Being asked to sing: yikes
Being asked to sing with only a week to prep: double yikes
Being asked to sing with only a week to prep in a language I don’t know:
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My ocs have their world situated in modern times but i have a renaissance au for them cause i love history and speculating about them in a different setting. One of them became a monk at some point and even travels to Rome several times, and ever since i discovered your art i couldn't help but wonder how would Machete react to him since they're vastly different. For example my oc is relaxed to a fault and just goes for his bussiness and his type of faith is very strong but not in a fanatical or obsessed type of way but more like that of mystics (like saint John of the Cross for example), so i can only imagine an scenario where there is some sort of reunion or theological debate at the Vatican and Machete being very weirded out by him, also i think his dog form would be a spanish mastiff so just imagine poor Machete next to this scary but chill giant 😂.
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During the Spanish revolution and the ensuing civil war, Spanish workers and peasants engaged in anti-clerical violence against the Church that spent centuries raping, molesting, murdering, beating, abusing, and oppressing them.
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Have an itty bitty tiny piece of stasis in darkness, just so you all have an idea of where the story is going after the godly reveal. and also have proof that i am, in fact, still toiling away at this (as well as hawkins halfway house.)
A week and a half later, Steve entered a town he’d never seen before. He wore simple traveling clothes and carried no weapons aside from a couple of carefully hidden knives. He’d left his armor and shield behind. His satchel held only the essentials one needed for travel and a single stone as large as his fist. The stone was wrapped in layers of cloth to keep it safe during the journey.
I need you to find someone.
He felt very bare but he hadn’t been given much of a choice. Speed was of the essence for his quest, and little no-name towns tended to be wary of strangers in plain clothes, even more so around strangers decked out for battle. Steve wasn’t sure this place could be called a town. It was so small it hadn’t been on any official map. It didn’t even have an inn. Hopefully, Steve wouldn’t be needing an inn once he found who he was looking for.
He’s too far from me to reach.
He asked around, laying on the charm generously. He explained he had been a friend of a friend and had been trusted to deliver something. Eventually, he was told where to go. The house he found far beyond the village’s boundary was small. It looked like it had once been well cared for but it was old and had fallen to disrepair. Steve took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
A sallow old man opened the door. He was bald but had some scruff on his face still. His shoulders, stooped from age, trembled. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked so tired.
He’s my very last worshiper in all the world.
“Wayne Munson?” Steve asked.
“Who wants to know?” The man’s voice was phlegmy and rough. He coughed into the crook of his elbow almost before he could finish speaking.
“I’m Steve. Ser Steve Harrington, pledged to the Lord of Night.”
Wayne’s eyes widened. His grip on the open door weakened and slipped. Steve caught the door before it could hit Wayne.
“He sent me to you,” Steve explained. “May I come in?”
yep, that's it for now. i told you it was small. i'm not even gonna bother with a read-more here.
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Mater Dolorosa
by the Master of the Female Half-Lengths (Brabantian, fl. c. 1530 – 1540)
oil on panel (66,7 × 75 cm), n. d.
Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya
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