#setting: germany

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

[obscurehistoricalinterests]

Meissen Forget-Me-Not coffee and tea set, Germany.

[void-and-virtue]

Imagine the Monsters watching soccer together during the start of Kevin’s stay in Palmetto bc Nicky is a fan thanks to Erik and being cooked in the living in Germany soup for like a year and it just ends up as

Andrew: Hey Kevin look, look, a sport that doesn't even need hands, maybe a new career for you?

Kevin, hand still in a cast, bristling: Fuck you

[die-rosastrasse]

Pfunds Molkerei, Dresden

This lovely place was used as one of the film locations for 'Grand Budapest Hotel' (2014) as the Mendl's bakery. This unique dairy store was established in 1880 and kept its original interior with hand painted decorative tiles.

Analog photographs by me, IX 2022

[notbecauseofvictories]

wild to turn on a German movie from 1931 and encounter not just a clear predecessor for all the detective procedurals that dominate our modern-day airwaves, but also......Mickey Mouse???

[benevolenterrancy]

@planningconquest suggested I draw klink bumbling into one of the Heroes' traps, so here he is, kicking up a fuss as per the norm

[tangerinefluff]

japan vs argentina (men’s) in a while and im not sure im ready for this drama

[almostarts]

Josef Hartwig, Bauhaus Chess Set,

Bauhaus Weimar, Germany, 1923,

Carved and painted pearwood wood, beachwood, brass,

2½ h × 5¼ w × 5¼ d in (6 × 13 × 13 cm)

[phoenixyfriend]

Watching a movie, called "Army of Thieves." I have not heard of this film before. Netflix suggested it based on my last watch (Mr. Right). The summary as presented on Netflix:

"A cool, crafty thief assembles a crew of Interpol's most-wanted criminals for an impossible heist. Her ace in the hole? A nerdy bank teller named Dieter."

Things the summary does not mention: This is a zombie apocalypse film. There are zombies on the news and in the halls. It is a prequel to Army of the Dead.

[lesbianfakir]

Ok tumblrinas what are some of your fav more obscure fairytales? And by more obscure I’m being loose with it I mean like. Not cinderella. Bonus points for being from something other than white European culture. Folktales would be lovely as long as I can draw from them in a tasteful way

[hydravns]

TOM WLASCHIHA as HAGEN FORSTER in DAS BOOT (2018) Dir. Tony Saint & Johannes W. Betz

01x02: Geheime Missionen

[gobs-o-dice]

Dice Set #249: Amber Triband

[ehlnofay]

Summerfest Day 7 - FALLEN

It’s quiet, in the throne room; would be a nice change of pace if it wasn’t so concerning.

But quiet is a bad tip-off. It’s not just noise-quiet – it feels empty, stagnant, with no wardens to mark it or guests to fill it up. The tiles of the floor meet at gleaming intersections; the branches of the throne do not rustle. Even the odd little rivers flowing into their drains don’t burble as much as they usually would, the grout in their base shining white and fresh-smelling. Pax’s boots, with curves of metal like horseshoes built into their thick soles, click loudly against the stone.

Something’s wrong.

Fuck.

Pax shoves her way into the room anyway, her blood-red fish leathers stinking of sweat, the dark drape of her clothes badly in need of a wash. Mud on her stockings. Plait messy. They weren’t even away from the city for long, this time – just enough time to get to Brellach, get done with it, get back, ready to report what happened even if Haskill never has anything to say and it’s 50/50 whether, at any given time, Sheogorath cares – he came out of the woods off-road and walked straight through the city, legs burning, the colours of that strange sunlight church-fire casting unearthly shadows all over, to get quickly back to the throne room. (Force of habit, he supposes; and then, shut the fuck up.) But the room is quiet; the throne, for the first time Pax has ever seen it, is empty.

There’s a figure standing in front of it, its back to her; its skin is familiarly tanned, long dark hair twisted into a neat braid down the length of its spine. Its boxy dress hangs straight down, colour swimming like the grey streaks in marble, the shape of it stiff as marble, too, as if carved by an unskilled sculptor. Haskill stands a ways away from it, watching it with beady eyes, looking grim, though in all his pressed black regalia it’s hard to say whether that’s even remotely different from normal. Pax’s steps ring out through the cavernous room; the figure doesn’t turn.

“Sheogorath,” says Pax. It’s fifteen full seconds before there’s any response.

“Camilla,” says Sheogorath, airy-voiced; the vowels are dragged out, with none of the lilt it puts on for the Gentleman, or the clipped edges it offers when wearing her face. Even still, it does not move a muscle. “I fear I’ve failed you.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“I’m sorry.” But it’s not clear if that’s a response to what he said, or just a general statement, an admission of guilt or pity or something along those lines applicable to any situation. It still doesn’t move, voice drifting airy and small in the cavern of the hall. “I meant there to be more time. Artificial construct. Arbitrary system. It wasn’t supposed to close down on us like this. But we’re out of time. Where’s my staff, Haskill?”

“My lord,” Haskill says, inflectionless.

“Where’s my staff? What –” and then it moves, quick and jagged as lightning, the fabric of its dress turning all at once like a solid object, its plait sticking stiff at sharp angles until it settles again down the straight column of its spine. “What is this, Haskill? It’s dead. It’s dead. There’s nothing there.” In its harsh-knuckled hands, it holds a polished-smooth cane, like the Gentleman’s but less… curly. Its handle is filmed over.

“You’re talking nonsense,” Pax says.

“Am I?” Sheogorath asks, looking them in the face; there’s something about the eyes – “Good. Good. At least some things are right with the world.” They’re plain, Pax realises, and a shudder creeps its way unregarded down their back. The Mad God’s eyes are not any kind of colour they can pinpoint but you know them when you see them – so often, they’re the only thing in the maniacal shifting and changing that holds. They’re different, now. There’s nothing there. It says, “I was going to give you my staff. Teach you… but it’s dead. It’s dead. What does that make me?”

Even the throne doesn’t rustle; even the waters don’t chatter as they run. Sheogorath hasn’t changed once since Pax arrived here; he looks into his own face, the lines of his cheeks and his jaw just a mite too sharp, eyes wide and flat, hair perfectly neat.

“Calm down,” they tell it, even as something curls ugly in their stomach, “we’ll figure –”

“I’m calm,” says Sheogorath. “Is that not the problem?”

“We’ll figure something out,” Pax insists.

“Cute,” Sheogorath says, with the least enthusiasm they’ve ever heard it say anything. It tips its head; the braid hangs jagged and off-centre, a polished clump of something more solid than hair. “I would tell you to run, but it won’t do any good.”

The throne room feels sharper than it’s supposed to, and cleaner, something in the air pressure shifting enough to set her ears ringing. Pax takes a step closer to this strange, stationary Sheogorath. “Calm down,” she repeats, “get your shit together – or apart, I guess, since it’s you –”

“You would have been so good at it,” Sheogorath says, “holding onto it for me.” Its voice is too blank to read much of anything in. “I would have been free. We all would have been free.”

Pax shakes his head, trying his best to dislodge the ringing. “You’re talking nonsense,” he says again.

“I was so sure it would stop the echoing,” it says, distant, “but now you will die with the rest, and I –”

“Sheogorath,” says Pax. She’s not sure why.

“A mad god,” it says, “of a dead realm. Again, and again, and again.”

The cane crumbles into smoke in its hand; it tips its head down at it, ambivalent, at the same time as Haskill lunges at Pax – catches them just off-guard enough – knocks them, kicking and scratching, to the floor. Sheogorath shines like polished metal. Pax’s head feels so packed full it aches.

“You should look away,” Sheogorath says, calm as crystal, right as Haskill crams the heel of his hand against their eyes; “I’m going to die now.”

The pressure in their ears bursts.

When Haskill eventually peels his baby-soft palm from Pax’s face, there’s blood dribbling bright and coppery from their nose and every sound feels ocean-distant. There is not so much as a crack in the perfect, shining tile. Sheogorath is gone.

[jewishbarbies]

y’all. my grandmother (the confirmed jewish one) just gifted me a tea set manufactured in mid-1920’s germany? she bought it specifically for me? I’ve been all but no contact with her for at least a couple years now but my parents went to visit and she sent it back with them. I’m conflicted.

[movietonight]

I still don't understand why anyone would want to skip seasons on a first watch through of any show let alone mash

[thephantomofanastasia]

Additional photos from the production of Anastasia the Musical at the University of Mainz in Germany.

Photo credit: vidhyavictoria on IG