#florent

[draconic-absurdism]

BEHOLD!!! The butch polycule

[scopophilic1997]

scopOphilic_documentary_110 - scopOphilic1997 presents a new micro-messaging series: small, subtle, and often unintentional messages we send and receive verbally and non-verbally.

Memories of places in the past (former gay-lgbtq+ bars/clubs/restaurant) (L-R, T-B): Florent (Gansevoort Street - Meat Packing District), Stonewall (original location/entrance - Christopher Street - West Village), The Monster (Grove Street - West Village), & The Roxy/10-18 (West 18th Street - Chelsea)

[houserosaire]

Prompt #5: Stamp

The ruin had been a church once, not so very long ago. Silvaineaux had just seen his thirtieth summer and he remembered when it had held pride of place in the small village, tall and intact and gleaming with bright-hued glass. It had not compared to Ishgard’s cathedral even then, of course, but it had been beautiful when he was a boy.

It was certainly not beautiful now. The gleaming tiles of the roof were scattered under the snow and the windows gaped like empty eye sockets in the broken remnants of the walls. He swung down from Joyeux almost reluctantly, the crunch of his boots meeting the snow loud in the emptiness that once had been a street. “Wait here, mon fidèle ami.”

Joyeux whistled a low response, quietly, as if the silence oppressed him too.

Silvaineaux reached up to scratch at his cheek. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He said, and left the reins draped over the pommel.

He crossed to what had been the door of the church in determined strides. No door hung in that empty and half broken frame, and the space within had been open to the sky for years. He could not see the flooring under the snow, nor the blood. Yet the dragon’s fire had left its mark on what remained of the walls. Its skull too remained,  empty of eyes and teeth alike.

Silvaineaux spared it one long look, but then turned away. He had not come here for the dragon. Nor only for the memories he had left in this place, though they crowded around him thick and fast until he could almost feel again the heat of the fire that had seared the altar and smell the reek of dragon and blood.  

He closed his eyes as though that might shut them out. The air was cold. He smelled neither blood nor scales even if the faint scent of charring lingered even now. Silvaineaux thought of the page in the book that had brought him here on this fool’s errand, imagining the old picture, counting the pillars, then he opened eyes and turned. He counted the pillars, found the stretch of wall he wanted. 

It still stood even if it was burned black. He tugged off his glove to run his bare fingers across it. It was cold enough to burn and his fingers  came away dark with soot, but he could feel the ridges of the carving he had expected beneath. It was the work of a few moments to tug out the paper he’d brought, to run the edge of a pencil over it until the marks beneath appeared on the sheet. The hawk with its rosary, beneath that the words. ‘In memory of Baron Aristide de Rosaire who gave his life in this place.’  

He had not noticed it on the day he almost lost his own life in this place. No one would notice it now, hidden as it was beneath the char on a ruined wall. Yet his forebear had left his stamp on this place, his blood in this land. 

Silvaineaux reached out again to set his own hand over the shape of the hawk on the wall and finally turned to look at the place nearer the door where the far fresher blood should have been. His breath left him in a sigh that was equal parts relief and grief. There was only snow, the blood hidden away beneath all the intervening years of it. The thing he had half feared was not there either. 

No youthful spirit lingered to rebuke him.

Rolling his paper he tucked it into his jacket and crossed to kneel in the snow there as he had knelt on that spot once before. The last time it had been to take something up. This time he had brought something to leave. He tugged a small metal plate from the pouch at his belt to tuck in against the stone of the wall. It had no family’s crest to ornament it, no embellishment, only a few carefully chosen words.

‘In memory of Florent Gagnon who gave his life in this place.’

[boogflake]

you're gonna tell me that FLORENT MOTHE was in mask singer and I stopped watching it this year.

[agarthanguide]

Agarthan this might be really silly but could you tell us more about Florent? I’d love to write about him for you after everything you’ve done for this fandom

First of all- that’s very sweet of you. This is why I left twitter and Reddit but resumed life on tumblr. Nothing is expected, but for the sake of the record, I’m gonna see what I can remember about our time together.

So Florent… hmm, let me think. He’s middle aged and has a workmanlike vibe. A little anal, but not neurotic. He wears a well broken-in workshop apron. Lots of canvas and linens. He’s never intentionally looked in a mirror, but he’s more craftsperson than artist. Keeps his hair short, workshop is well-organized, but not Neat. He’s also mostly non-verbal, but his quiet cursing, snorts of irritation, and side-eyes are almost a language. He’s a bit deaf from life in the workshop.

I don’t really know if he has immediate family- a spouse or something. He does have siblings. And friends. And always stands his round at the pub. He is extremely proud of the commissions he takes- not because of the prestige of the subjects, but because he is devoted to his Craft. His earlier commissions involved designing decorative panels in the city squares, installing patterned pieces into walls, that sort of thing.

I don’t know if he Got Out of Avalir. I’d like to think that he heard Loquatius Seelie’s announcement and command to leave, but frankly he’s a sort of staid individual, the type who assumes it will be okay because we shall All Get Through This Together. And I think he would be devastated to leave his workshop. He wouldn’t know what One Thing to grab on his way out. And he’d probably go door to door making sure the neighbors he doesn’t really talk to are all out, first.

[ak-illustrate]

In the chapter I am currently working on, Lori, Florent, and Lucian don't really show up at all, and I missed drawing them.

So here's some practice drawings!

[postcard-from-the-past]

Quay scene in Saint-Florent, Corsica, France

French vintage postcard

[michaelenthusiast]

michael sprites . perfect for shit post

[yaizaworld10]

Love words (Snapdragon x Popcorn)

Well Florent (Snapdragon) and Sam (Popcorn) sometimes say very corny phrases and nicknames

[charleythehouseplant]

@awerzo

i don't need to explain myself you all know what i'm talkin about

[thecollectibles]

Art by Florent Boston

[houserosaire]

Prompt #27: Memory

Forget-me-nots had always been his favorite flower. Not only because they were blue, subtle, and rather understated when compared with the rather overblown decadence of things like roses. Silvaineaux liked them because they said: ‘Remember me’ and ‘I will remember.’

He had thought once that he and Florent would go off to the fighting together. He’d painted himself a dozen secret airy fantasies where they would earn their spurs and Florent would be his right hand and they would become a legend together. Remembered not only for their many courageous deeds but for their steadfast and unbending loyalty to each other. 

He had imagined so very many things with all the bright optimism of youth and of fresh and youthful love. Daring adventures, narrow escapes, slain dragons. He had imagined all of those things and yet in all his imaginings they had escaped, triumphant and together. Yet Florent had never earned his spurs or a legend or a name anybody but a few would remember. Because he had proven that steadfast and unbending loyalty with his life.

Silvaineaux couldn’t bear it.

He thought surely he must wake and find it had all been a terrible dream. Yet time and again he woke, and his cheek hurt where the edge of the dragon’s wing had cut it and the center of his chest did something that was far worse than hurt because there was something horrible and hollow inside it where Florent had been. That hollow place inside him ate at him. He woke, he ate, he did all the things that he had to do. And he felt too little of any of it. 

It seemed to him that the only thing he really could feel was every place that Florent should have been and wasn’t. He could not openly grieve, for no one knew what they had been to each other and even if they had they would only have disapproved.

So he sat in that corner of the hayloft alone, wrapped in his heaviest cloak against the cold and remembering a summer afternoon. One of the last summer afternoons that he and Coerthas and Florent would ever see.

It had been his idea and he had accomplished it. But Florent was the one who suggested the hayloft. Silvaineaux tugged the bottle out of the breast of his jacket as he clambered into the back corner of the loft where Florent waited.

“You did it!” Florent whispered.

“Of course.” Silvaineaux said, hefting the bottle, half full of amber liquid. “Make some room.”

Florent obligingly scooted aside.

They were both too tall now to stand upright in that far corner and it was almost unpleasantly hot with the heat of the sun that had beaten down on roof slates and stone until they radiated with the summer outside. The air was full of the dusty scent of old straw and in the golden light that filtered through the small windows, motes of dust floated. Silvaineaux felt a bit sticky and warm with it even before he seated himself at Florent’s side, so close their shoulders brushed.

Florent held out a hand for the bottle and Silvaineaux nudged his side with an elbow. “First sip is mine by rights.” He said, opening the bottle.

“Why?” Florent said, as he lowered his hand. “Because you’re a Baron’s son?” His blue eyes were bright and challenging. “No.” He said. “Because I’m the one that took it. First spoils to the victor and all that.”

“Fair enough.” Florent said, watching him almost too intently as he opened the bottle and helped himself to a generous gulp. 

Silvaineaux regretted the generosity of that gulp immediately. It burned like fire when he swallowed it and that fire slid all the way down his throat and settled in his stomach. He handed the bottle over absently as he blinked against the burning at the back of his eyes and fought down the urge to cough. 

Florent did cough as he passed the bottle back. 

Despite the rather unpleasant burning that still sat in the back of Silvaineaux’s throat he took it. His eyes fixed on Florent as he lifted it again, turned it until his lips fitted over the neck of the bottle in just the same place as Florent’s. He didn’t mind the burn quite as much the second time.

Florent turned the bottle the same way when he took it back. 

It made Silvaineaux’s blood burn. 

By the time they’d drunk most of the whiskey passed back and forth between them it was almost unbearable. Something sat between them that Silvaineaux had been growing increasingly aware of all summer. And they must be drunk, surely. Silvaineaux felt something that was surely what drunk was like, lightheaded and warm in a way that had nothing to do with summer sunshine.

He thought he could see the whatever it was in Florent’s eyes too, they were too bright and a little hazy.

When Florent offered back the bottle he took it, closing his fingers around the glass of the neck, but rather than lifting it instead he stretched out his other hand. Silvaineaux curled his fingers in the fabric of Florent’s collar, hard enough the fabric creaked, and then he pulled. 

Even as he tugged he leaned in. Their lips collided more than met, hard and almost painful. He had no real idea what he was doing, only that he wanted it. 

Florent grabbed hold of his shoulder, lips pressing with that same awkward urgency against his own and he almost didn’t notice when he dropped the bottle.

There was no warmth in that corner of the hayloft now. The stone of the walls had absorbed only cold and it was only cold it radiated back at him, even through the heavy fabric of his cloak. Even the dim moonlight that filtered through the windows seemed cold: remote and silvery. Silvaineaux shivered. There was nothing of summer or Florent left here and yet he could not bring himself to leave. “I…” He began but even that whisper sounded terrible and loud in the dark.  

It was not the only sound, somewhere a ways off he could hear the sound of someone climbing the ladder. Hastily he threw the corner of his cloak over the lantern he’d brought with him but not soon enough.

Someone crossed the straw in small whispering movements. Honore folded himself into the corner next to him. “It’s freezing up here.” He said.

“You didn’t have to come looking for me.”  Silvaineaux pointed out, aware suddenly of the roughness of his own voice and of the cold trails on his cheeks that Honore would surely see if he moved his own lantern too close.

Honore ignored the unfriendliness of his tone. “I brought you some tea cakes.” He said, setting a bundled handkerchief in his lap. “And some chocolate though I imagine it’s only slightly warm chocolate now despite my best efforts. You didn’t have any earlier.”

“I didn’t want it.”

“You should have it anyway.” Honore said, setting his small crockery jar beside his knee.

It was still warm enough or his knee was cold enough that he felt it. Silvaineaux swallowed.

“And I got you this…” Honore said, reaching out to set what felt like a small leather-bound book in his hands. “I know you won’t talk about it but maybe you could write about it and it would help… a little?”

Silvaineaux ran his hands over the cover rather than uncovering the light. He ducked his head into his shoulders to wipe away the tears on the heavy fabric. “Is it flowers on it?”

“Forget-me-nots.” Honore said. “I know you like them… and you know… for memories right?”

“Yes…” Silvaineaux swallowed. “I will remember.” He uncovered the lantern and set the book on his knee. “Thank you. Share the chocolate and teacakes with me?”

[anne-marina]

- Thomas's twins -

Amandine got an idea !! she wants to go on a trip to Granite Falls with her brother Flo

Granite Falls is really close to Moonwood mill and they both always wanted to go there to see real werewolves... if they exist... But she's sure they exist

They were gonna ask their father if he wanted to go with them tonight and when he came back from work he told em he just got a promotion 🕺 so to celebrate he accepted!!

So few day later >:3 :

Thomas looks so happy I- 😭😂

[asoiafwomensource]

A selection of women of A Song of Ice and Fire (part 1 - part 2)

[ak-illustrate]

Chimeran Legends - Meadow Dance

[postcard-from-the-past]

"The flower", painting by E. Pascau

French vintage postcard, mailed in 1913 to Saint-Florent