#medieval to modern

[silver-tangent]

Sometimes I think about how the entire history of the advancement of human weapons can be boiled down to: “we found more elaborate ways to hit things with rocks…”

Spears? Sharpened rocks.

Slingshot? Ranged rocks.

Arrows? Sharpened rocks with range.

Hammers/Clubs? Refined rocks.

Swords/axes? Sharpened refined rocks.

Guns? Sharpened, refined rocks, propelled by explosives…

We discovered how to make explosives, and we fine tuned that technology to better propel refined and sharpened rocks at insane distances… we are still hitting things with rocks… we just became experts in the science of hitting things with rocks… The human race is basically just a “dump everything into geology” build…

[nyxshadowhawk]

Fifteenth century tarot cards, possibly the oldest known deck. Look how beautiful they are! These are from way back before they were used for cartomancy.

[worms-for-brains]

More Folklore Au Ghoap

Loving them more by each day

[reds-skull]

Had the passing thought "what if Gaz had long hair" a few days ago and I just had to draw it

(Actually obsessed with 'hawked Gaz...)

[ffcrazy15]

Someone needs to do an analysis on the way the Kung Fu Panda movies use old-fashioned vs. modern language ("Panda we meet at last"/"Hey how's it going") and old-fashioned vs. modern settings (forbidden-city-esque palaces/modern-ish Chinese restaurant) to indicate class differences in their characters, and how those class differences create underlying tensions and misunderstandings.

[ghouljams]

Viking soap! Viking soap! Viking soap!

Grrrrrrrr Yes ok yes because I am feral for this idea and you're partially engaging a special interest of mine.

You spot him at the same moment he does you. A flash of blue eyes reflecting the shallow river, long hair shorn short on the sides, the fur the edges his clothes marks him as easily as the paint on his face. A viking. He stands as quickly as you step back, his eyes fixed on you. If he's here there must be more at your village. You know well enough that these men don't travel as solitary creatures.

You turn and run towards your home. You hear the crash of him through the forest behind you giving chase. Even knowing the land as well as you do the terrain is uneven, the roots are made to catch your feet, and the branches are low to obscure your vision. You don't have the deer's advantage of darting movement to keep you out of reach. Each step you can hear him getting closer, until you feel his hands grab you.

The man, the viking, catches you around your middle. You kick and scream and make every effort to batter him with your fists, to make yourself difficult prey. You've heard enough stories about what these men do to know you want no part of it. He lifts you, hauls you up off the ground as you fight and twist.

"Would you be still, I'm not going to hurt you," The man tells you in gaelic. You freeze at the familiar tongue.

"You're a liar," You push at him, claw at his grip, "why would you chase me if you weren't hunting me?"

"Why would you run?" He asks, grabbing your wrists to pin them against his chest. You glare at him, your chest heaving as you gather your breath back. He's handsome, for a viking. There's something sort of rakish about the stubble on his face and the set of his brow. "Did I do something to scare you, bonnie?" It's not an honest question, he knows full well why you'd run.

You keep quiet, keep your glare level with him. An easy task with him holding you up, his arm hooked around your thighs. His head tips back to look at you with a smile. "Aren't you pretty," He whispers, hardly phased by the run or your anger. When you don't respond he seems to find his head again, his smile dropping to something more serious.

"Fine, courting later, business now." He sets you back down, keeping a tight grip on your wrists now that you've proven yourself a runner. "I'm here to negotiate a trade, I need an escort," He explains, though you would think a man needing an escort would have a shorter handle on the ax at his hip.

"A bad liar," You amend your previous statement, tugging at his hold.

"Fine," He relents, "I want an escort. Escort me." He insists, tugging you against his chest again. You're really getting tired of bumping into him.

"Why? So you can lead a raiding party back as soon as I turn around?" You spit.

“To what end?” The viking asks, tips his head to the side, his eyes hard on you, “What use do we have for dead healers?” 

You stop your struggling, stunned. He’s not wrong, but he speaks to an understanding of your village you hadn’t expected. How much did this man and his company know about you? How many scouts had walked your paths, watched your neighbors work? He’s right, dead healers are useless, but so are port healers. Vikings are only as strong as their weakest man, wouldn’t they prefer to keep healers on hand?

“You said-” You swallow, “You said you were here to negotiate a trade. What- A trade for what?” He looks away from you, and you have your answer. You were right to run, he’s here for one of you.

“Let’s go,” He doesn’t pull you, but you follow him anyway. Your mind races, thinking through the people your elders would offer up. Who was the most skilled, the most expendable, weighing what you might get in return. What couldn’t these vikings offer you? Safety, rare goods, money, animals, friendship. Invaluable intangible things that would aid all of you, for whatever price they set. It’s still only the illusion of a choice.

Your wrist is still held tight in his grip as you walk beside him. An escort, what a joke. You’re not going to put in a good word for him or do anything more than act as a pass for him to walk your streets. You���re busy working on your escape plan when you smell it.

Smoke, just as you step clear of the forest.

"Gods," the man breathes, both of you standing on top of the hill at the edge of the forest, watching your home burn. Your eyes grow wide watching the fleeing shadows of raiders, the sacrifices of you kin. What are they doing? Why would they- A mass of fire belches from the center of your village, the man covers your eyes, shields you from the heat of it with his cloak. The tattered tartan catches your attention, makes your heart pound in your chest. You recognize it, Mactavish. He was one of you.

"We have to go," He tells you. You try to pull yourself free, scream for your family down the hill. He catches you around the middle again, hauls you back into the safety of the forest. 

"Tell them to stop," you beg. Your sobbing pleas fall on deaf ears.

“Those aren’t my men,” He doesn’t set you down, transfers your squirming to his shoulder with a grunt and keeps his pace. You can still see the lick of flame and smoke through the trees. The only home you’ve ever known, gone in an instant and all you can do is watch. The forest grows thicker around you as you lay against the familiar unfamiliar tartan and let yourself be carried off like a spoil.

[temeyes]

dad-daughter bonding ft. ghost and his bubba girl

[shootingst4rpress]

the reason so many modern ‘feminist’/’gay’ retellings of classic stories or mythology are shit is because no-one wants to actually engage with a work on its own terms anymore. nobody wants to actually analyse and dig into the themes of a work they just want to plaster over it with what they consider self serving and ‘trendy.’ so instead of actually ANALYSING what a myth could say about women, or gay people, or society at the time in general, it just gets rewritten again and again to say what the author wants it to say. braindead fucking culture

[quiltingwitch]

Swords for a sword lover, finally complete ⚔️

[fannyrosie]

Le temps des cathédrales

On my birthday (August 3rd), I went to see Notre-Dame-de-Paris with my mom and sister at la Place des arts. As someone who's been listening to it since 1998 (and read the novel later), it truly felt like I've missed out on seeing it live, especially since I saw the biggest France/Québec musicals from the early 2000s when they came out (namely, Roméo et Juliette, Don Juan and Dracula), as well as Starmania (not when it came out, obviously). Even though the current Notre-Dame-de-Paris show isn't with the original cast (except for Daniel Lavoie!), it was really amazing.

Of course, me being me, I did a themed outfit.

Outfit rundown Dress: second-hand Moi-même-Moitié Bustier: second-hand Victorian Maiden Blouse: La petite garçonne Bag: second-hand Moi-même-Moitié Shoes: Yosuke Headdress: handmade by me Jewellery: mix of vintage, Design Festa, second-hand Moi-même-Moitié and thrifted

[nyxshadowhawk]

A selection of images from a sequence depicting the alchemical process, from an early modern manuscript.

[worms-for-brains]

MEDIEVAL/FANTASY GHOAP?!

YAY OR NAY?!

[liorlen]

Pyr y’n gwna ni byrhoedled? / Digawn llawryded, / kywestwch a bed.

[ghouljams]

King!Konig absolutely railing his darling till she can’t think after the assassination attempts, stab wound be damned (it probably only makes him more horny let’s be honest) is all I’m dreaming about this morning

He is a nasty man tha I unfortunately want 😔

What do you think he's calling her for??

You're led to the king's private drawing room, something small, comfortable, official off the throne room. The court physician is speaking as politely and hurriedly as you've ever heard a person, to a man that dwarfs him in every possible way even seated. You enter the room and König stands, ignoring what you assume is his physician's advice as well as the man himself. Your eyes dart to the blood soaking his shirt, the torn fabric that may as well be torn skin the way it bleeds. Your eyes are forced lower by the strain of König's pants, the bastard is hard.

"On your knees," He commands as you take a breathless step into the room. Your eyes snap to his, that dark malevolent gaze chills you, but it's not for you. You turn your attention to the physician, and see König tips his head curiously as you start to regain your composure.

"Get me some gauze," You order, moving to inspect the herbs laid out on the low table.

"I-" the physician looks nervously between you and your imposing patient.

"Now!" You snap at him. Above you König nods. You turn your attention to König, his eyes crinkle at the sides, smiling even under his chainmail hood. You narrow your eyes, and grit your teeth against the swell in your heart, "Lay down."

"Du bist herrisch, das gefällt mir." König's teeth flash through the tight chain, but he settles onto the couch all the same. The physician hands you a bundle of clean cloth as you drop herbs into the hot water bath a servant is placing on the table. "Everyone out," König bellows, as you dip the cloth into the makeshift tea. There's a scramble for the exit, and a grunt of pain as König strips his shirt off.

"Pants too," You tell him without looking up from your work. He doesn't argue, and you're quickly maneuvered onto his lap. König looks far too pleased with himself as you shift to find a comfortable position.

"You'll never get it in like that Liebling," He hums, gripping your skirt and ripping it up the middle. You press the soaked cloth against his wound in retaliation and he tips his head back with a hiss. You can feel his cock twitching under you, and just as quickly as you stanch the bleed he's lifting your hips and holding his cock against your entrance.

"König," You warn, ducking your head as your face heats, you wish he didn't have such an affect on you.

"I fucked you this morning liebchen, you'll be fine." He pushes into you and your fingers curl tighter into the cloth. You whine, feeling ever fat inch of his cock stretching you out, filling you full. It burns, just at the edge of too much, each lubricious inch of skin against your walls forcing you to make room for him. He scrapes against something deep and achingly tender and your back arches, your head tipped back as you swear.

You lean your weight onto his wound and he bucks up into you, filling you in one good thrust, hitting you so deep in your stomach you can't do anything but gasp. König murmurs some distant praise as you try to get your bearings, try being the operative word. The way he holds you down against his hips, forces you to put your weight either onto his cock or onto his wound, a vicious seesaw of pleasuring yourself, of pain-pleasuring him, makes you shiver, makes you beg for more. You're kept in place as König fucks into you, shallow but devastating, angling your hips so he hits exactly where he wants.

You squeeze your eyes shut, panting out moans and feeling an agonizing warmth churn in the pit of your stomach. A pressure that doesn't stop building, only lessons when he allows you a break, when he diverts your focus back to tending to his wound. You lean against your hands, attempting to get away from some of the pleasure he thrusts into you. You feel the squish of fabric, the flex of his muscles, hear the low groan of your king.

"Harder meine engel, or you'll never stop the bleeding," He sounds pleased with himself, breathless and excited. The new angle lets you feel the tight drag of him in and out, your cunt clenching to try and keep him where you want, while the rest of you aches and trembles. He's right, you know he's right, but you hardly have the mental fortitude to push as hard as you need to. Not with him moving you like a toy, hitting everything perfectly so that stars burst behind your closed eyes.

König's hand grasps the back of your neck and pulls you down tight against his chest. Your fingers press hard against the cloth, your body keeping pressure on as König growls, and plants his feet on the couch to fuck you harder. You shake against him, breathless punched out moans dripping from your lips, every muscle tensed until they aren't. Something drips between your legs, watery and slick, forced out by König's thick cock. It only eases the slide of his cock, lets you feel how absolutely destroyed you are for him.

"Giving orders like a queen, look at you now," König grunts, "coming on my cock like a whore." You nod, rub your cheek against his shoulder, lave your tongue against the taut lines of his throat. You can feel his chain mail draping over your forehead, your cheek. "This time-" König mumbles to himself, thrusting hard into you and stilling, "this time."

You feel the flood of heat as he spills into you. You whine, clenching around his cock as he breathes through his orgasm, fucking you with shallow thrusts as you milk him for every drop. His hips buck short, jerking with oversensitivity as he settles you back onto his lap. You swallow, try to get your head on as you tip it back to look at his covered face, his closed eyes, you rise and fall with his steady breaths.

"Does it hurt?" You fret, attempting to sit up enough to check his incredibly recent stab wound.

"Your pussy? No, it's very warm actually."

You could smack him, but he's already injured enough. "That's not funny."

"It's a little funny." He opens his eyes to smile at you and stops, making a soft pained noise. "Oh, liebling," He coos, switching his grip to swipe his thumb against your cheek, "don't cry, I'm alright."

Are you crying? You reach a damp, bloody hand to check, though it doesn't do more than smear the crimson over your cheek. You can feel the tightness in your throat, the sting in your eyes, even without seeing the tears. You pout at König, at the concern, at the interest, in his eyes. You hadn't even realized you were upset enough to cry.

"I'm fine," You tell him, wiping your cheek with your shoulder and refocusing on your work, "Don't look at me."

You're not surprised when he doesn't follow that order.

[knightsickness]

really really like how criston exhibits the medieval knightly virtues (generosity courtesy chastity fellowship and piety) more than almost any modern hero archetype and is unambiguously a bad person. he genuinely doesn’t believe he’s going to hell for killing a lot of people (that was for the greater good) he thinks it’s for having sex once

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔨𝔢𝔩𝔢𝔱𝔬𝔫 𝔇𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢 (յգշգ) 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔡𝔲𝔠𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔶 𝔚𝔞𝔩𝔱 𝔇𝔦𝔰𝔫𝔢𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔪𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔶 𝔘𝔟 ℑ𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔨𝔰.