#rime sparse

[twintailedsiren]

Late 16th century portrait of a young lady, North Italian School. She’s in a red costume with her hands resting on a two tailed siren and a basilisk. Portrait in the manner of Agnolo Allori, il Bronzino. 'INFINITA BELLEZZA E POCA FEDE’ is inscribed on the top edge of the painting. Painting location: private sale.

“Infinita bellezza e poca fede” is a line from Italian lyric poet Petrarch, in Il Canzoniere, or the Rime sparse, written in the 1300s. Here’s Sonnet 203, with the line in English:

“Infinite beauty and little faith, do you not see my heart in my eyes?”

Petrarch devoted much of the Rime sparse to describing and praising Laura, his love�� but this love is an idealised, abstract love, as she was already married. Here, he compares her voice to a siren’s, in Sonnet 167:

“When Love bends her lovely eyes to the ground and with his own hands gathers together her wandering breath into a sigh and then looses it in a clear, soft, angelic, divine voice, 

I feel my heart sweetly stolen away and my thoughts and desires so change within me that I say: ‘Now comes the final plundering of me, if Heaven reserves me for so virtuous a death.’ 

But the sound that binds my senses with its sweetness, reins in my soul, though ready to depart, with the great desire for the blessedness of listening; 

so I live on, and thus she both threads and unwinds the spool of my appointed life, this only heavenly Siren among us.” 

Petrarch’s sonnet is reminiscent of Plato’s description of the heavenly sirens. “Agnolo Allori, il Bronzino” is Agnolo di Cosimo, also known as Bronzino. He was an Italian Renaissance painter whose work includes a number of portraits.

To me, I think the two tailed siren and basilisk could also represent heraldry, as those mythical animals were used in family coats of arms, particularly from Italy. I’m excited about this painting, for it’s only the second time I’ve seen a two tailed siren in an oil painting.

Thank you to @neritesanteros for bringing this painting to my attention!

If we look at the two tailed siren in detail, we see she has a skirt of some type, long flowing hair, and her two tails could end in fins or perhaps in vegetation. She reminds me a bit of this Roman period mosaic in Turkey.

Sources

The siren sonnet:

Petrarch, poem 167, page 312: Petrarch. Petrarch's Lyric Poems: The Rime Sparse and Other Lyrics. Translated by Robert M. Durling. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1976.

Sonnet 203 is on page 348-349.

Photo and some information via Bonham's.

Additional information from Christie's.

[gianlucadandrea]

In rime sparse il podcast – Francesco Brancati su Nuovo inizio

Più o meno dal minuto 20, Francesco Brancati legge e dice di Nuovo inizio (L’Arcolaio) per In rime sparse il podcast

[ilium-ilia]

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Six: smoldering butterflies

tw: none

“So, what rank are you?” 

“Lieutenant.” 

“Is that good?” 

“Good enough.” 

Sparse snowflakes flutter through the air like confused confetti as you and Simon meander throughout the tenebrous streets. It’s one of the rare nights that snow hits London, and though there’s not much of it, you know you appreciate this much more than the skin biting drops of rain that usually assaults the city. Glitter adorns the pavement as a thin layer of frost ices the path back to your apartment. Faded footprints already mar the surface. Smiling, you attempt to walk in time with them; stepping in the prints left by people who came before you. 

A faint breeze weaves through the fabric of your clothes, prompting you to rub your hands over your arms in an attempt to fight off the sting. The warmth from the cinema—along with its popcorn and seemingly endless amount of Jelly Babies—offers some reprieve as it lingers on your skin, but it’s fleeting. It dissipates faster than smoke through the webbing of your fingers. 

“Does that mean you get to lead other soldiers?” you continue just as your apartment building comes into view. Taking care to not slip on the slick rime, you rush up the steps, impatiently desiring the heat that lies just beyond the entryway door. 

“Sometimes,” Simon answers simply. He follows behind you with long, slow steps as you lead him into the building and up the flights of steps leading to your flat. “There are others I have to answer to.” 

You hum as you come across your door. Stiff fingers fumble with your keys as you shove it into the lock. One violent twist later and the door pops open, revealing the dull glow of your apartment beyond it. 

“And then, what branch of the military are you in?” Stepping inside, the warmth of your home embraces you with thick arms, forcing your skin to defrost. 

Simon pauses for a moment as he shuts and locks the door behind the two of you. “SAS.” 

Brows pinching together, you work on kicking your shoes off in the entryway while Simon does the same with his boots. Though you’ve been playing twenty questions about his career, you hate to be faced with the fact that you know remarkably little about any of it at all. “I’m assuming that stands for something?” 

“Special Air Service,” he explains simply. 

You’re halfway into the living room when Simon explains this. His words stop you in your tracks as you twist on your heels with a grin. Shrugging your coat off of your shoulders, you point a finger at him as if you’ve caught him in the midst of some sort of act. 

“I knew it!” you exclaim with a giggle. Once you’ve tossed your coat onto the hook on the wall, your hands and fingers morph as if you’re holding a pretend weapon. “High priority missions! Secret agent shit!” 

“You make it sound more interesting than it really is,” Simon says dully. 

Playfully rolling your eyes at him, you plop yourself on your couch. It’s difficult to sink into the cushions when they’re too firm to be fully comfortable, but you make the most of it as you watch him wander around the room. 

“It is interesting. You guys sound cool,” you insist. 

“I never said we weren’t cool,” he says with dry humor. 

Simon makes himself at home as he stands on the other side of the coffee table from you with his arms crossed. It’s one of his quirks, you’ve noticed—the distance he attempts to keep between the two of you. He keeps his space as if you’re a fire he doesn’t want to be burned by; or like he’s a chasm that he doesn’t want you to fall into. Each time you take a step closer, he steps back. For every brick that you remove in his wall, he adds two more. 

But his eyes give him away—he can’t hide the benevolence that swims in the gloam of his gaze. 

“Is that why you wear that mask all the time?” you ask softly. “Because of work?” 

Simon tilts his head, and you very quickly find yourself regretting having asked that question. You think you might have removed one brick too many. “Somethin’ like that.” 

Of course. Something like that. You’ve learned that’s the response he gives you when you’re too close to an answer he doesn’t want you to see. Hitting close to home, yet not quite making it there. He keeps you stuck outside of the house, trying to look through the windows with the curtains drawn. It’s easier for him to prevaricate than to burden you with the truth. 

“Do you ever… take it off?” you then ask. 

“Never,” he answers firmly. 

You smirk, but it’s not enough to hide the way you’re squirming beneath his gaze. “Yeah? So you wear it while you sleep and bathe?” 

“Naturally.” 

Delusional—that’s what you are. You’re damn near delirious for expecting his answer would be anything more than a stoic deadpan. Really, you’re not sure what you’re thinking. Simon has never been anything less than a gentleman to you, yet he never shows his face, always keeps it shrouded behind a mask, and is in the special forces. The squelching sound of Eric’s jaw cracking still echoes in your mind even after all of these months. 

Simon should terrify you. 

Yet, the hands that sunk into the side of Eric’s face are the very same hands that you tenderly patched up. They’re the same ones who selflessly put your lamp together. They’re the same ones that now twitch as he studies you. 

“But really,” you continue. Your voice adopts a tone of solemn curiosity as you trace the muffled line of his jaw with your eyes. “Why don’t you take it off?” 

Simon's eyebrow quirks beneath his mask. “Do you want me to?” 

Your reply catches in your throat where it festers and burns like poison. 

Yes. 

“I dunno,” you say instead.

Even without his thick work boots, Simon’s footsteps are sonorous against the hardwood floor as he carefully maneuvers around the coffee table. Neither of you look away from one another. His eyes bore into you as he sinks into the cushion on the couch next to you. Wide shoulders and thick thighs nearly take up his entire side as he settles in, hips rolling until he’s twisted to face you. You don’t know why you’ve never noticed it before, but he smells nice—clean like cedar, yet faintly like the cheap popcorn you indulged in at the cinema. 

It’s nice; a far cry better from Eric’s stench of nicotine. 

“Close your eyes,” he says. 

“Why?” 

“You always ask so many questions?” Simon isn’t irritated—rather, he’s amused. Ador bleeds into his eyes as he watches your lips quirk. 

“Always.” 

You stare at one another for a moment. He’s so close—enough for you to reach out and grab him; tangible like the immoveable side of a mountain—yet he’s so painfully far. Those butterflies that have been plaguing your stomach all week have decayed into nothing but ash, yet even in death they still smoulder. 

Trusting him, you finally close your eyes. The unmistakable sound of rustling clothes fills your ears, and it doesn’t take you long to realize he’s removing his balaclava. Freezing, you keep still as if you’ll scare Simon off if you move so much as an inch. His movements echo through the cushions as he leans forward, fingers brushing against the back of your hands. Thick thumbs press into your palms as he raises your hands from your lap and brushes them against the side of his unmasked face. 

“Have at it,” he murmurs. 

Afraid of going too fast, you slowly let go of his hands so that you can cup his cheeks. He allows you to explore him with your eyes closed—to feel every inch of his face. Rough stubble pokes the pads of your fingers as you trace his jaw and chin, but it’s interrupted by a fair bit of raised skin. A scar—it’s short but deep. There’s more of them scattered throughout his face. There’s one that dissects his left eyebrow, and another that dances along his cheekbone. 

Your efforts become more brave as you continue to explore him. His nose is strong and angled with a noticeable bump on the bridge, and as you trace all the way to the tip of his nose, you take note of how it veers slightly to the right. Nearly straight, but not quite. His breath is warm on your fingers as you dance along his lips, and you feel a huff hit your face as you attempt to wander below his jaw. 

Large hands come up to ensnare yours the moment you brush against his throat, preventing you from trespassing where you shouldn’t. All moisture leaves your mouth. “Sorry.” 

“Didn’t think you’d wander so far so quick,” he quips. You’d roll your eyes if they weren’t already closed. 

“Your ID doesn’t show the scar on your cheek,” you say instead. Carefully, you slip your hand out of his to return it back to his face. The pads of your fingers gently run over the thick tissue of his scar; it’s deeper than any canyon but it feels like you’re tracing the road back home. 

“I heard some women find scars attractive.” Once again, Simon’s dry humor is showing. A choked sort of laugh rumbles in your chest as you gently shake your head as you chew on the side of your mouth. 

“Maybe if they’re on men.” 

Within an instant, Simon’s fingers are cupping your chin. Your heart flutters in your chest as a sour memory resurfaces to bubble beneath your skin. Eric grabbed you like this once—all because of dirty dishes. Even now you still feel the way his nails dug into your flesh. But Simon’s touch doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t dig into your skin as if searching for something you owe. His grip is delicate as his thumb swipes over your bottom lip, lingering on the scar that still taints your skin. Your heart pounds so violently you fear it might break free from your ribs. 

“A few more and you’ll look as dashing as I do,” he says, fingers still lingering on your skin. 

“Are you always this much of a sweet-talker?” you ask. Your attempt to goad falls flat when you realize just how breathless you are within his grasp. 

“No,” Simon answers bluntly. “Just for you.” 

You’re not sure how it happens, or who closes the distance, but you find your lips colliding with Simon’s in some unexpectedly gentle way. Those smoldering butterflies in your stomach resurrect with a vengeful fury as his warmth bleeds into you. They thrash around in your stomach with wings of fire as Simon’s hand falls away from your chin, opting to instead press his hand against yours as if reveling in your touch on his cheek. Despite his rough edges, he’s delicate. He does not nip and bite—he does not rip you to shreds. He simply embraces you with a devotion you never thought anyone would ever be able to muster for you. 

It takes everything in you to hold back your protest as he pulls away from the kiss. The absence of him leaves your stomach churning with those incessant insects who demand more under the threat of immolating you. Simon pulls you away from his face but still holds you as he lowers your joined hands towards your laps. 

“Still keeping your eyes closed after all that?” he asks, the baritone of his voice rumbling you to your core. 

Taking his invitation, you finally open your eyes. In an odd way, he looks exactly how he felt. You recognize his strong, slightly crooked nose, the deep scars on his cheek and eyebrow, and strong jawline. A smile breaks out on your lips as you realize that you know Simon Riley by touch alone, and yet he still allows you to peel back his layers to witness all the softer parts of him he’d rather obscure. 

“There he is,” you say softly. 

“Been here the whole time, sweetheart.” 

It nearly kills Simon to leave you when spring begins to roll around the corner. When he’s not in London, he finds himself mentally tracing the curves of your lips and recalling the weight of your jaw in the palm of his hand—it nearly drives him mad. Ghost lurks in the dark corners of his mind, urging him to forget about you, but you follow him everywhere. Even here in the midst of this blistering hot desert, you accompany him in the form of a handkerchief and the tingling in his lips. 

The rising sun casts a warm glow across the otherwise bleak cloth as he rubs a gloved thumb over the threads. There are some days when he looks at his gift and recalls the ichor that stained your skin that day at the bank. Sometimes it’s so vivid in his mind that he half expects to see your freshly marred skin when he looks at you, but these days he finds himself thinking about how—despite the scar—soft you are against his mouth. 

This goddamn handkerchief. He ought to leave it behind, but he can’t—not when it’s the only thing he has halfway across the world that reminds him of you. 

“How’s Wisp?” 

Well versed fingers expertly fold the handkerchief up as Simon turns around. Annoyance evident on his face even from behind his mask, he shoves the cloth into his pocket as he faces Johnny. The man stares at him with vibrant eyes as the sun illuminates his tanned skin. 

“What’re you on about?” he questions bluntly. 

“Wisp,” Johnny repeats. His hands reach up to rest on the straps of his vest as he leans forward with a grin. “Your bird.” 

Shaking his head, Simon carefully shoves his fingers into his back pocket, ensuring that the handkerchief isn’t sticking out before he walks past Johnny and mutters: 

“Comedian, you are.”

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[turangalila]

Sigismondo D'India (1582-1629)

[Le Musiche del sig. Sigismondo D'India (1618)] [Le Musiche del Cavalier Sigismondo D'India a 1 et 2 voci, libro quarto (1621)]

— Questa mia aurora Questa mia aurora / Che m'inamora / E dolce il cor m'impiaga / Quand' ella scorge / Luce mi porge, / De l'alb'assai piu vaga. // Se parla o ride, / Arde et ancide / E in fere, e consola, / Se mira e tace stempra / E disface, e l'alma, / E’l cor invola. // Ah se tu nieghi / A tante preghi, / Sanar l'alma che langue, / In un baleno / Io vengo meno, / Hor mai pallido e sangue. // Deh qui t'invi'anima mia / E rasserena il giorno / Nel qual sospiro / S’io non ti miro, / O mio bel sol adorno. // De che farai / Quando ch'havrai, / Morto il tuo fido amante, / Cile terra e inferno / Dira in eterno, / Che sei cruda e inconstante. // Ma se pietosa / E non ritrosa, / Ti rendi al mio dolore / Ciel, terra e inferno / Dira in eterno, / Che in te sol regn'Amore.

— Odi quel Rosignolo

I. Odi quel rosignolo / Che dolcemente canta? / E chi forse ti credi / Che gli dia tanto spirto e tanta voce / In sì piccole fauci? E che gli insegni / Spirar musico suono? / Or lunghissimo, or tronco / Ora raccolto, or sparso. / Odi come gli accenti / Ora promette, or gli niega / Or gl’intreccia, or gli lega, or gli discioglie.

II. Mormora seco alquanto / E spiega poi repente il canto, or chiaro / Or pieno, or grave, ora sottile, or molle. / Or l’innalza, or cade / Or la sostiene, or la spiega, or la vibra / Or l’inaspra, or la tempra, or l’ammolisce. / Il mastro e solo Amore. [Francesco Bracciolini]

— Mentre che ’l cor Mentre che ’l cor dagli amorosi vermi / fu consumato, e ’n fiamma amorosa arse, / di vaga fera le vestigia sparse / cercai per poggi solitarii et hermi; // et ebbi ardir cantando di dolermi / d’Amor, di lei che sí dura m’apparse: / ma l’ingegno et le rime erano scarse / in quella etate ai pensier’ novi e ’nfermi. // Quel foco è morto, e ’l copre un picciol marmo: / che se col tempo fossi ito avanzando / (come già in altri) infino a la vecchiezza, // di rime armato, ond’oggi mi disarmo, / con stil canuto avrei fatto parlando / romper le pietre, et pianger di dolcezza. [Francesco Petracco]

_ Sigismondo D'India – Madrigali E Canzonette. Maria Cristina Kiehr, Concerto Soave, Jean-Marc Aymes. (2003, Harmonia Mundi – HMC 901774)

[nogetron]

Ullr, the bringer of the snowy rime. Ullr is the step son of the mighty Thor and the golden goddess Sif. Ullr manifested in the cold season of winter and brought the snow and ice to Midgard. Ullr entailed all activities of the cold season, such as hunting and especially skiing. Ullr was renowned as one of the highest ranking Gods among the Aesir and Vanir, second only to Odin. Every year Odin leaves his position in the Aesir to travel the world, with Ullr assuming the throne and becoming the chief of the gods and ushering in winter. However once Odin returns, Ullr relinquishes the throne to Odin once more, allowing the warm season to return to Midgard.

Ullr is thought to have been originally one of the most important deities in the older Germanic pantheon. Over time however Ullr’s importance begun to be overshadowed by the other gods and ultimately became a niche and minor god. His ancient importance can still be seen in Nordic myth, with his role as the winter leader of the Aesir likely stemming from his Germanic roots. Ullr may have originally been the god of sledding rather than the Skis he’s known for in Norse mythology, as Ullr was heavily associated with shields with euhemerized Middle Age literature stating that a shield was his ship, some posit that shields were originally used or at least conflated with ancient Germanic sleds, while others have said that early skis could’ve resembled shields in a way. Ullr’s name has deviated over time, going by Ullr and Ullinn in Scandinavia, and latinized into Ollerus by authors in the Middle Ages. Ullr holds a surprising connection to the Abrahamic God due to him being connected to the Proto-Germanic wulþuz, meaning “glory” or “sight”, a word which developed into wuldor, a word used as a name for God among the Anglo-Saxons. Some theories suggest that Ullr was a manifestation or aspect of the Germanic sky god, either Odin or Tyr, other theories posit that he was the husband of the goddess Skadi. A less reliable theory alleges that Ullr was a member of the Vanir, however the evidence used in support of this is sparse and is contradicted by primary sources.

[violant-apologia]

No Man

A secret swap fic for @indefinitely-sealed, for @fallenlondonficswap! I've wanted to write something about the Discordance for a while; thanks for giving me the opportunity, and I hope you like it!

Words: 1736 Spoilers for: The Hurlers

Read it on Ao3 or here!

There is a prick in the air. Neathy cold is usually damp and bone-deep, saturated for decades into every available surface. This is the cold of early spring on the Surface: cold which brushes your skin before settling in shadows and corners. Given that it’s currently a late summer morning, (and you’re not on the Surface,) cold like this is rather out of place indeed.

You are nearby Hangman’s Arch, and most passers-by seem oblivious to the temperature. Some, however, have pulled their coats tight about themselves and sheltered their hands in their pockets. If you walk against the flow of these individuals, you should find your way to streets of colder climate. This theory proves effective; soon you can feel the cold’s presence deepen. It embraces you like an over-familiar stranger and the chills of embarrassment that ensue. You are going in the right direction.

Scanning the crowd, you spot a rubbery man with a sinuous scarf and an old woman clad in ratty mittens. If they felt the need to bundle up when they left their homes, the cold there must have been strong enough to penetrate those elegant Ladybones facades. You push antiparallel to them once again.

It’s not long before you spy the first hints of frost. It glazes the spaces between cobbles and settles on brickwork like icing sugar. The cold itself pervades further, too. It paws at your clothes, claws scraping your skin where you leave slivers exposed. Now that you’re closer to its source, you recognise this breed of cold. It’s not of the Surface after all; this is the cold of the Upper River.

A commotion reaches your ears, interrupting your thoughts.

“Leave us be!” a screeching youth shouts from on high. “We don’t know you! Take your cold someplace else, why don’t you?”

This is followed by the slam of a window.

You round a corner and find the cause of the youth’s distress — a figure at a townhouse door, bashing the knocker desperately. The being is a pure, frosty white, clothes and all: a noman.

It sinks to its knees and cries plaintively, “Hazel! Hazel! You must remember me, you must!”

As it continues on this trend, you notice the frost. It grows from the noman’s position and spreads across the cobbles, looking for all the Neath like a light cast from a lantern.

The youth seems unlikely to open the door to the noman. The noman, in turn, seems unlikely to accept this. A sparse but growing crowd has gathered to watch the affair, deciding that they can eschew warmth in in favour of schadenfreude. Two constables whisper in the sidelines, too — one eyes her baton. It would have good chances against a person made of snow.

You make your way to the front of the crowd and slowly approach the noman. Up close you can see its features. They’re pristine — sculpture-like in their precision. You’ve never heard of a noman living this long past winter, let alone in such good condition. Perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps out of concern for the creature’s wellbeing, or perhaps simply out of a desire to foil a constable’s good time, you approach the sobbing noman and offer it a hand up. It wordlessly accepts and you pull it to its feet, letting go before frostbite begins to cling.

In the following hour or so, little passes between you and the noman. Walking through London’s streets with you seems to bring it a little comfort, however. Its disconsolation gives way to mere despondency, and then, eventually, to manageable unhappiness. You stop by your lodgings to pick up a coat and scarf — the noman pokes idly at the ice-rimed windows as you do.

“Unseasonably cold, this,” it says, breaking the silence with the old British classic of ‘the weather’. Still, it’s odd for the noman to be so confused at the cold that it itself generates. “What?” it asks when it catches your look of puzzlement. “The whole Neath is frosty, seems like. Hasn’t been like this since I was a kid on the Surface.”

This, of course, is patently impossible. No noman could live on the Surface, beneath the sun’s indelible gaze. The situation becomes clear to you: this creature believes itself to be human.

Nomen tend to be acutely aware of their temporary nature. Many of them won’t pipe down about it, in fact — as is understandable. One unaware of its existence — wilfully, it seems — is an oddity in the extreme. Did it never know its original? Or perhaps an encounter with irrigo was the cause… To ascertain the nature of this oddity, you continue with the small talk. Something relevant usually comes up.

Except it doesn’t. You learn of the pristine noman’s history (or the “noman’s” history) as you wreak icy wrath on passers-by.  Its memories of the Surface come into clarity, but nothing of note seems to appear. You prompt it for its more recent activities, but it notices a sign that takes its interest.

“Dante’s!” it cries. “This was always a favourite of mine. Let’s go in!”

And it bustles away from your questioning, towards the undoubtedly-full restaurant. It negotiates for a moment with the door’s frosted hinges, but then manages to push it open.

For the slightest moment, you get a taste of Dante’s delicious warmth — before the heat flees in a split second. The diners nearest the door disperse in the sudden cold, pushing past you to the (relative) warmth outside. The pristine noman sits at one of the newly vacant tables, and you take a seat opposite. Trying to ignore the gazes of the waitstaff, fiery with lost profits despite the cold, you continue your line of questioning. What does the noman’s recent history hold?

“Well, recently…” it fidgets, “I’ve made the acquaintance of Penstock. I knew of him before, of course, but we’d never talked until lately.”

This must have been the noman’s original. Penstock hold the secrets of the Sundered Sea — where nomen are made. You prompt for something a little newer.

“Um,” it says, seeming to wrack its brain, “I came back from a trip to the Hinterlands? I walked back. A personal tour of the west, you know?”

Something is coming to you, pieces coalescing into a discernible image. You ask it how it got out West in the first place.

“I…” it pauses, confused. “The train, surely. Yes, that’s right, we got the train.”

We, you ask?

“What?”

It said “we”. Who was it travelling with?

“No, I…” it stammers. “Me. Just me.”

Alright. What was “just it” doing out west? Surely it didn’t travel all that way just to walk back.

“I was being disp— I was disposing of something.”

Something dangerous?

“No, it…”

A mistake?

It nods.

Did it leave its mistake near the Hurlers, by any chance?

Another nod. The noman’s anxiety is frozen across its face. You understand what it’s experiencing, more or less: being lead to a conclusion your mind won’t accept.

Then what happened? Did it leave?

“No,” the noman says, voice small. “No. Then I realised what I was doing.”

A twist. What did it do then?

“I—” it starts. “I—”

The noman struggles for a moment before lapsing into quiet. You wait for a moment before pushing further: what did it do—

“I didn’t mean it!” the noman cries, slamming its hands on the table and casing the silverware to clatter. Its eyes are alight with fear. “I just couldn’t control myself!”

Now you’re getting somewhere. The floodgates are broken now, and an avalanche of confessions ensues.

“When I realised what I was doing, I was just so angry; I didn’t mean for it to turn out like that!” Even as the words tumble from the noman’s mouth, it trembles. “I just meant to shove me, but the ice was so slippery; I just watched as I tumbled, as my head cracked against the ground, as the snowflakes melted in the pooling blood…”

The noman’s voice fades. It looks at its snow-white hands as if seeing them for the first time.

“I was going to leave me,” it says, the words dripping quietly from its icicle teeth. “And when I was gone… what am I without myself? But the stones… they promised me that I didn’t need me. That I could be one, alone, original. They sung, and I believed them.”

The noman shudders. Its body is human-shaped; it could not be hiding a freezing sigil.

“Thank you,” the noman says. “It’s clear to me, now. I am a shadow with no owner, a pale imitation of nothing, no matter what the stones said. I see that, finally.” 

The heat of Dante’s is beginning to return. The noman looks around with glazing eyes.

“I could have been a good me, I think,” it says, its features already beginning to drip. “Though I suppose it wouldn't have worked. That damnable could — my fault too, I imagine.”

There’s a sluggishness to its movements now, a slur to its speech.

“You’ve been very good to me, to lead me through this,” it says. “But I must ask… did you know what this would do to me? This knowledge, this…”

It tries to gesticulate, but a couple of its fingers carry the momentum and disconnect, splattering into inanimate snow in the tablecloth.

“Ah,” it says, embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”

It lurches in its chair. Its features sag.

“It doesn't matter either way, now.”

It barely resembles a human any more. Its layers slough off to water on the tiles. The noman laughs a little, then sighs.

“Remember me,” it mumbles. “Nobody else can.”

And it's gone. The noman is naught but slush, water, and the cloying stench of ammonia and tragedy. Soon there is nothing at all left of it: certainly not a sigil left glistening on the restaurant floor. And if there was, it wouldn't have travelled here in a body of ice and snow: nourishing it, sustaining it, acting as permafrost bones as it walked east towards London.

You get up to leave the table, not passing the sigil (because it isn't there). And because it isn't there, there's no need to quarantine the restaurant, to take precautionary measures, to pry the frozen words from the tiles. As you don't pass it you don't read it, and no unreal promises lodge themselves in your mind:

no copy shall have an original

[warriors-rewritten-chaos]

Warrior Cats Prefixes- R

I had a WC Name Generator on Perchance that I made but I don't seem to have access anymore, so I'm remaking it here as just a simple list. The definitions used are the ones that Clan cats have for those things, and thus are the origins of the names. Definitions used are whatever I found when I googled it.

Rabbit-: "[noun] a burrowing, gregarious, plant-eating mammal with long ears, long hind legs, and a short tail"

Raccoon-: "[noun] a grayish-brown American mammal that has a foxlike face with a black mask and a ringed tail"

Ragged-: "[adj] torn; [adj] having an irregular or uneven surface, edge, or outline"

Ragweed-: "[noun] a North American plant of the daisy family. Its tiny green flowers produce copious amounts of pollen"

Ragwort-: "[noun] a yellow-flowered plant of the daisy family that is a common weed of grazing land"

Rain-: "[noun] moisture condensed from the atmosphere that falls visibly in separate drops"

Rainbow-: "[noun] an arch of colors formed in the sky in certain circumstances, caused by the refraction and dispersion of the sun's light by rain or other water droplets in the atmosphere"

Raindrop-: "[noun] a single drop of rain"

Rainy-: "[adj] (of weather, a period of time, or an area) having a great deal of rainfall"

Ram-: "[noun] a male sheep"

Rampion-: "[noun] a Eurasian plant of the bellflower family"

Rapid-: "[adj] happening in a short time or at a fast pace; [noun] a fast-flowing and turbulent part of the course of a river"

Raspberry-: "[noun] an edible soft fruit related to the blackberry, consisting of a cluster of reddish-pink drupelets; [noun] the plant that yields the raspberry, forming tall, stiff, prickly stems (canes)"

Rat-: "[noun] a rodent that resembles a large mouse, typically having a pointed snout and a long, sparsely haired tail"

Rattle-: "[verb] make or cause to make a rapid succession of short, sharp knocking sounds, typically as a result of shaking and striking repeatedly against a hard surface or object; [noun] a rapid succession of short, sharp, hard sounds"

Rattlesnake-: "[noun] a heavy-bodied American pit viper with a series of horny rings on the tail that, when vibrated, produce a characteristic rattling sound as a warning"

Raven-: "[noun] a large heavily built crow with mainly black plumage, feeding chiefly on carrion; [adj] of a glossy black color"

Ravine-: "[noun] a deep, narrow gorge with steep sides"

Red-: "[adj] of a color at the end of the spectrum next to orange and opposite violet, as of blood, fire, or rubies; [noun] red color or pigment"

Redwood-: "[noun] either of two giant conifers with thick fibrous bark"

Reed-: "[noun] a tall, slender-leaved plant of the grass family, which grows in water or on marshy ground"

Reflection-: "[noun] the throwing back by a body or surface of light, heat, or sound without absorbing it"

Resin-: "[noun] a sticky flammable organic substance, insoluble in water, exuded by some trees and other plants (notably fir and pine)"

Ridge-: "[noun] a long narrow hilltop, mountain range, or watershed"

Rime-: "[noun] frost formed on cold objects by the rapid freezing of water vapor in cloud or fog"

Ripple-: "[noun] a small wave or series of waves on the surface of water, especially as caused by an object dropping into it or a slight breeze"

River-: "[noun] a large natural stream of water flowing in a channel to the sea, a lake, or another such stream"

Roach-: "[noun] a scavenging insect that resembles a beetle, having long antennae and legs and typically a broad, flattened body"

Roam-: "[verb] move about or travel aimlessly or unsystematically, especially over a wide area"

Roaming-: "[adj] moving about aimlessly or unsystematically, especially over a wide area"

Robin-: "[noun] a small chiefly European thrush resembling a warbler and having a brownish-olive back and orangish face and breast"

Rock-: "[noun] the solid mineral material forming part of the surface of the earth, exposed on the surface or underlying the soil or oceans; [noun] a large piece of rock which has become detached from a cliff or mountain, like a boulder"

Rocky-: "[adj] consisting or full of rock or rocks"

Roe-: "[noun] a small deer, reddish and grey-brown, and well-adapted to cold environments"

Rolling-: "[adj] moving by turning over and over on an axis; [adj] (of land) extending in gentle undulations"

Rook-: "[noun] a gregarious Eurasian crow with black plumage and a bare face, nesting in colonies in treetops"

Rooster-: "[noun] a male domestic chicken"

Root-: "[noun] the part of a plant which attaches it to the ground or to a support, typically underground, conveying water and nourishment to the rest of the plant via numerous branches and fibers"

Rose-: "[noun] a prickly bush or shrub that typically bears red, pink, yellow, or white fragrant flowers, native to north temperate regions"

Rosehip-: "[noun] the ripened usually red or orange accessory fruit of a rose that consists of a fleshy receptacle enclosing numerous achenes"

Rosemary-: "[noun] an evergreen aromatic shrub of the mint family, native to southern Europe"

Rosette-: "[noun] rose-like marking or formation found on the fur and skin of some animals"

Rot-: "[verb] (chiefly of animal or vegetable matter) decay or cause to decay by the action of bacteria and fungi, aka decompose; [noun] the process of decaying"

Rough-: "[adj] having an uneven or irregular surface, one that's not smooth or level; [adj] (of a cat or their behavior) not gentle. Violent or boisterous"

Rowan-: "[noun] a mountain ash tree; [noun] the scarlet berry of the rowan tree"

Rubble-: "[noun] waste or rough fragments of stone"

Ruby-: "[noun] a precious stone consisting of corundum in color varieties varying from deep crimson or purple to pale rose"

Rue-: "[noun] small perennial shrub in the family Rutaceae used as a culinary and medicinal herb"

Rumble-: "[verb] to make a continuous deep, resonant sound; [noun] a continuous deep, resonant sound like distant thunder"

Running-: "[verb] the action of running"

Rush-: "[verb] move with urgent haste; [verb] dash toward (someone or something) in an attempt to attack or capture; [noun] a sudden quick movement toward something"

Russet-: "[adj] reddish brown in color; [noun] a reddish-brown color"

Russula-: "[noun] a widespread woodland toadstool that typically has a brightly colored flattened cap and a white stem and gills"

Rust-: "[noun] a fungal disease of plants which results in reddish or brownish patches"

Rustgill-: "[noun] a small and widely distributed mushroom which grows in dense clusters on dead conifer wood"

Rustle-: "[verb] make a soft, muffled crackling sound like that caused by the movement of dry leaves; [noun] a soft, muffled crackling sound like that made by the movement of dry leaves"

Rusty-: "[adj] reddish brown in color, resembling rust"

Rye-: "[noun] a cereal plant that tolerates poor soils and low temperatures"

[artoflifehealingarts]

The Rime Sparse

So many are grabbing for the money, so many

Want a free lunch, or are cynical and settle

For entertainment, that the world has adopted

Shallowness as its habit, and what was once

Our birthright is now considered deviation.

So squandered is our natural wisdom, that he

Who seeks the source of the flowing itself,—the Muse’s spring—is thought a fool:

Who really desires laurel, or myrtle either?

“Goddess-lover, go, in the rags you deserve!”

Is what they’ll say, themselves

pursuing

More material gains.

You’ll find few comrades

On your chosen path;

but for that reason I pray

All the more that you will not falter.

Petrarch–translation by Dale Pendell

And who was Dale Pendell?

A great poetic story telling genius ✨️✨️I always love sharing those who inspire me or tickle the crevices of my mind🤸‍♀️

Dale Pendell (April 14, 1947 – 13 January 2018) was an American poet, ethnobotanist, and novelist. Writing in an evocative style all his own, he fused science, folklore, and poetry in describing the relationship between psychoactive plants and human beings. A long time student of ethnobotany, Pendell discussed historical and cultural uses of "power plants" in his works. He read and distilled the literature of pharmacology and neuroscience, of ethnobotany and anthropology, of mythology and political economics as they intersect with the direct experience of human psychoactive use. Wikipedia

This art piece is titled Swirled in Golden Teachers

Healingartsforthecure.square.site

[paaaaaaanic]

petrarca this night right now.. much interesting too... voi or you that in scattering rhymes listening to the sound - rime sparse il suono ascoltate is extraordinary - ond'io nudriva(=nutriva=fed in Italian) and onde=waves also... bye... joe...

[wolfclad]

✶ a small starter for @luminarot

The mountain village slept beneath the velvet stretch of night, its sparse lights glinting faintly through the darkened pines. Frigid air bit at their cheeks red as they trudged through the snow, their boots crunching a steady rhythm on the frost-rimed trail, their breath escaping them in short, silvery bursts. Cameron’s laugh broke the quiet first – a rich, unabashed sound that echoed through the stillness like a shot of whisky in the veins. Farkas, trailing a half-step behind, couldn’t help the crooked grin tugging at his lips as he watched Cameron swing an empty beer bottle in his hand, the last drops long gone, but the revelry still brewing in his veins.

“C’mon, wild thing, let’s get you home,” Farkas rumbled, his tone rough-edged but warm, as if his own gait wasn’t equally unsteady and liquor-laden.

Cameron halted abruptly, wheeling around with the drunken balance only the reckless seemed to master. His bluer-than-blue eyes, still sharp even in their haze, caught the moonlight filtering through the firs. Farkas felt his breath snare in his throat – a quiet, affectionate snag in his chest. The space between them seemed warmer suddenly, charged with the electric hum of proximity, and he stepped forward and curled his hands gently around Cameron’s shoulders.

“You need rest if you’re going to keep up with me tomorrow,” Farkas muttered, his breath curling with the ghost of a chuckle. Cameron, the decorated athlete, could out-board him even on three hours of sleep while rocking a hangover, but Farkas enjoyed this excuse to linger close, to tease.

[beppebort]

“A Dio”

bellissima poesia di Vittorio Gassman

Eri, come “La lettera smarrita” di Poe,

nello spazio impensato perché

scontato.

Eri e Sei – forse ora ho capito –

fra le parole che ho tanto usato e

osato;

sempre ci sei stato, eri li,

ci sei ancora e voglio decifrarti,

stanarti usando sì le parole ma in

modo

diverso e in diverso modo la follia,

il mestiere con cui la parola

mi diventa grafia, mania, modo,

vuoto suono ad effetto. E fola.

Solo quello so fare, solo lì

c’è speranza che Tu adesso compaia

perfetto,

se vuoi in rima, rimando con te stesso,

in un metro o in un altro. Tu

puoi innalzare al cielo qualunque

prosodia;

purché Tu appaia, le fruste parole

si fanno Parola, e col mio io

sepolto finalmente parlerai,

che mai è stato quel che era forse

destinato

ad essere, un io mancato, strangolato.

Parlami a perdifiato, Ti cedo

ogni suono o silenzio; e già ti vedo

emergere da quella pila di parole

inutilmente sparse nel cassetto,

cancellarne rime e rumore,

facendone linguaggio perfetto.

Cancella anche me, cambiami,

conducimi,

ritraducimi, parla Tu per sempre,

Signore.

(Vittorio Gassman)

Fonte: https://librariacultura.altervista.org/dio-la-bellissima-poesia-vittorio-gassman/amp/

[twintailedsiren]

Winged two tailed siren in the sky. Woodcut, Venice, 1537. From the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

A Venetian woodcut shows a lovely example of the two tailed siren. The poet, Pietro Aretino, is shown as a shepherd, singing to the siren from the ground. The object of his affection, Angela Serena, is an ethereal winged siren, flying in the clouds. Stars circle her, and her two tails curve gracefully around her arms. Also, this was likely a play on her last name, and the word sirena, Italian for siren. While Aretino was notorious in the Renaissance for writing erotica, his verse to Angela is quite lovely: 

“It is thanks to you, stars, that the lofty spheres, called the heavenly Sirens, not only granted her their name itself as an agreeable title, with beautiful proud notes; they even imprinted the sound of their perfect true harmonies on her clear and neat voice, with sublime sweetness, so that she speaks almost in the language of angels.” 

Unfortunately, as Angela was married, this poem and woodcut caused her a great deal of issues.

In ancient Greek art, sirens are usually shown with bird bodies, and the Scythian ancestral goddess, who likely influenced two tailed siren imagery, is sometimes shown with wings.

Compare this poem with Petrach's Rime sparse, who also wrote verse about a woman, likening her to a siren.

Sources

For the poem, see pages 143-144: Calogero, Elena Laura. ""Sweet Alluring Harmony": Heavenly and Earthly Sirens in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth Century Literary and Visual Culture." In Music of the Sirens, edited by Inna Naroditskaya and Linda Phyllis Austern, 140-75. Bloomington and Indiana: Indiana University Press, 2006.

See also, the MET website:

[shannonscommonplace]

I wept and sang; I cannot change my ways: but night and day the grief my soul collected I pour forth with my tongue and through my eyes

Petrarch

[doppisensi]

Voi ch’ascoltate in rime sparse il suono di quei sospiri ond’io nudriva ’l core in sul mio primo giovenile errore quand’era in parte altr’uom da quel ch’i’ sono

Francesco Petrarca, Canzoniere

[nightmarearian]

small doodle. ‘s ok.

I made both of them trans 🏳️‍⚧️ <3

Anyway, the ending “-re” is feminine, remove the “e” and it’s masculine so rn Arle’s name is Peruer

Peruere also means “to burn up, consume w/ fire, burn/scorch”

So conversely Wrio’s current name is “Pruina”, meaning rime/hoarfrost. Before that though, their birth parents (I’m going with part-Inazuman Wrio) named him Riko, meaning truth & honesty.

Wrio was a bit anxious/people pleaser for adults, between the slight abandonment issues and wanting to adopted/“a polite, proper, good kid”*, otherwise, they’re a usual cheery kid and a great older brother; They usually loses him anxiousness in front of adults when focusing on his siblings :)

*part grooming the children to be livestock; A good pet is obedient.

Arle is a pretty quiet & sorta solemn kid. Wrio attached to Arle in her first days cause she’s quiet (in case it’s just first few days at the orphanage) and Arle attaches to Wrio as she discovers his adult-anxiety + generally endears to her.

Eventually both of them particularly bond over their interests in psychology and then some other things ig lmao. Oh and Arle eventually gets her pet spider Bambi in the backyard 👍. Wrio doesn’t get it, but if it makes his sister happy :)

Wrio (and maybe Arle at the same time?) finds out the child trafficking, they’re also able to figure out, especially with Wrio’s age, he’s probably slated to be one of upcoming “adoptions”. Wrio doesn’t want Arle to, like, live on the streets or anything, and Arle eventually reluctantly agrees to stay, so Wrio escapes & lives homeless for a while (like a few months? At most a year. They’re hustling cause he wants to get back to Arle). Unfortunately in that time, the House of the Hearth/Crucabena picks Arle up, so when Wrio gets back Arle is gone.

Anyway, typical stuff backstory stuff w/ Arle & Wrio, they eventually meet after the 4.0 storyline (before when we see Arle & Neuvi exchange the gnosis) to wrap up stuff with her children, which is where they recognize each other.

Arle recognizes Wrio more than Wrio recognizes her, due to Arle’s more intense changes (black to white hair, dead eyes & crossed X eyes), but after a hot minute Wrio does recognize her.

They do… hesitantly breach from Wriothesley & Arlecchinno to Pruina & Peruere, though between schedule constraints and… everything, they really only leave it on a “we’ll meet again more in depth… at some point”.

Mostly Wrio & Arle are able to get closure (and mutual congratulations on the transition)

Wrio thought Arle was dead, and Arle, while able to eventually find out about Wrio’s murders (“Good job, brother,”) and conviction (“Hmph. Fontaine’s ‘justice’…”) wasn’t able to find anything else from there, due to the name change. (The Duke of Meropide is largely a hidden and unknown figure, after all)

Unfortunately, the most they can do is have the (verrrry) rare meet up and sparse letters. The letters are probably personally delivered by Fatui agents/Hearth children, for security’s sake btw.

Wrio understands, even if they both regret the scarcity of it. They allude to it verrry slightly, saying he discovered an old friend/sibling to Neuvi or another friend or smth, but that would be about it - doesn’t elaborate.

Though, I’d like to think at the end of the entire storyline, after the Harbingers are assumably finished w/ the Tsaritsa’s anti-Celestia(?) plot*, Wrio & Arle are able to properly meet & hang out. Maybe get some matching jewelry (slowly have Arle be able to transition back into Peruere), maybe find some of their other siblings.

*whether or not they stay in the harbingers is something different, I guess? I’m sure the main reason to have 11 very powerful commanders was for the Tsaritsa’s plan and everything, so I don’t know if all of them would stay afterwards. I’m sure it’s a “depends” thing.

Also, Wrio is so happy they’re an uncle lol :)

Lynette, Arle, & Wrio all have tea together 🍵

I want Arle & Wrio to be estranged siblings I’m begging please

[theseasquallgirl]

Petrarca, Rerum vulgarium fragmenta.