#polaxe

[we-are-knight]

Raubritter, by Tomasz Ryger

[lefeusacre-editions]

ÉCRIRE (I)

Filmer l'écriture, le cinéma s'en sait incapable. Leurs temporalités sont trop contraires. Il n'empêche que, çà et là, cette ambition resurgit le temps d'une scène. Le blog du Feu Sacré tâchera, au gré de visionnages, de répertorier certains de ces éclats. Ici, le prime romancier adulé Pierre Valombreuse dont l'aise de sa vie (bientôt mise en péril de son propre chef) se cristallise dans un outil de traitement de texte.

(Pola X, Leos Carax, 1999)

[heroineimages]

So I had an idea last night for a training dummy design for Hero Forge, and I've been messing around with it all morning... Links below:

Template: https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D38718370/

Javelins 1: https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D38718866/ Javelins 2: https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D38719001/

Arrows 1: https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D38718390/ Arrows 2: https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D38718767/

Polaxes 1: https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D38719716/ Polaxes 2: https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D38719779/

[coojah]

twerp albums of the month (September 2023)

Afterdeath Television - Peacock Tail of Rainbow Magic

post-vaporwave, hyperpop

favorite track: Is It Love?

MrTwister - Electronic Corpse

idm, hard idm(?)

favorite track: Polax

EOD - Named

idm, breakbeat, drill and bass, acid techno

favorite track: Dagon

Ventla - sublingual odyssey

indietronica, newbreed, lo-fi

favorite track: toxic jellyfish

Dominique Guiot - L'Univers De La Mer

ambient, progressive electronic

favorite track: Les Deux Poissons

[birdiesflying]

NI ways to say drunk!! Not sure who this is useful to but I wanted to share some fun terms we use.

Steaming (two ways of saying this, steaming or schteamin to exaggerate)

Blocked

Stocious

Bollocksed

Fucked

Ballsed

Snattered

Pished

Four sheets to the wind

Hammered

Plastered (pretty sure this one isn’t exclusive to here but adding it anyway)

Polaxed

Paraletic

Wrote or wrote off (also spelt like rote aff)

Slaughtered

Blitzed

Full

Blootered

Juiced

Basically any object if you add a d at the end.

[pm1225p]

Polax

[haffiction]

The Curious Case of the Dead Guy Upstairs

By John Haff

Stanwell, Middlesex, England. 1987.

A bowl of Angel Delight, three gobstoppers, a family bag of Gummy Bears, two snack sized Bounty bars, all washed down with several swigs from Grandad's Guinness draft and a can of Cream Soda. This had led to near toxic E number concentrations in Daniel's body. Laying bloated on his bed, sweating as his brain and heart worked to restore bodily chemistry back to pre-lunch normalcy, he pondered what might be for dinner, hoping his father had planned a mighty toad-in-the-hole to round off a successful days gluttony. His sister Louise was in much the same position in her room, polaxed and greasy. Unable to hear one another, they groaned simultaneously and thought joyfully about the freedom of the summer holidays and how little parents in the 80's cared about what neon foodstuffs were beginning the work of a future pancreatic collapse. Their bodies, fighting to expel the excess glucose, prompted both to drain their water bottles, then an hour or so later, their bladders.

Ladies first, as dad always demanded, leaving Daniel outside the bathroom, hopping and knee-bending up and down the hall, waiting for what seemed like an age before Louise emerged looking about ready for round two of fluorescent food gourmandism. Daniel went in next, a seemingly never-ending stream with an alarming blue tinge. After washing his hands and splashing some water on his face, he felt great again and exited to find Louise waiting. She was wafting her hands in the air, taking in the dinner smells. The aromas of sage and pork could only mean one thing, a glorious toad-in-the-hole. They both rushed downstairs.

Shane, the youngest of the three children, emerged from his room on a mission and with all the swagger you would expect from a toddler. Determined to not drop any of the rabbit figurines from his Sylvanian Families cottage set, he rolled his tongue around his lips and slowly made his way to the bathroom with single-minded determination. His goal, to throw those naughty rabbits into the toilet. Ignoring the blue vapour already whisping around the bathroom, he dropped the first rabbit in. A hissing sound stopped him from throwing in the second, then the violent bubbling shocked him backwards and off his unsteady feet. From the toilet he saw a set of blue ears emerge, then the top of a head, then half the creatures eyes. It spoke in a gravelly Texan accent.

“What's the matter? You act like you've never seen a blue rabbit soaked in toxic piss before.”

Read this web series for free on serialised fiction platform Fictionate

[madrobot]

Blue Thing's Magical Rabbit Symposium - Origins

Stanwell, Middlesex, England. 1987.

A bowl of Angel Delight, three gobstoppers, a family bag of Gummy Bears, two snack sized Bounty bars, all washed down with several swigs from Grandads Guinness draft and a can of Cream Soda. This had led to near toxic E number concentrations in Daniel's body. Laying bloated on his bed, sweating as his brain and heart worked to restore bodily chemistry back to pre-lunch normalcy, he pondered what might be for dinner, hoping his father had planned a mighty toad-in-the-hole to round off a successful days gluttony. His sister Louise was in much the same position in her room, polaxed and greasy. Unable to hear one another, they groaned simultaneously and thought joyfully about the freedom of the summer holidays and how little parents in the 80's cared about what neon foodstuffs were beginning the work of a future pancreatic collapse. Their bodies, fighting to expel the excess glucose, prompted both to drain their water bottles, then an hour or so later, their bladders.

Ladies first, as dad always demanded, leaving Daniel outside the bathroom, hopping and kneebending up and down the hall, waiting for what seemed like an age before Louise emerged looking about ready for round two of fluorescent food gourmandism. Daniel went in next, a seemingly never-ending stream with an alarming blue tinge. After washing his hands and splashing some water on his face, he felt great again and exited to find Louise waiting. She was wafting her hands in the air, taking in the dinner smells. The aromas of sage and pork could only mean one thing, a glorious toad-in-the-hole. They both rushed downstairs.

Shane, the youngest of the three children, emerged from his room on a mission and with all the swagger you would expect from a toddler. Determined to not drop any of the rabbit figurines from his Sylvanian Families cottage set, he rolled his tongue around his lips and slowly made his way to the bathroom with single-minded determination. His goal, to throw those naughty rabbits into the toilet. Ignoring the blue vapour already whisping around the bathroom, he dropped the first rabbit in. A hissing sound stopped him from throwing in the second, then the violent bubbling shocked him backwards and off his unsteady feet. From the toilet he saw a set of blue ears emerge, then the top of a head, then half the creatures eyes. It spoke in a gravelly Texan accent.

'What's the matter? You act like you've never seen a blue rabbit soaked in toxic piss before.'

[philmakespictures]

Wealthy Lady Knight

[we-are-knight]

The ensemble of knightly arms. ⚔️⚜️

[armthearmour]

A beautiful Poleaxe with brass accents,

Head Length: 8.1 in/20.5 cm

Northern Europe, ca. 1450-1500, housed at the Royal Armouries War Gallery in Leeds.

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

'and I sleep, in the belly of love' #miia #chimaera #nychta #danslenoirdutemps #insideme #lovers #embrace #intimacy #pastelpencils #charcoal #sketchbook #quicksketches #leoscarax #polax #swans #referencephoto #filminspiration #nudity #figuredrawing #instaartist #femaleartists https://www.instagram.com/p/B1X8cozIqoT/?igshid=av0yjh5b2uhh

[camillacinematica]

#polax #film #movie #cinema #leoscarax #guillaumedepardieu #catherinedeneuve #katerinagolubeva #europa #europe @catherinedeneuveoficiel https://www.instagram.com/p/CT7JQBisJyL/?utm_medium=tumblr

[tacitwhisky]

Jon of Dorne, pt 1

Dornish Jon. Or, the story of how Jon was raised in the water gardens of Dorne beside Arianne Martell and the sand snakes. When Oberyn journeys to Kingslanding Jon goes with him. There he meets Sansa and secrets her back to Dorne / AO3 Link

---

Jon is eight when first he’s brought to the water gardens.

His mother had held him tight in the shadow of Starfall’s high tower the day he left. As around them bannermen tightened saddlebags and gathered their horse’s reins in hand, she’d pressed her mouth pressed to the crown of his head. “Never forget you’re mine, Jon,” she’d whispered into his hair, “mine and only mine.”

Jon had nodded into the soft linen of her dress. His eyes had stung, but he’d known he was too old to cry, and so instead he’d willed his voice strong as he imagined his uncle ser Arthur Dayne’s had been. One day you will be the Sword of the Morning just as he was, his mother has promised, and he clings to that knowledge now.

“Don’t worry, mother. I’ll be back soon. Won’t I?”

In place of answering his mother gathered Jon’s face in her hands. Any other mother would lie, would soothe his worries by telling him he would be, but his own mother’s violet eyes had flashed as only Ashara Dayne the Lady of Starfall’s could, and for that Jon had loved her desperately. “Doran will keep you at the Water Gardens as he will. He knows more than he should, but there is nothing to be done for that now. Keep your eyes open, Jon. Watch and wait. And always remember, come what may or what you’re told, you are my child. Remember I love you. Remember you are of Dorne.”

They are the last words she ever speaks to him.

---

Areo Hotah waits for them at the dock at Sunspear, a bearded giant tall and powerful, the curved blade of his polax gleaming under the Dornish sun, a pair of guardsmen in copper scales standing to either side of him.

Beside Jon, Sansa tenses, her fingers tightening on the ship’s railing. “Is that…?”

“Areo Hotah.” Of course Oberyn sent word ahead of us. He should’ve known the Red Viper of Dorne could somehow find a way to outpace a ship fleeing Kingslanding. Or perhaps it is one of Doran’s many eyes. “He’s the captain of prince Doran’s guard.”

Sansa nods faintly, the sea breeze playing with the stray of her hair. Her eyes dart to Jon, then away. “Will he send me back?”

“Hotah?” Jon shakes his head. “He only does as he’s tasked to and no more.”

Sansa nods shakily and brushes back the strays of her hair, the faintest tremor to her fingers. “And prince Doran?”

Jon pauses, less sure how to answer. A week at sea they’ve followed the coast southward from Kingslanding to Sunspear, but in most ways Sansa is still a stranger to Jon, cousin in name alone. He does not know how how much truth to answer this strange and shy pale creature so unlike the brash and bold women he was raised beside all his life: Obara who was like to answer any offer of help with a bruise, Tyene whose every courtesy was laced with venom sweet as syrup, Nym who laughed and mocked with little mercy, Arianne…

Arianne who is fierce and wild and as impossible to grasp as the desert wind.

“Doran is a good prince,” Jon says slowly, “fair and just. He has no love for the Lannisters , but above all else cares for Dorne. If I can make him see that keeping you here in Sunspear and not returning you to the Lannisters is for the good of Dorne then he will give you his protection.”

“And if you can’t?” Sansa fingers whiten as she tightens her grip on the ship’s railing. “If he sends me back to Kingslanding?”

Something strange wells in Jon’s chest, painful and sore, something he does not understand, something that urges him to take her hand and swear to protect her from whatever will come.

“Sansa.” Jon catches her gaze in a long, steady look. “I swore I would protect you from the Lannisters. If Doran sends you back I’ll go too."

“Why?” Sansa swallows. “I know I’m a stranger to you, Jon, even if we are cousins by blood. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to-”

“But I will.”

Sansa’s lips part as she searches Jon’s eyes. “Why?”

Jon shakes his head, unable to answer. A moment later the ship shudders as it pulls into its berth, and he wordlessly offers his hand to Sansa. Her eyes search his for another moment before she takes his hand, fingers slim against his palm.

Hotah stands imobile as they descend the lowered gangplank, black eyes watching impassively, the red silk threaded through the spikes of his helm playing faintly in the breeze.

“Ser Areo Hotah,” Sansa dips in a curtsy when she reaches the end of the gangplank, her voice so light and sweet that if it were not only moments before Jon would never remember the tremble of her fingers. “My cousin tells me you serve prince Doran.”

“I have that honor.” Areo Hotah’s voice is a rumble. He regards Sansa a moment before turning to Jon, face distant and impassive as though it were carved from stone. “Prince Doran has summoned you.” He gestures and one of the other bannermen behind him brings forward a trio of horses. “He would see you at once.”

After a week at sea there is nothing Jon would like more than to collapse into a bed, but he knows better than to protest. Still, when he glances at Sansa and the dark rings under her eyes he nearly does all the same, the same pang as before rising in his chest. But...

You will be doing her no favor making Doran wait. Prince’s dislike that. And we need all his good will.

The horses' Areo has brought with him are of the prince’s own stables, a pair of sand seeds swift and lithe. Jon helps Sansa onto hers before vaulting on the other. The sun’s gaze has turned the saddle’s leather scorching, and Jon unwinds the loose weave cloth from around his neck and offers it to Sansa whose pale skin is already pricked with sweat. It smells of the sea’s salt, he knows, but...

“It will shield you from our Dornish sun,” he tells her, “a little, at least.”

Sasna accepts it with a shaky nod. She wraps it in a half hood over her hair and gives Jon a questioning look. He smiles in answer, an expression that belies the unease filling his gut, and turns his horse away from the sea and towards the desert and water gardens where prince Doran Martell waits to pass judgement.

---

Jon is eight when first he’s brought to the water gardens.

They gleam pink under the desert sun, a palace of cool marble and palm fronds and lapping blue pools. Children Jon’s own age shriek and splash in the pools, and though after the long dusty ride through the desert Jon wants nothing more than to jump into the cool water beside them, the guard he trails behind leads him away from and above the pools to a balcony shaded with orange trees. At the entrance to the balcony stands the tallest man Jon has ever seen, a silent and bearded giant with a polax tall as he in one hand, coal black eyes regarding Jon impassively.

“Come closer,” calls a voice beyond the bearded giant. A man sits at the edge of the balcony in a chair with wheels, watching the children below. A richly embroidered blanket drapes the man’s legs, but beneath the tasseled hem Jon catches a glimpse of red and angry lumps round as fruit bubbling from his ankles and toes like blood oranges ripe enough to burst. The man doesn’t turn from the pools, only waves an absent minded hand at Jon. “I would meet the bastard of Starfall.”

Jon glances at the bearded giant, but the man’s eyes do no more than watch him impassively. Warily, Jon steps around him to stand before the man in the wheeled chair, and raises his chin. “Your grace.”

Prince Doran Martell’s eyes rise from the pool and settle on Jon. Kind eyes, gentle creases at the edges, but somehow distant as they study Jon. “You don’t have the look of your mother.” Doran’s lips purse in a faint smile. “Or perhaps you do. I never did gaze upon the girl myself.”

There’s some jest in Doran’s words, some hidden thing that Jon does not understand, and he has heard enough whispers and giggling from the other children of Starfall to mistrust jests of any kind. He lifts his chin higher, meets Doran’s gaze squarely like a man should, like he knows his uncle Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning would’ve. “They say I have the face of a Stark, but I am Dayne too-”

“Not Dayne,” Doran interrupts mildly. “Bastard. But bastard Sand or bastard Snow?”

“Bastards are named for where in the seven kingdoms they’re born, your grace.”

“That is so, but which is your blood? Sand or snow? The sun of Dorne or the cold of the north?” Doran’s eyes drift away, seeming to harden as they settle once again on the children splashing in the pool below. “They say prince Rhaegar dishonored my sister Elia with a Stark girl. That after he stole her your… father… Brandon Stark rode into the Red Keep baying for Rhaegar’s blood. Perhaps he thought the ice in his blood could protect him from Aerys’ flame, but he should’ve known better. When fire and ice touch only one remains, and ice has no place north of the Neck, not for the thousand years since the Long Night.”

Jon’s shuffles his feet. Sand, snow, fire, ice: none of it makes any sense. Always keep your eyes open, his mother had told him before he left Starfall. And so Jon does, watches and waits as Doran gazes at the pool below despite the urge to fidget and say anything to break the silence. Finally, the prince looks up again. “Your lady mother tells me you are fond of stories of your uncle. A Stark slew him too, did he not? Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning murdered by Ned Stark, the Usurper’s right hand.”

Jon prickles. He’s known the story since he was old enough to sit on his mother’s lap, but there is something different in the way Doran says it. Vague unease washes over Jon, but though he is only a child, he refuses to be cowed for something he does not understand. He draws himself up, wills his voice strong and proud as his mother’s. “He did, your grace, but afterwards lord Stark rode to Starfall to return my uncle’s bones to our crypts and deliver Dawn to my lady mother.”

It is the wrong thing to say. Jon knows it immediately, a sick feeling welling in his gut as Doran blinks. “Of course. Honorable Ned Stark. Honorable enough to return a man’s bones; not enough to punish the murder of women and children.” The prince waves a hand, lumps of gout swelling white and red and angry from the joints of his fingers. “But enough talk of old dead men. You should be with others your age.”

I didn’t- Jon nearly starts, the sick feeling in his throat, but behind Doran the giant man stamps the butt of poleaxe against the floor, the toll of a bell marking the end of Jon’s audience.

Jon bows to the prince and flees.

---

The sun is dying as they reach the Water Gardens, pink marble turned to pale blood in the orange light. Jon jumps down from his horse and helps Sansa down from hers. Her fingers grip his hand tightly, though he does not know if it is from exhaustion or fear. She doesn't relinquish her grip as her feet touch the ground, and he merely squeezes her hand tightly in answer, not letting go as they turn to follow Areo Hotah.

Hotah leads them through the winding path between water pools, the murmur of lapping waves at high tide so different from the shrieking and laughing of children that filled them during the day. Familiarity hollows Jon as he walks between the pools; the long and shallow one where he’d split his lip when he tripped, the smooth bottomed one where Sylva had rode his shoulders to victory against all the other children-

-the one with the craggy edge where he’d watched the gulls circle above the day he’d learned his mother had thrown herself from the high tower of Starfall.

Doran waits for them at the same balcony from all those years before as though he never moved. Areo Hotah stamps the butt of his axe to announce their entrance, and only then does Doran stir to life. So late in the day Jon can see milk of the poppy in the slow way he blinks; the pale haze to them as they stir to life. “Should you not be in Kingslanding squiring with my brother?”

“I was, your grace. But he bid me return to Dorne.”

“This was his plan, then?”

Jon bites his lip. For a fleeting moment he is tempted to lie and say it was. But that is a coward’s path, so instead he draws himself up. “It was mine, your grace. I rescued the lady Sansa alone.”

Sansa steps forward, hands unconsciously smoothing her skirts. During their flight from Kingslanding she has worn simple linen in the way of any of the smallfolk of Kingslanding, and the day’s riding has left it wrinkled and ragged. Poor fare to present before a prince, but her curtsy is as easy and graceful as the one at the dock. “I am Sansa Stark, if it pleases you, your grace.”

“Stark?” Doran does not turn from the balcony. “I thought you Lannister now, my lady. Were you not married to Tywin’s dwarf son?”

“I was, your grace.” Sansa bites her lip. “I was their prisoner then though, and could not refuse.”

“A prisoner they will be wroth at losing.” Doran finally turns to Sansa. “You are a valuable prisoner, my lady, the last living Stark and wife to the man standing trial even now for the murder of our good king.”

“Sansa is a prisoner no more.” Jon steps beside Sansa, voice sharper than it should be when addressing a prince of Dorne. “Theirs or ours.”

Doran tilts his head to the side, eyes cooling as they study Jon. And for a moment Jon is just a boy again, lost and homesick, a bastard child with no right to kindness and no home. Y ou will never be Dornish to him. Always some Stark’s whelp, always an outsider no matter how long you live beneath the Dornish sun. Jon clenches his jaw and meets Doran’s gaze squarely, forces himself not to fill the silence.

After a moment Doran’s eyes drift to Sansa and he gives her a distant smile. “Of course you are our guest, my lady. Areo Hotah will find you a room so you can rest. You have had a long journey, no doubt.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Sansa curtsies again. She glances at Jon, and he nods, the two of them turning together to leave.

“Jon.” Doran tilts his head towards the balcony edge. “Stand with me.”

Sansa’s eyes dart to Jon again. He gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile and nods to Hotah. “You’ll be safe with him.”

Hotah’s poleaxe thumps the ground as he leads Sansa away, and only once it’s faded does Jon move to stand beside Doran at the balcony edge. The sun is gone, the sky left a blue so dark as to be black in its wake, only the silver light of the moon tracing the pale marble of the Water Gardens. The sea breeze is a cool caress after the day’s heat, its touch turning the fronds of the palm trees between the pools into murmuring shadows. Below them servants light lamps and copper braziers, pools of gold among blue shadows.

“It’s a dangerous kind of guest you’ve brought us.” Doran’s voice is tired. “Were she anyone else I would send her back to Kingslanding tonight and you with her. When the Lannisters learn she is here they will think us responsible for Joffrey’s murder.”

“The Lannisters never need know it.” Jon leans forward. Meticulously during their week at sea he’d fitted the pieces together, the pieces to a plan salvaged from fleeing with Sansa, a plan that Doran might accept. “No one need know who she truly is. I could keep her hidden. Her hair is already dyed, and we are half a world away from the Lannisters. Only you, Oberyn, and Hotah know the truth for now. When the time comes, I could-”

“You will do nothing.” Doran’s voice is sharp. “You have done enough already. It was folly to let Oberyn take you as his squire. What you have done has endangered us all. For the love of my daughter I will not send you back to the Lannisters for them to do with you as they may, but do not doubt that I will not forget what you have done.”

Jon draws back, ears ringing as though he’d been slapped. “What I did, I did for the good of Dorne. Sansa is valuable. She is the last Stark.”

“And what would you know of the good of Dorne? It is not your place to decide what is or is not for the good of our land.”

Of course it is not my place. Bitterness knifes through Jon, keen and cruel. Do you think I don’t know that? That I would ever forget I will never truly be of Dorne in your eyes? That I will only ever be some Stark’s whelp? Born in Dorne, but never of it, not truly.

“Will that be all, your grace?” Jon cannot keep the vicious bitterness from his words. “I would take your leave.”

Doran waves a hand, dismissing him. “Tomorrow you will return to Sunspear. Keep the lady Stark hidden until I say else. Whatever your folly in taking her, she is our guest now.”

Jon bows to the prince and turns to take his leave. He has only made it a few steps though before Doran speaks. “Why did you take her?” Doran’s voice is soft, barely carrying above the murmur of the orange leaves above them. “The truth this time, Sand.”

“I could not leave her.” Jon swallows, throat dry, and knows it’s the truth, the truth he couldn’t speak to Sansa on the ship, the truth he couldn’t admit even to himself. “I had no choice. She’s my blood.”

[rat-slapper59]

Sexualitys as medieval weapons:

Asexual: polaxe

• It's a poleaxe

• polaxe

Lesbian: polaxe

• a polaxe

•

• polxe

Gay: polaxe

• gay

• POLE BUT A AXE

Bi: polaxe

• I really love poleaxes

• polaxe

Pan: poleaxe

• polaxe

• deez nuts

Straight: rock

• big rock cave skull in, ooga booga

• not even a medieval weapon, you guys get stone age

• Dwayne