the printed drawing, that Dürer's genius asserted itself. The use of an established technique in an entirely new way (not least in recognizing the role that areas of unpainted paper could play in a picture) gives Dürer the right to be called the father of the art of watercolour.

The Watercolours of Albrecht Dürer:

Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528) used water-soluble colours in about sixty-five of the roughly one thousand studies and sketches that survive today; amongst them are thirty-one works which can be called watercolours in the very strictest sense. These unusual works, almost all of which are landscapes, were painting during the space of about twelve years around the turn of the fifteenth century. They are extraordinary not merely in the context of Dürer’s work but in the context of art history as a whole. The technique of painting with watercolours had been known from the very earliest times, and suitable paper had existed for several centuries, but these works are something quite new and without any kind of precedent. In them Dürer incorporated all the essentials of the art of watercolour as set out in the first chapter [of this book]: painting with the brush and with transparent, water-borne colours giving objects pictorial substance and formal function solely by mixing the colours, applying them in overlapping washed and allowing them to merge while wet. And what is even more astonishing is that not only did Dürer himself suddenly stop working in the medium, but nobody else took it up throughout almost the whole of the rest of the sixteenth century.

Watercolour in England:

Eighteenth-century England saw an extraordinary flowering of watercolour painting. Developing out of the long-standing native tradition, the medium steadily rose in popularity and technical achievement during the course of the century, teaching dramatic heights in the final decade and finally spread English influence to the continent. Yet all this ultimately derives from a single factor -- the particular suitability of watercolour for expressing a new attitude towards landscape, a new concept of nature.

A whole series of artists have been dubbed 'fathers' of the English watercolour landscape, but this plural paternity only shows that they all started from the same philosophical premise -- that propounded around 1700 by Anthony Ashley Cooper, third Earl of Shaftesbury. Starting from the proposition of his tutor, John Locke, that the primary means of any perception is through the senses, Shaftesbury's system went much further in promoting feeling to an unprecedented position as an absolute moral category. As soon as 'moral sensualism', for example pleasure at in the sight of a landscape, is conceived to be a direct cognizance of the divine, the way is open to pantheism. In this context worship of nature and of scenic beauty becomes something utterly different from the enjoyment of nature and from finding refreshment or recreation in the open air; nature becomes the new foundation of moral life. Shaftesbury exercised an immense influence on succeeding generations and the whole of the Enlightenment and the Romantic movement evolved in the process of coming to terms with his philosophy. His enthusiasm found poetic utterance in his Hymn to Nature of 1709: 'O glorious Nature! supremely fair and sovereignly good! all-loving and all-lovely, all-divine!'

A concept of such breadth was not to be limited to trees and shrubs; nature is something much more in Shaftesbury's scheme of things -- it is the universal working of forces which proceed from God and which all flow back towards a divine summation. Nature becomes the embodiment of unsullied creation, of all that is genuine and true; 'natural' things are things that develop without constraint, and this includes human thoughts and acts.

From Wikipedia.com, Watercolor Painting - The English School:

The late Georgian and Victorian periods produced the zenith of the British watercolor, among the most impressive 19th-century works on paper, due to artists Turner, Varley, Cotman, David Cox, Peter de Wint, William Henry Hunt, John Frederick Lewis, Myles Birket Foster, Frederick Walker, Thomas Collier, and many others. In particular, the graceful, lapidary, and atmospheric watercolors ("genre paintings") by Richard Parkes Bonington created an international fad for watercolor painting, especially in England and France in the 1820s.

The popularity of watercolors stimulated many innovations, including heavier and more sized wove papers, and brushes (called "pencils") manufactured expressly for watercolor. Watercolor tutorials were first published in this period by Varley, Cox, and others, establishing the step-by-step painting instructions that still characterize the genre today.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Watercolor_painting

On the Eastern History of Water-based media:

From Japanese Ink Painting: Early Zen Masterpieces -

The art of ink painting, arising in China and spreading to Korea and Japan where it flourished anew, is one of the most remarkable legacies of the Far East to world art. More than a display of technical skill, it is a record of the artist’s poetic and philosophic outlook, a view of man and nature. Ink painting is tangible evidence of a specific spiritual attitude, and this attitude is intimately connected to Zen Buddhism.

*To be discussed further, especially during the ‘Ink’ sections of the Course.

Subtlety:

noun

The quality or state of being subtle.

sub·tle:

adjective

adjective: subtle; comparative adjective: subtler; superlative adjective: subtlest

1. (especially of a change or distinction) so delicate or precise as to be difficult to analyze or describe.

2. (of a mixture or effect) delicately complex and understated.

3. making use of clever and indirect methods to achieve something.

4. capable of making fine distinctions.

5. arranged in an ingenious and elaborate way.

6. crafty; cunning.

origin: Middle English (also in the sense ‘not easily understood’): from Old French sotil, from Latin subtilis ‘fine, delicate.’

Source: Merriam Webster Dictionary

From Word Watch: The Delicate History of ‘Subtle’, Rob Kyff:

The ancient Romans used the adjective subtilis to describe fabric that was finely woven and gossamer-like, the kind of delicate material that might be used for a veil. Subtilis was a contraction of subtexilis, from sub (under) and texare (to weave), so it literally meant underwoven.

The Latin subtilis migrated into Old French as soutil, meaning "thin, fine, delicate." Somewhere on this journey north, subtilis lost its b, but not its meaning.

Then, during the Norman invasion of the 11th century, soutil jumped the Channel to Britain, where it landed in English as sotil. Soon the meaning of sotil expanded from "physical delicacy" to the modern abstract meanings "difficult to detect, elusive."

Source: http://articles.courant.com/2012-01-21/features/hc-word-watch-0122-20120121_1_sotil-dubitare-debitum

From The Elements of Drawing: Three Letters to Beginners, John Ruskin:

Now, I believe that (irrespective of the differences in individual temper and character) the excellence of an artist, as such, depends wholly on refinement of perception, and that it is this, mainly, which a master or a school can teach; so that while powers of invention distinguish man from man, powers of perception distinguish school from school. All great schools enforce delicacy of drawing and subtlety of sight: and the only rule which I have, as yet, found to be without exception respecting art, is that all great art is delicate.

[15hont1c]

The Haunting of Hill House - Camera Movement Analysis (SPOILERS) + Shape of Water

One of the shows I chose to analyse is Netflix’s ‘The Haunting of Hill House’ (2018), directed by Mike Flanagan. The ten-episode series is a loose adaptation of Shirley Jackson’s gothic horror novel of the same name. It focuses on the Crain family and how their past and present lives are affected by the Hill House. The narrative structure is constantly interlacing between the past and present.

I specifically chose episode six: ‘Two Storms,’ because it was one of the scenes for them to film. The crew utilises a long one-take shot effectively to portray the family drama and dramatic tension. One of longest scene in the episode was 17 minutes long with no cuts. There are two parts that happened within the same episode which used one long, continuous take. 

The opening sequence shows the present day father (Hugh) entering a bathroom in a funeral parlour before he turns a corner and becomes his young self back in Hill House years ago. The seamless switch kicks off the one-shot sequence that is introduced by one simple ‘cut on action.’ The audience is taken into the past during a stormy night in Hill House as they try to deal with a broken chandelier and keeping everyone calm. 

Using a dolly shot, the camera is wheeled around to follow Hugh as he tries to find his wife in the house. The beginning shot of this clip shows the wife, Olivia, wandering around in a fugue state after witnessing a ghost boy in a wheelchair. She drifts aimlessly in the halls before the camera shifts over to Hugh, who is looking for her. All done in one long take, the camera follows Hugh with some over-the-shoulder shots as he pursuits what seems to be Olivia in the distance. In the frame itself, Hugh is always on the intersected points of a rule of thirds grid. The leftover spacing allows some ghostly details to be shown on scene, and also shows what Hugh is seeing through his line of sight. 

The use of a continuous take and over-the-shoulder shot further enhances the horror and suspense as we follow Hugh in his journey in the house. The sharp corners of the house with the camera following creates suspense and dramatic tension as we peek down the dark hallway. 

Each family member is suffering differently and focuses on how they cope and deal with it.  Throughout the episodes, the story constantly slips between the past and present. Even though we are going back to an event that happened in the past (and provides more exposition), the story’s pace is not hindered and further enhances the family’s story. The intricate editing allows the scenes to fade and transition effortlessly and smoothly into each other. 

In this present scene, the father, Hugh, enters the funeral parlour and sees his children as they were in Hill House years ago. The camera slowly pans around the room and Hugh as he thinks about the events of what brought them together. By the time the camera makes a full 360° turn, the children are adults again. As mentioned by Ruth Franklin in a review of the episode, “parents often tend to picture adult children as younger than they really are” (2018.) This particular panning and the change of his children is used because of his estrangement from his children since the horrific events that happened in Hill House. He still views his adult children as the scared young versions of themselves years ago and his need to protect them.  He may also have looked at them with nostalgia as this ‘reunion’ was one of the first time they were all together since the incident. 

The rest of the episode revolves around the funeral and how each sibling is coping with it. Their common anger and distrust towards their estranged father is also shown when they argue in the funeral room. 

One of the main differences in distinguishing between the past and present is the use of colour. The flashback scenes have warm hues with bright colours and various textures. Take the scene back in at Hill House when they were children. The Crain family is well lit and wears various bright clothing with many textures that makes them more distinct. Colour paletteThe brown and almost woody textured background makes the characters appear more close and upfront to the screen. They do not blend into the background, and are brought forth to show their close relationship. 

In contrast, the colours in present time with the grown-up children appear more chilling and washed out. The flat and almost lacklustre colour of the scene creates a sense of sadness and sorrow. Everyone in the shot is wearing drab and muted colours, seemingly blending into the background. The colour palette is much more sombre and dreary, as if all life is drained from it. The use of blue, green and yellow hues elicits a sense of melancholy and dissociation in the room. The low contrast of the shot also adds to the emotional depth. It shows isolation from each character, who each have their own demons to face. 

While the colour key is useful in differentiating the past and present side of the story, it is also used as a plot device and symbolism of the house’s more sinister nature. 

In conclusion, I really enjoyed the TV series and its excellent use of camera work. After the lecture, it made it much more interesting to analyse modern shows/films and how they use these techniques to effectively tell a good story. I learnt that every camera movement and set-up is deliberate and carefully considered. Every little movement gives more insight on the story and characters, and overall adds more upon the atmosphere and plot. I highly recommend watching the series!

Reference:

http://www.vulture.com/2018/10/the-haunting-of-hill-house-recap-season-1-episode-6.html (R. Franklin, 2018.)

https://culturedvultures.com/the-haunting-of-hill-houses-funeral-episode-is-phenomenal/

https://www.vox.com/2018/10/26/18023200/haunting-of-hill-house-color-use 

I thought that perhaps I would choose this clip as one of my chosen scenes for the comparison essay. The other scene that also used a tracking shot was the opening credits of The Shape of Water. 

These were some of the notes I made on the sequence and comparison notes.

One continuous tracking shot underwater

Tour around Sally’s home

Almost fairytale-like

Colour palette: very blue, cyan and greenish hues

Good lighting from above; enhances magical/fantastical nature and water themes

Camera movement is fluid and always moving; again enhances underwater theme

Character introduction of Sally sleeping - foreshadows ending events

Crafted with 8 puppeteers; objects suspended with string

Smoke and vapour effects were used to enhance the watery nature: CGI touchups.

Dry for wet technique -> no water was used but effects were used to make it seem like it