#headswitch

[daceystvrk]

even on her best days, dacey retreated in on herself in a crowd, and today was not one of her better days. even in winterfell, it was a struggle to pull herself from her isolation, and doubly so when she was in a place that did not offer the comfort of home. there was an undeniable sort of joy in the air, and while it warmed her heart to witness it, she remained on the outskirts regardless, witnessing the merriment, but never quite a part of it.

even if she had been at her brightest, had been able to make herself mingle in the crowds, the competitions would have held little interest for dacey, save for one name on the lists. her cousin's skill was well known, and here was her opportunity to see it in action. so she had braved the crowd, finding herself a spot to watch as lucius did what he did best. even with her limited knowledge on such matters, all she knew coming from watching starks stronger than she train in winterfell's courtyard, there was no denying his ability, and when he was declared the winner, she genuinely felt a little proud of him as she joined in the applause.

she did not expect him to spot her, nor to approach her, but she smiled when he did, the tense set of her shoulders relaxing a little in the company of someone she was more familiar with. "and to you," she greeted him back. she did not want to butcher the traditional phrase, to embarrass herself by stumbling over words that she was unfamiliar with, instead opting to sidestep the issue. "your title is safe another day, though i don't think that was in doubt." even with her inexpert perspective, it did not look like a particularly close contest to dacey.

Closed starter for @daceystvrk Setting: Following the end of the archery competition, Lucius runs into the Stark princess.

The bastard had earned the grim moniker of Red Rivers because of how many men's lives ended every time he nocked an arrow to his bowstring during the war. With an archery competition taking place as part of the activities for the Litha festival, it was only right that he defended his renowned skill —his title as one of the best there ever was—, even more so in his homeland.

There were very skilled archers he competed against in the tournament, making him work for it, but in the end, Lucius Rivers did emerge as the undisputed champion. There was prize money to be earned, but it was the recognition that the bastard of Raventree Hall truly savored. The reverence, the fear, and not born out of a name or noble title but because of what he was capable of doing.

The giving of the prizes for the archery competition and other disciplines in the open tourney ended, and that was when he spotted the familiar figure of the Northern princess. She brought her hands together for some subtle clapping as he walked towards his cousin. “Well, I had to defend my title, didn't I?” he said as a form of greeting before he offered a respectful bow for Dacey. “Beannaithe Litha,” Blessed Litha, he said then, which he didn't actually wish to any save a select few.

[metalsongoftheday]

Monday, March 22: Bruce Dickinson, “Headswitch”

Skunkworks was such an immediate commercial disaster that within a year Bruce Dickinson was in Los Angeles recording traditional heavy metal deliberately reminiscent of his former and future band.  But his third solo record (ostensibly the first as part of the Skunkworks band, but we saw how that went) was not only one of his most individual and interesting statements, it was in fact one of his finest albums, every bit on par with the two that followed and not nearly as trend-hopping as believed at the time. For example, “Headswitch” was a swirling rocker that, while admittedly containing more than a trace of mid ‘90s ironic affect, didn’t lurch aimlessly or wallow in angst like most grunge metal circa 1996.  Alex Dickson wasn’t a traditional metal guitarist, but his riffing was purposeful and focused, while Alessandro Elena’s drumming was both forceful and grooving. And Bruce sounded fully engaged- he didn’t work the upper end of his range here (though he would elsewhere on Skunkworks), but he was never less than absolutely convincing, mixing a punkish attitude reminiscent of his time with Samson with the genuine inspiration he felt working with this band.  And if comparisons to what Iron Maiden was doing around the same time were necessary, “Headswitch” was also far livelier and more efficient than anything on The X Factor.  To be fair, something like this could have only existed in the ‘90s, so it wasn’t all that surprising that Dickinson would move on and back towards familiar terrain. But that didn’t make the song or accompanying album any less of an achievement.

[vortexflashlight]

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<TO101>Look closer to see our performance. #worklight #homesecurity #tool #3leds #magneticbase #pocketclip #headswitch #chargingdock #chargingstation https://www.instagram.com/p/BplqOwxn13f/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=hhvo1fi3yyc3

[staceystone]

In honor of #Logan coming out today - remembering the good times! ❤ #wolverine #headswitch

[afbocchi]

Bruce Dickinson - Skunkworks

1. Bruce Dickinson - Space Race (3:47) 2. Bruce Dickinson - Back From The Edge (4:16) 3. Bruce Dickinson - Inertia (3:02) 4. Bruce Dickinson - Faith (3:35) 5. Bruce Dickinson - Solar Confinement (3:18) 6. Bruce Dickinson - Dreamstate (3:49) 7. Bruce Dickinson - I Will Not Accept The Truth (3:44) 8. Bruce Dickinson - Inside The Machine (3:27) 9. Bruce Dickinson - Headswitch (2:13) 10. Bruce Dickinson - Meltdown (4:33) 11. Bruce Dickinson - Octavia (3:15) 12. Bruce Dickinson - Innerspace (3:31) 13. Bruce Dickinson - Strange Death In Paradise (4:59)

[cardiaccadillac]

Headswitch

@kittycat-cas you wanted young!Ketch getting electroshock therapy? Poor thing. I am actually feeling sorry for him. --- “Poor performance, Ketch.” Dr Hess’ scathing voice cuts the air like a knife, and inwardly Ketch winces. She’s right, and he knows it. “Three escaped vampires. Particularly disappointing from you. We expected better.” He swallows his pride and doesn’t react, keeps his expression neutral and his back straight at attention before her. “Yes, ma’am.” She peers down at the report on her desk, expression displeased. “Mr Spencer reports hesitancy in obeying an order?” “I don’t believe that to be the case.” It’s an accusation, and he bristles, self control slipping. “Don’t test me, Ketch.” Her voice is harsh, and he knows not to push further. She sighs. “You know what this means. You have great potential, Arthur, and we only want to help you reach it. Report to the treatment facility.” Inwardly, his heart sinks, but he doesn’t let it show. “Yes, ma’am.” He follows the order without question. The treatment facility is an imposing, sterile white room in the west wing of the London complex. The doctors are waiting for him by the time he gets there, and he knows what’s expected of him as he strips off his shirt without even being asked. He sits himself in the chair in the centre of the room, letting them strap him in, several pairs of gloved hands pawing at him as they attach wires to his chest and skull. A beeping fills the room as the heart monitors come to life. There’s an entire wall taken up with displays of the readout, and Ketch sees his heart rate. 67 bpm. Elevated. He’s offered the bit for his mouth, and wordlessly he bites down hard, breath whistling through the tube. There’s no way to prepare himself. He’s tried. “Ready?” a doctor addresses a technician, receiving confirmation. “Clear the patient.” They step away, a machine hums somewhere behind him, and the monitors begin to beep faster. Then a switch flips and the first jolt comes. Pain arcs through Ketch’s skull, whiting out his vision, and he screams through the gag as his hands ball into fists. His body convulses, monitors going wild with the arrhythmia now on display from his manically fibrillating heart. His head feels ready to explode. It lasts ten seconds before a technician finally calls out, “Halt!” and the current dies down, leaving him weak and panting in the chair. His chest heaves, sweat dripping down his face and throat as his heart continues to race. There’s bustle around him, but he barely notices as he tries to ignore it all, focuses only on getting through this. The punishment is fitting. He needs the treatment. Voices murmur, brainwave patterns from the monitors are reviewed, settings are adjusted. A doctor steps forward and presses a stethoscope to his chest, checking his heart, then gives the all clear. Ketch is already trembling. By the end of the five prescribed rounds, he expects he’ll be barely conscious. The doctor steps back, nods to the tech, and once again the machine starts to hum. A switch flips. They go again.