#doing a sort of art boot camp with those animal studies

[yasmeensh]

Bear posting. This cub is growing at astronomical speeds. It’s bigger than all the other cubs that appeared at Brooks Falls. It’s been coming with its’ mom daily in the past few days, and the camera operators are zooming in a lot on it, so I made a few sketches :)

[darakshafatimasstuff]

Hazrat Horr (as) the most lucky martyr of Karbala 💔A story that does not let us despair of God's mercy 💯💯

Horr was the name of one of the high-ranking commanders of the army of Omar-e-Sad who faced the grandson of the Prophet of Islam.

Hussain-ebn-Ali, with orders from Yazeed-ebn-Muawiah to either get Hussain's allegiance for his corrupt Khalifat, or kill Hussain and all his friends. It was Horr and his army who first faced Imam Hussein, and then kept them under siege, preventing them from getting water.

On the day of Ashoura, Horr made a huge decision.

Right before the battle started, he left his position and the army he was commanding, and joined Imam Hussein, and was the first to be killed in the way of Allah, by the army he used to be a commander of just a few hours earlier. The name Horr means free, freeborn, noble, freeman.

The fate, sometimes, plays a game. The factory of creation, constantly producing uncountable things, stones, trees, rivers, animals, insects,human beings, sometimes shows a scene of humor, creates an innovation or an exception: it writes a poem, paints a work of art, does something unique...

In one word, it can be said that these items have a character. From among the houses, Kabeh, from all the walls, the China Wall, from the planets orbiting the sun, earth, and....from all the martyrs: Horr.

The artistic hands of destination have composed this scene with utmost precision, and as if to emphasize the importance of the story, have selected all the characters of the play from the absolutes, to make the story most effective.

The story is about a choice, the most important manifestation of the meaning of human being. But what kind of choice? We are all faced with several choices in our everyday life: career, friend, wife, house,major..

But in this story, the choice is much more difficult: the good and the evil. And even so, not from a philosophical, scientific, or theological perspective.

Instead, the choice here is between the truthful and the deceiving religion, between the just and unjust politics, with life being the price to pay.

To further emphasize the sensitivity of the situation, the author has not put the hero of this story in the middle, equally between the right and the evil. Instead, the hero is the head of the army of the evil. On the other hand, the director of this play has to find symbols for his story to make them most effective.

Should he have Promete on one side and some demons on the other side? But this makes the story too mythical...Spartacos and Crasios? no...this makes the story nationalistic and gives it a class dependent nature.

How about Ebrahim and Namrood? Moses and Feroh? Jesus and Judas? no... again, for most of the people these are metaphysical and heavenly characters different from common ordinary people.

Having them as heros reduces the effect of the story, and causes people to admire them, but never think about following their examples in their everyday life. However, the main purpose of this story is to teach, to show the ability of the man to change, to show how it is possible for a common and even sinful man to reject all his social, family, and class ties and show a god-like change.

The history of Islam is full of contradicting features. The two lines starting from Habil and Ghabil, existing throughout the history side by side though in different faces, have also continued in Islam. Now, both these streams are dressed in Islam, but in opposite directions. Ironically, our hero is faced to choose between the most extreme end sin each of these parties:

Yazid, and Hossein.

Indeed, had this story been created by an author, he should have been recognized for his genuine and art...

What is the name of this hero? For a historic figure, what is important is the role he plays, and not his name, since his name is something chosen for him by his family, according to his parent's taste..On the other hand, if the story is created by an ingenious writer,he would choose a name which is relevant to the role of his hero.

In this story however, our hero has been named by his mother, Horr,as if she has been able to foresee the sensitive role his son is going to play. And thus, when the Imam of freedom attends his bloody body, just before his death, tells him: O Horr! God bless you! You are free both in this world and in the world to come, just like what your mother called you!

Although Horr has played a unique role in the history, the essence of his role is not just confined to himself. The meaning of his action, in fact, includes all human-beings, and indeed defines humanity.

It is what distinguishes the human-beings from other creatures, underlining the responsibility of man with respect to God, people, and himself. And Horr has not played this with words and concepts, but with love and blood. If one grasps the depth of this saying from Imam Sadegh(AS) that All days are Ashoura, and all places are Karbala, and all months are Moharam one readily feels the extension: and all human-beings are Horr!

Our history, starting from Habil and Ghabil, is the manifestation of the eternal conflict between the two poles of God and Satan, though in each period of time these two poles have disguised differently. Therefore, in each period of time, every human-being finds himself just in the same position as Horr did: alone, in the middle, hesitating, between the same two armies.

On the one side, the commander of the army of evil shouts on his soldiers: O Army of God! attack! and on the other side, an Imam, with a voice echoing throughout the history asks -and not commands- Is there anybody who wishes to assist me? and you, the man, should choose.

It is by this choice that you become human. Before this choice you are nothing, you are just an existence without essence, you are standing in the middle.

Thus, the man who has found existence through birth, finds essence through choice. It is by this choice,that the creation of man completes, and this is exactly when the man feels this heavy burden on his shoulders and finds himself alone,as God and the nature have left him on his own on this dangerous decision.

Now we can evaluate our hero, we can feel what a long journey he has gone through in what a short time, to change him from a Yazidian Horr, to a Husseinian Horr. If he stays with the army of Yazid, his world is guaranteed, and if he joins the small army of Hussain, his death is eminent.

It is the morning of the day of Ashoura, and although the battle has not yet started in the fields, Horr realizes that the opportunity would not last. Time goes by fast, and the moments count. The storm has already started within him.

From the beginning, Horr was hoping that the events would not lead to war, but now war seems to be unavoidable. Human-beings have limited capability in tolerating shame and scorn, except for those who are genius in this respect and can tolerate disgrace unlimitedly.

Horr never had thought that being an employee of the government of Yazid would mean collaborating in Yazid's criminal acts. For him his job was just a source of income without having anything to do with politics or his religion.

Horr now realizes that adding his position with his religion is impossible. Thus, hopelessly and as a last resort he talks with the commander of the Army (Omar-ebn-Sa'd) who like himself is reluctant to get in a war and has accepted the mission to become the governor of the province of Ray and Gorgan. What would then be better than coming up with some sort of a solution without getting involved in the blood of the grandson of the Prophet and his family.

Horr and Omar-ebn-Sa'd both have come all the way from the palace of Yazid to Karbala together and they share the same status and social class. Horr asks Omar:

Can't you find a peaceful solution for this situation?

You know that if it had been up to me I would have done as what you propose, but your master Obeid-Allah-Ziyad did notaccept a peaceful resolution!

So are you going to fight with this man (Hussein)?

Yes, by God, I will fight a battle the least consequence of which will be separated heads and broken arms!

Now, it is evident that no longer can he play games with his religion. Now, the two separate their paths.

For Horr, Yazid's army of tens of thousand is now nothing more than a bunch of faces, without meaning. A crowd of men without selves, a group of people without hearts, those who shout but don't know why, fight but don't know for whom.

Now the Jesus of love and conscience cures a blind and resurrects a dead, creating a martyr from a murderer. In a journey it is not enough to ask for the destination, but one should also ask from the origin.

Thus, the length of Horr's journey becomes evident when one realizes from where he started, and to where he ended, all in half-a day's time. In his emigration from Satan to Allah , Horr did not study philosophy or theology, nor did he attend any lectures or schools.

He just changed his direction, and it is in fact this direction which gives meaning to everything: art, science, literature, religion, prayers, hajj, Mohammad, Ali...

Having started his journey, and riding his horse, he slowly leaves his Army toward Hussain. Muhajer-ebn-Ous, who sees him agitated and worried asks:

What's wrong with you Horr? I am puzzled by your case, by God if I were asked about the bravest man in our army I wouldn't hesitate to mention your name, and now you are so disturbed and worried?

I find myself between the Hell and the Heaven, and I have to select between them, and by God I will not choose but Heaven, even if I were cut to pieces or burnt to ashes!

The creation of Horr was completed and the fire of doubt has led him to the verity of certitude. He slowly approaches the camp of Hussain, and as he gets closer he hangs his boots from his neck, and keeps his armor down (as a sign of remorse)

I am the one who closed your path O Hussein. He didn't accept Hussein's invitation to rest for a while..

Is there a repentance for me? He can't wait any longer, he returns to the front and attacks the army of Omar with the most severe and bitter words, letting his ex-army and ex-commander know that he is no longer a slave, he is free, he is Horr.

Omar-ebn-Sa'd, his ex-commander, responds by throwing an arrow and yelling

Be witness and let Amir-ol-momenin know that I was the one to throw the first arrow at the army of Hussain!

And this was how the battle of Karbala started.........

انا للہ وانا الیہ علیہ رَاجعُون 💔

Reference:

Maqtal vol. 02 page 301

[ladyinthebluebox]

🍵 and 🎨 for each of your OC. ^^

🍵 Are there any rumours about your OC hanging around? Nasty ones or just good-humoured? Got any gossip to share about them?

There are quite a few rumours flying around Heleus Cluster concerning mostly the company Sybil Ryder keeps while the Tempest docs in the Kadara Port. People are whispering about her relationship with the certain smuggler, his shady associations as well as how much influence he has over the young human pathfinder. Not all rumours about her are like this, however. Around the Nexus you can hear the stories about her roasting members of the Nexus’ leadership.

When it comes to Scorpius Ryder, for quite a while not much was known to the wider population of Andromeda about him, except for the fact he’s kept in the Hyperion’s medical bay. Later, when he was finally awake from his coma, people began to talk about how there are crates of tech delivered to his private room in the hospital wing and what the pathfinder and her twin might be up to, When the Initiative’s personnel has finally been allowed to set an embassy on Aya, the rumours started spreading around the angara about there supposedly being not one Ryder, but TWO of them. 

There are many, and I mean MANY rumours flying around the famous or infamous Commander Shepard, especially that so many of the missions she was a part of both as an N7 operative as well as the first human Spectre, are surrounded with layers, upon layers of red tape. Some rumours are good, some are bad, and others, like the ones concerning what exactly took place on Torfan, are just disturbing. Very popular one suggests that Andromeda faked her death, though the reasons for it are unclear, ranging from infiltrating Cerberus to being a part of some sort of dodgy Council businesses. Meanwhile, some people believe it was the Council itself who planned the attack on the Normandy to get rid of the human Spectre and her ship. Then ofc, once it becomes clear that somehow, she was back, there are all sorts of rumours about the ragtag group making up her new crew and their association with Cerberus. Then, for a while, there were rumours spreading around the Citadel about Commander being seen in various parts of the station in the company of her turian crewmember.

There are quite a few rumours travelling around Thedas about the dalish elf, who became the Herald of Andraste and later took over as the Inquisitor. Most of them, however, are surprisingly positive. Smallfolk are often talking about Lady Lavellan being unusually kind, spending much time in places like the refugee camps and infirmaries. There’s one story about how she supposedly gave away a pair of her own boots to a girl who was close to getting frostbite during one of the long, cold fereldan nights, her family spent in Hinterlands’ refugee camp. Ofc there are some nobles gossiping bout her relationship with a reclusive elven scholar from her inner circle as well that together they are trying to push some sort of elf agenda but those are a minority. Later on, some whispers can be heard here and there about Deirdre’s strange connection to dragons, of how supposedly she was able to call one during the last stand in the Temple of Sacred Ashes but barely anyone believes it.

There aren’t many rumours about Falon Lavellan. One would be that supposedly the Inquisitor has a sibling somewhere, but he’s never mentioned anywhere in it. The other, spreading out between his clanmates concerns the reason why, at the age of 33, Falon still hasn’t invited a woman to his aravel and started a family. As clan Thelen isn’t upholding the traditions related to the Emerald Knights, the big wolf following him everywhere is also met with some suspicion.

Nobles living in High Town can’t stop talking about Keres ever since she and her mother moved into the old Amell’s residence. The rumours are wild, talking about how it’s not possible that her mother is actually who she claims to be. There’s also a matter of a rather suspicious company coming and going to the manor and how the strange, tall young woman is actually a mage. 

Most rumours about Renan Mahariel concern either her influence over what happened during the Landsmeet and the coronation of king Alistair that followed it. Other is related to her relationship with the assassin from the guild of the Antivan Crows and how they have been working as mercenaries in Antiva for a while. Later on there are many rumours about people who saw the Warden and her companion in the western parts of Thedas, while some other rumours suggest that she’s sucumbed to the taint.

🎨 Is your OC artistic? Can they draw or paint or do they prefer another medium? Are they a writer or musician or do they do something else? Give us a quick rundown of what they can get creative with!

Sybil isn’t artistic or any sort of creative kind of gal. She’s always been more into sports and other physical activities. I guess that the only exception for the rule fitting under this question, could be when, back in the primary school she used to be a part of a drama club. One thing she’s got left from this experience is a secret soft spot for theatre, mostly watching plays though. 

While his sister joined the drama club, Scorpius, began learning to play the piano. After two or so years, however, he’s exchanged it for violin, which he plays still. He doesn’t write music, never have been, but he can transcribe melodies to notes. Scorp is most creative in the field of computer science. He’s writing programs, scripts and constantly coming up with new upgrades for his beloved drone.

Andromeda is probably the most talented of all my OCs. In fact, her mother wanted her to go to an art school to study art history and further develop her painting and drawing skills. Andy, however, chose the Alliance instead. It’s not a very well known fact, but during long, sleepless nights, Commander often takes out her sketchbook and draws everything from the environments of the recently visited planets, faces of her crewmates to the snippets of her twisted dreams. While working on the Lazarus Project Miranda (ofc) got wind of this, and allowed herself to leave a leatherbound sketchbook with a bunch of pencils in the Commander’s private quarters right before Andromeda took command over the new Normandy. After the Reaper War was finally over, Andromeda went back to painting and for quite a while she was trying to get rid of the atrocities of the war stuck in her system by creating paintings similar to some of the surrealist works of Zdzislaw Beksinski [1] [2] [3].

As a lore keeper and earlier, a disciple of Sylaise, Deirdre was taught at least the basics of various arts and crafts practised by the dalish elves. She’s no master of any of them, though. For instance, she’s decent at singing but she’s especially worthless at embroidery. However, at some point during her travels between clans living in Free Marches, Antiva and Rivain, Derry began writing some notes, which developed into full-on journaling during the time of the Inquisition. Her journals are made of notes, dried flowers, picked up in the places they visited as well as for doodles of some things of interest.

In his spare time between hunts and learning young hunters the ways of Vir Tanadhal, Falon can be found sitting by the fire with his wolf companion lying at his feet, either carving little figurines out of wood, bones or antlers. Over the years he’s become quite skilled especially at carving out animals and many of clan Thelhen‘s kids are playing with the figurines made by him. Sometimes he’s also making necklaces and bracelets either using craved out pendants or animal teeth.

Keres has never been especially creative, except for finding out new ways to get into trouble. However, when got bach from the Deep Roads with buckets full of treasure, she discovered a taste for fashion and finery and she began bothering seamstresses around Kirkwall with her ideas for new garments. None of her ideas has ever been in line with the current fashion trends coming to Kirkwall from Orlais and other places, but Keres never cared much about it and continued to order new doublets for her, and later on for Fenris as well.

Before she became THE Warden, Renan used to be an apprentice to the clan’s Sabrae Mastercraftsman. As such, she’s learned the art of carving out wood and working with metals as well as decorating weapons and armours with traditional ornaments. She’s never mastered the art, but when she went into Vigil’s Keep forge, she‘s made a lot of weapons decorated with intricate hilts and handles and when she was about to leave, to join Zevran in Antiva, she made a pair of beautiful, decorated daggers especially for him.

Ask me maybe?

[imwithmars]

Flaunt Magazine 2004 interview

David Fincher – “It goes kind of like, ‘How   can you tell when Jared is lying? His lips are moving.’”

Rock & Roles –

Flaunt Magazine, by Shari Roman

December 2004

“This is fantastic,” murmurs Jared Leto as the relentless Moroccan   sun sears destiny into his bronzed, bare skin. He is sweating under his tight  armor. His dark horse, Mateo, quivers beneath him and paws the ground nervously. A signal is given.

Leto howls a great animalistic yowl straight from his belly to the ears of   the gods. There is another howl, then another. Thousands of voices fuse into   one animal cry. A legion of alpha males surges forward to meet the enemy, Leto,   blond hair hair streaming past his shoulders, muscular thighs gripped bareback   on his galloping horse, rides hard into the thick of a bloody combat. His sword   cuts through all who oppose him.

This is the filming of Oliver Stone’s Alexander and the legendary battle of   Gaugamela, Alexander’s greatest victory over the Persians - a turning point   in his conquest of the known world. Stone’s sweeping historical saga charts   the life and the legend of one of the greatest figures in world history. The   story is an epic that is a daring and ambitious as its subject, a relentless   conqueror who, by the age of 32, had amassed the greatest empire the world hade   ever seen.

Through the clouds of dust, Leto can see Colin Farrell as Alexander the Great,   his massive blade slicing into flesh and sinew. There is the director, Oliver   Stone, shouting, moving rapidly behind the camera line. There are hordes of   men bellowing, bleeding, bodies everywhere. On the fringes lurks famed military   trainer and Stone cohort, Captain Dale Dye. Today, the Captain isn’t wearing   his favorite T-shirt emblazoned with the motto: “Pain is weakness leaving   the body,” but Leto needs no reminders.

Leto has always propelled himself into physical extremes to live inside a character.   As the champion runner Steve Prefontaine, he bled his feet to the bone. In the   drug-fueled Requiem For A Dream, he reportedly swore off sex (with then girlfriend,   Cameron Diaz) and lost 28 pounds to play a junky. Then there was Fight Club   (he’d been recommended for the part his friend, fellow pretty boy, Brad Pitt.),   in which he begged to have his angelic face beaten to a pulp by a jealous Ed   Norton to prove his fealty. Suffering, pain, causality, creation through transformation.   Leto has pledged himself above and beyond to those epithets years ago.

“Killing people face to face for a living, that was their job,” explains   a laidback Leto a few months later from a low-key restaurant in Southern California.   It’s early afternoon. His clothing is relaxed and he looks pleasantly tired.

“It’s not jet lag. I’m over that. I just couldn’t sleep.” It’s not   due to time spent with his (purported) new, luscious It-girl Scarlett Johansson.   He’s been concentrating on working on some new songs for his band, 30 Seconds   To Mars, taking meetings between rehearsals before he heads off to New York   and South Africa for three months to play another aggressor of sorts - an arms   dealer - in the film Lord of War, with Nicolas Cage and director Andrew Niccol   (Gattaca).

He is still pretty tan, making those pioneering blue eyes even more startling.   His long, blonde warrior-god locks are gone now, dyed and clipped into a light   brown Erik Estrada-style shag for the new movie. But there is still a trace   of the Irish lilt he took on for Alexander. (Aside from gearing it toward Farrell’s   natural tones, Stone’s rationale for the accent was that historically, the Macedonians   were to the Greeks what the Irish have been to the English.) Most of the 15   pounds of muscle weight that he strapped on for the six-month shoot has slipped   from his slim frame. Even so, the intensity of that experience is still on his   mind and in his body.

“The film has plenty of f***ing and fighting and killing and death and   blood. My job was to murder people and stand by Alexander.” who, according   to history, was his best friend since childhood, and his lover.

“Hephaestion, the character I play, and [Alexander] have a really special   connection. It’s a strong, strong relationship. I don’t think there is a term   we have today to define their relationship,” he says, deliberately muddling   around the oft-asked erotic question.

Farrell says, “There was no term for 'bisexuality’. It was just the way   society was. People made love to men and women. It was only later on you had   to pick one side of the fence.”

“But I promise you, in the film,” Leto teases, despite the magnetic   charms of Farrell, and costars Rosario Dawson and Angelina Jolie, who play Alexander’s   wife and mother, “the only kiss I gave out was to my horse. My one true   love.”

He takes the tape recorder and places it gently against his chest, which holds   within it the soul of a man who many have tried to reveal before. “I always   tell the truth. What else do you want to know? What do people really want to   know? What is the truth?” His face is a pure cheeky choir boy dare. “When   have I ever not told you the truth? How can you tell that I’m lying?”

I remind him that the last time we met, he told me he owned three Uzis, that   the first girl he kissed was a 47-year-old tranny named Jorge, that he was 19,   raised by circus performers, and that he studied art at the American University   of Paris for a semester, but was booted out when he wouldn’t give in to the   attentions of the headmaster. And he wouldn’t back down to any of those “facts”.

He laughs. “Really? As Ronald Regan used to say, 'I have no memory of   saying such things.’ ”

Says producer/director David Fincher, who worked with Leto on both Fight Club  and Panic Room, “When it comes to his acting, he is beyond method. He gets  into this whole image of his character. It is interesting how that kind of pain and sacrifice can translate. I mean, look at Requiem. I wish I had 100 Jareds   working for me. He was amazing.

"Jared definitely strives not to be a victim of his genetics. On the films   we did together, he was the guy who is constantly curious, the one you couldn’t bottle up. The one who wouldn’t hit his mark. He was like, 'Hey, I’m living it! Over here!’ But he does like to tell stories. It goes kind of like, 'How can you tell when Jared is lying? His lips are moving.’ ”

Leto, who prefers to see his playful fibbing as a way to keep his private life   private, was born the day after Christmas, 33 years ago, in Bossier City, Louisiana. His mother was an artistic soul, and with his father out of the picture, he and his brother, Shannon (who is also in 30 Seconds To Mars), traveled a great deal while they were growing up. After a stint at New York’s School of Visual Arts, he says, he came to Los Angeles around 12 years ago with a couple hundred bucks in his pocket, no friends, and nowhere to stay. For awhile, he slept on Venice Beach. Then kaboom! a role on television’s My So-Called Life (opposite Claire Daines) and for the next few years, he reigned as a teen pinup - a tag   and a look he has been successfully living down ever since.

According to Leto, “Luck is the residue of destiny.” It’s a phrase   he’s heard which he likes very much. He feels it means that we can get caught up in so many things, but the world has what it has for us. That, in our natural state, everything is the way it’s supposed to be - free and joyous - and that our own insecurities get in the way of all that. It’s an idea which could be   applied to his early life.

“When I was young, all that traveling was exciting,” says Leto. “You   do develop an ability to read people more quickly. You have to learn to adapt to whatever comes along, to survive. Maybe the way I grew up is why I’m drawn to acting, to different characters. From film to film, I’m constantly finding myself, reaching different places outside and inside myself. I want to change, to morph into something else.” To be able to do that for Oliver Stone is a gift, says Leto. “He is one of my f***ing heroes. He is a great man. Present, connected, very physical. I find his way very endearing.”

To work with Stone, he traveled to Morocco, where the oncoming sunset had turned the world orange, into the color of dark rust. But the sky was growing dark, the golden scorpions were scuttling under the rocks, another sandstorm was moving toward the camp, fast.

Within moments, Leto, wearing his usual training gear - a T-shirt, tight shorts,   boots covering his calves - couldn’t see two feet ahead of him. The sand whipped raw against his skin as he made for his tent. Inside, he tightened the flap and listened to the wind howl. He had switched off his cell phone, his e-mail. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in the U.S. for months. Apocalyptic fantasies crowded his brain. Many in the cast had already been horribly sick. There was a virus in the dust. His tent was next door to the latrine and he could hear cast and crew heave by the dozens.

One night, Leto got so sick, he thought he was going to toss a spleen.“I lay in bed for a couple of hours staring at the stars, just breathing really   slow, willing it away. I fell asleep dreaming strange, surreal dreams. When   I woke up, it was gone. That’s the desert.”

Says Dawson, “It was beyond primal, all those men bonding - horse training,   fighting, all buffed up wearing nearly nothing. And as soon as a woman came   on set, the energy was so damn erotic.

"One time Jared came to visit the hotel [where women stayed]. He was so   happy to be there. He got to take a shower, have some proper food.So he’s talking, sitting there, and just sort of adjusting the package, not sexually, but in   this slow, languorous way, like there was no one else around.It was all suited   to his character, but I was like, 'Hey dude…’

"And he was like, 'I’m sorry! We’re out there in our underwear and boots   all the time… maybe it’s got us a little too relaxed.’ Maybe. But it was all   good.” She bats her eyes.“It was wonderful being around that kind of really masculine environment.”

“Oh, Rosario,” responds Leto, “she is so beautiful. Such a great   woman.” He drops his head, smiling, not exactly asking for forgiveness.“Working on Alexander was an amazing experience. It’s all about connectivity. There is an old saying that the greatest leader is the servant of them all. Meaning, you are the most powerful when you are giving.”

“I think that as an artist, in any kind of expression of creation, that   you must have to be in love with the process. It is the most exciting part of the work, and that if you have a desire for greatness, you will have to be willing to f***ing bleed. I think it’s true for me.That’s what drives me.”

He claps his hands over his face. “F***. People are going to read this   and think, 'What the f***? Is weirdo Leto on crack? Hitting the old acid tab again.’ But honestly, it’s what I believe. One of my favorite things about getting older is that my intuition is often wrong.To me, it means I’m uncovering something   new about the world.

[roomba-your-ass]

Revelations Chapter 4

Fandom: Stormlight Archives

Pairing: Kaladin/Adolin

Spoilers: For WoK and WoR

Also on AO3 http://archiveofourown.org/works/13169070/chapters/30119982

Links to Chapter 1, Chapter 2,  Chapter 3

Chapter 4

The empty stone wall didn’t budge under Adolin’s dark gaze but that didn’t stop him from continuing to stare it down. He was in a bad mood.

Usually, he would go out and distract himself. Spend time with the lighteyed lady he was courting at the moment. Invite her to lunch or dinner, if he had the time. Look at jewellery or clothes in the various stalls and shops throughout the busy camp. Visit the practice grounds and train with his blade until his hair was dark with sweat and his muscles told him to rest and whatever had soured his mood forgotten through the exertion.

Storm whoever it was for attacking him. Storm the bridgeboy for coming up with a plan that kept him safe but also a prisoner of his own quarters.

Thinking about the bridgeboy didn’t improve his mood by any means. In a way, Kaladin was the reason for Adolin’s bad mood.

Adolin left the wall alone and his displeased gaze fell upon the, by now replaced and very much poison-free goblet.

Rubbing his temples and making a conscious effort to stop frowning, Adolin exhaled slowly. At this rate, there was a headache looming in his near future.

8 hours previously

After his father left Adolin went over to his bed, tired and exhausted by the day’s events. Stripping down to his underclothes, he folded his uniform and placed it neatly on top of the dresser, his boots on the floor next to it.

The first thing he saw when he pushed back the covers was a long, dark hair, contrasting with the pale cream colours of the bedlinen. He picked it up with a scowl and let it fall to the floor.

He remembered the bridgeboy groping the sheets and crawling around on the mattress like some kind of axehound trying to find a trail. He should’ve found it hilarious. If only it didn’t make him feel like he missed a step and stumbled. Been thrown off-balance.

Dismissing the thought, he placed a thick piece of cloth over his bedside lamp, a clear goblet filled with spheres, and slipped under the sheets. They rustled softly as Adolin turned, trying to find a comfortable position. He burrowed deeper under the covers, curling up slightly, more for the comfort than because of the slight chill in the night air.

The clean smell of a freshly made bed registered, but it was mixed with something else. A subtler yet more pronounced smell. Richer and darker than the gentleness of fresh sheets, but no less pleasant. More tangy and salty.

Blood rushed to his face. Cheeks burning, Adolin cursed under his breath and shoved the sheet away from his face with a jerky motion.

It didn’t help much and Adolin felt mortified at somehow still being able to smell it. Clinging to his senses like some sort of haunting phantom-smell.

Turning onto his back, Adolin stared up at the dark ceiling, willing his hear to slow its beat.

Storming bridgeboy!

Breathing in and out through his mouth and resolutely ignoring the urge to further investigate the smell, Adolin fell asleep.

1 hour previously

No light filtered into his room, as it had no windows. Just like the majority of the soulcast barracks and buildings. Sometimes the soulcaster would add windows later. It was harder for people to sneak in that way, but if you asked Adolin it was storming annoying was what it was.

As it was, Adolin didn’t think about soulcast buildings or the time of day at the moment. His mind was still foggy, thoughts flowing slow like a trickle of water making its slow way across a surface.

Comfortable warmth surrounded his body and his muscles were relaxed.

His breath quickened in anticipation as he let his hand slowly travel down his body.

It had been a while since he had let himself linger in bed for some drawn-out pleasure in the morning. Usually, he would either ignore his hardness or work it quick and efficiently, more like running a drill than pleasuring himself.

Today he had no morning duties to attend to. Since he was supposed to be ill from poison and all that.

Fingertips ran over the well-trained muscles of his torso, stroking up and down. Exploring his chest, teasing for a bit before he grew impatient. He let a finger dip inside his belly button, relishing the ticklish sensitivity of the skin there, before finally allowing his hand to reach inside his undergarments.

At the first touch, Adolin inhaled sharply through his mouth, eyes closing in delight at the sensation that coursed through his body. Grip loose and caressing, slightly squeezing as he neared the tip. He worked himself slow and languidly, not wanting to rush his release. He let his thumb rub over the slit, smearing his slowly gathering wetness over the head. A shudder ran through his body as he squeezed more firmly, still keeping up his steady and slow pace. The motion of his hand encountered less resistance now, the evidence of his rising pleasure spread over the length of it.

As he grew closer to completion he bit his lip, wanting to keep any sounds to himself. He turned his face, burying it into the pillow as he squeezed just right and breathed in sharply through his nose. And promptly let go of his member, as if burned, as a distinctively tangy and salty smell filtered through his lust induced daze.

Between heavy breathes, Adolin let out a few colourful curses.

There was no way his bedding still held the bridgeboy’s scent.

Face burning, he groaned in frustration as his member gave an insistent throb. Just a bit more. He contemplated shortly if he should just continue. His thoughts stubbornly kept on returning to the captain of the guard. Predictably following the principle of thinking about something the more you didn’t want to think about it.

The warmth suddenly seemed stifling and Adolin pulled the covers back, pushing them to the foot of the bed as if they had personally offended him. His soft and lazy mood had evaporated like water left over a fire for too long.

He got out of bed, feet hitting the soft carpet covering the stone floor. The undergarments were restraining his hardness uncomfortably, reminding him with an almost painful throb that it was still there. He grimaced.

He would have been happier if it had started to flag as soon as his thoughts had turned to the bridgeboy.

now

After having paced for a good twenty minutes, Adolin decided that Kaladin had ruined his mood long enough. That the man in question had no idea about it nor was at fault didn’t matter. Being angry at the bridgeboy felt better than cursing his brain for recalling the phantom-smell or questioning why it had brought forth the smell in the first place.

Forcing himself to relax, Adolin grabbed his fashion magazine and sat down in a chair. It wasn’t a new magazine or one he hadn’t looked at before but, being confined to his quarters, he had little else to do.

The drawings inside the magazine were coloured and showed detailed sketches of various shirts, trousers, jackets and even shoes. They were not necessarily drawn by masters of their craft but that didn’t mean they were bad. A lot of artists felt that drawing fashion wasn’t their calling, instead turning to make studies of plants and animals or travelling to different countries to capture the contrast to their own culture and landscape.

While Adolin had little knowledge about art, he could still tell that the drawings in the magazine were very well done. The articles of clothing depicted had a feeling of substance to it and it was easy to tell whether the fabric was heavy or thin. The people wearing the clothes were often drawn without faces but Adolin preferred it that way. He would feel a bit odd scrutinising pictures of people he didn’t know, especially in public.

The coloured pages of the magazine were filled with faceless people wearing mostly frilly clothing in all sorts of fabrics and colours. The page he currently looked at showed a light blue shirt that looked playful with the ruffles at the collar and the wrists, but also showed off the form of the body underneath. The shirt was a bit tight but not as much as to stretch.

It would surely be another one or two years at the least before the war ended and Adolin could lay his uniform aside and freely decide what he wanted to wear. It wasn’t that he disliked the uniform and it suited him rather well, or so he had been told on multiple occasions. But wearing the same outfit every day for so long was frustrating and annoying, especially since wearing the latest fashion was considered good form even in the Shattered Plains. But also, when going out to dinner or shopping with whomever he was courting at the moment. Most ladies complimented his looks in the uniform, but half of them later complained about him never wearing anything casual.

The pants in the drawing were a bit tighter than the military standard ones he was currently wearing and looked like they were made from thinner material, with the way they followed the outlines of the legs so closely. He was sure the ladies would appreciate it, if he wore one of those, especially with one of those shortened coats over it.

A knock on the door forced Adolin away from his appraisal of the clothes. The door opened after Adolin gave permission to enter and he could see a tray with food and something to drink before the person carrying the tray became visible.

His appetite all but evaporated and his stomach lurched. Retreating behind the cover of his magazine, Adolin hoped his face wasn’t as hot as it felt.

There was no reason to feel embarrassed, he told himself. But it did very little to let him forget about this morning. That was precisely the reason he didn’t think about anyone specific when pleasuring himself. Not that he had thought about the bridgeboy.  Not really. That had been an unfortunate accident. The most unfortunate and tragic accident of his life but he would not let it make him feel miserable or awkward. He refused. Even if that decision didn’t necessarily make him feel better. But being a soldier, he had faced far more embarrassing situations. Namely when he was wearing Shardplate on the battlefield and had to relief himself.

“Why are you here this early?” Kaladin looked about as thrilled about being here as Adolin felt. At least they could agree on something.

“Dalinar gave the order for me to guard you until the threat is found.” Adolin felt a fool. His father had told him the very same thing last night. It also seemed reasonable that the bridgeboy would get his food. The less people knew about the ploy, the less likely it was people found out that Adolin was in perfect health.

“It’s not like you can stand guard all day and night.”  As Kaladin set the tray with dishes on the table he glanced at the fashion magazine, then at Adolin and raised a brow. Adolin refused to react to the provocation.

“No, I can’t, but I can guard you twenty bells each day before I need some rest.”

Slightly perplexed, Adolin watched as Kaladin plucked a spoon from the tray and started eating a few spoonfuls of the two dishes that were placed in bowls as if that was a normal thing. One seemed to be the spicy porridge the kitchen prepared for Adolin most days. The other bowl held some pickled fruit.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Even if you have more stamina, you can’t tell me you can properly train with me or fight with that little rest.” He stared as long fingers plucked a piece of fresh bread and salted meat before putting it in his mouth and chewing slowly. “Are you now also my food taster or do you not get enough to eat, bridgeboy?”

Swallowing the breakfast, Kaladin looked up at him. “Since your last food taster is still recovering from food poisoning and I don’t know your new one, I thought it important to check again. And you’re right.” Adolin thought he had heard wrong. “It’ll be difficult to do my best with that little rest. I don’t know how well the Stormlight can compensate.” Kaladin frowned. Or rather, frowned even more than he did already. Kaladin seemed to ponder about the problem as he sniffed at the drink, Adolin guessed it was herbal tea by the smell, before taking a sip. He shoved the tray in Adolin’s direction, indicating that it was safe to eat.

As Adolin picked listlessly at his food with a second, clean spoon, and ate a bit of the porridge, he watched as the bridgeboy took a few steps towards the middle of the room before stopping and turning to stand guard at the door. He guessed the bridgeboy had wanted to search his rooms again before remembering that he had just done a thorough search last night. But Adolin could understand the sentiment. He would rather actively do something instead of standing around and waiting for something to happen as well. He understood the urge to act instead of standing still.

“You could always shorten your shift,” Adolin prompted, tired of waiting for Kaladin to come to the same conclusion. “Your men do a good job as guards.”  Kaladin’s face brightened slightly at those last words.

Honestly, his father might have told him to guard Adolin personally at all times, but the bridgeboy couldn’t be taking that literal, could he? Judging by Kaladin’s plan of guarding him all day except for four bells to rest, he seemed to be taking it quite literal.

“Alright, but I’m still going to taste all your meals. I don’t trust the new food taster and I don’t want to risk my men getting poisoned.” Adolin hummed in agreement as he emptied the cup of tea. That meant Kaladin would be his guard throughout most of the day still, perhaps with a small pause after dinner as to not draw attention when Adolin made his way to the chasm. If the disguise arrived. Perhaps, with it, they would be able to go into the chasms earlier tomorrow.

“Rumour has already spread that you have fallen ill and people are gossiping whether it’s a normal illness or something else.” Adolin was pleased to hear that. Trust the rumour mills to spread whatever they heard far and wide in a matter of hours. A doctor they trusted to stay silent had been send into his quarters before his father had left last night. It was almost worth admiring how fast some people spread rumours.

“That’s great. Let’s just hope that keeps anyone from attempting to maim me for a while.”

He dismissed Kaladin, gaze lingering on his retreating form in consideration. With those long legs, the current fashionably slightly tighter trousers with their thinner fabric would work splendidly for the bridgeboy.

Notes:

Well, if we're being honest Adolin's bed probably would not have any of Kaladin's smell, unless Adolin's mother was an axehound, but I couldn't resist writing this chapter. And since Adolin is still in denial about finding Kaldin attractive but I still couldn't resist writing something like this you'll just have to bear with me here. Direct any complaints you have towards Adolin, he'll collect those and burn me on a stake with all the letters of complaints bc he isn't so happy about the scenario I put him in.

Btw would you be interested in a chapter that has Kaladin's POV? I've already written a bit ahead bc I won't have as much time over the next few weeks, so the next two-three chapters are Adolin's POV. I had actually planned of changing POV throughout each chapter, like the beginning of ch 1 indicates but I kinda just stayed in Adolin's...

Hope you enjoyed the story so far! <3

Next week: the author is gonna make fun of some of her plotholes by pretending it's the characters fault. Please tell me if you encounter some bad grammar or other mistakes or give a shout if you would be interested in beta-reading the story!