#she’s beauty and brilliance and bravery || portraits

[ampleappleamble]

part 1 here

content warning: (imagined) dubiously consentual sexual activity, blood, consumption of gore, vomit

—

By the time he climbed into bed that night, Vatnir had read the chronicle thrice, cover to cover, and the sections concerning the Watcher of Caed Nua at least ten times over. It had been a simple matter to feign a debilitating episode of some vague malady during his midday sermon and thus forge an excuse to sequester himself in his quarters to "rest" while he devoured the book whole, over and over. He'd even gone so far as to forego his evening meal in favor of another reread, although he was too giddy to have much of an appetite anyway. Bela had spoken true for once– it was a fascinating tale, full of tragedies and triumphs and stakes that rose ever higher. Evidently, Dyrwoodan politics was much more dramatic and wrought with intrigue than he'd believed possible from a backwards nation full of hot-headed hayseeds.

He'd been surprised, too, to see a familiar name amongst the motley cast of farmers, tribals, diplomats and animancers: Glasvahl, the very man whose pilgrimage to Eir Glanfath had inspired him to sail to this deplorable iceberg all those years ago. He was just as shocked to find that Glasvahl's story was not only completely factual, but that the Watcher of Caed Nua had been directly involved in thwarting his clan's long anticipated passage into the White Void, as it turned out that she had personally sealed the Frost-Hewn Breach with an artifact bestowed upon her by Rymrgand himself. That little detail must have gotten lost somewhere between mouth and ear and had never quite made it to him in the version he'd heard, or else he simply hadn't thought it terribly important at the time and had forgotten it. He certainly wouldn't have let it slip his mind had he known then how important this Watcher really was, how powerful.

How beautiful.

He settled back into the fur-laden canoe that served as his bed and held the book as close as a lover, open facedown on his chest. There had been a few other illustrations of her throughout, depictions of her and her retinue performing various incredible acts of heroism, but it was the portrait, of course, that he pressed now to his heart, the portrait that made that heart leap and flutter inside him every time he looked at it.

Gods, what had gotten into him? His winters in this world spanned a century and then some, and here he was, lusting after some pretty young thing like a boy who had just sprouted his first wispy beard. It was utterly unlike him, and so he felt obliged to try to make sense of it. Much of her appeal, he figured, must lie in her exoticism– he'd only ever seen a handful of orlans throughout his life, and he'd had never actually had the opportunity to interact with one, so the air of mystery made her that much more alluring. Her coloration was enticingly evocative of the heat and brilliance of an open flame, a welcome change from the tedious blues and greys to which he was so accustomed, and he couldn't help but wonder how it might feel to run his hand over living fur for a change. Even putting aside her physical assets, if she had truly performed even a fraction of the deeds ascribed to her in her partial biography, then she was not only a woman of exceptional beauty, but one of strength, cunning, and bravery as well. And he couldn't help but be impressed– to the point of intimidation, even– by her many laudable accomplishments: she was a scholar, a chanter, a thaynu (whatever that meant), a warrior, a walker between worlds, a champion of the common kith, a woman who had treated with the gods themselves, a dragonslayer–

Phlegm rumbled in Vatnir's throat as he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. He knew that on some level, this childish infatuation wasn't about her, not really. It was about the idea of her, of a person with the potential to change everything for him– if only she should ever have a reason to. He didn't want her so much as he wanted her strength, her courage, her help in unraveling the twisted mess he'd made of his life. To him, she wasn't just a woman, she was a way out.

He chuckled wryly to himself as a ridiculous idea struck him. Ha! Maybe I ought to write to her. "Dear Watcher of Caed Nua: I have read of your many magnificent feats, and verily have you enchanted me. I would seek your assent to bond yourself to me in your Dyrwoodan custom of matrimony, but first I wonder if you might assist me with a small problem I have regarding an undead dragon..."

But no sooner had he dismissed the prospect as laughably absurd than he started to seriously consider it. What if, despite the puerile waste of time he knew it to be, he wrote to her anyway? What if, against all odds, she should actually answer such a missive? Gods, what if she came? What if she actually sailed to the Floe– doubtlessly in a majestic Vailian three-master that bristled with cannons and swarmed with servants– and she somehow used her incredible Watcher abilities to locate the dragon's lair, marching straight to it and boring into the very core of its monstrous soul with her piercing violet eyes before lopping off its head with one deft swing of her mighty sword?

And... what if he could then manage to convince or beg or cajole her into taking him with her when she left again? He imagined her leading him by the hand up the gangplank to her ship, inviting him into the captain's cabin for a welcoming libation. She'd pass him a bottle, take a drag off of her pipe and pass that to him too, still moist and warm from her mouth. And then... oh, then she'd smile at him seductively, her full, glossy lips parting just so, and she'd unbuckle her shining silver breastplate and let it fall, revealing the curves of her body underneath... and then...

The bandages wrapped around his hips suddenly felt uncomfortably tight.

Well, now. Not about her, is it?

He groaned miserably, the yawning void inside him aching now with want, and he cursed himself for his foolishness. No, it was not about her. It was about him. About his cowardice, his selfishness, his ineptitude. He was the reason everyone who came to this gods-cursed iceberg was going to die, crushed underfoot or blasted apart or torn asunder in the dragon's jaws– Hel, he was the reason they kept coming here in the first place– and he was too craven and pathetic to even allow himself to accept responsibility for the ceaseless slaughter, let alone try to put a stop to it. So he soothed his guilty conscience by indulging in a juvenile fantasy wherein he would somehow facilitate some impossible scenario that miraculously absolved him of all duty, all effort, all accountability, and then he generously rewarded himself for his ingenuity with a woman to gift him his heart's every desire. In reality, she'd probably sooner run him through than even think of permitting him entry into her cabin, and dying on her sword was one of the better possible outcomes of such a preposterous, futile scheme. It was far more likely he'd just get her killed too, if she bothered to answer his summons at all, and then he'd be right back where he started, his will to carry on depleted just that much more, another small part of him dying along with that distant, desperate hope.

So he clenched his jaw and tried to forget about it, tried to ignore the lingering arousal that still clung to his body like wet clothes, and he hunkered down in his little canoe, seeking solace in sleep.

He'd almost drifted off when he heard the distinctive click of the door to his quarters latching shut.

In the Land, living tended to be communal in nearly every aspect. Everything was, by necessity, shared– food, tools, medicine, fire– to conserve what scarce resources the clan managed to wrest from the ice or pluck out of the sea. This attitude extended to living spaces and clanmates, too, so no one walked alone, ate alone, bathed alone, slept alone. No one but Vatnir. He was special, different, leader and teacher and speaker for their god. It wouldn't be proper to treat him the same as any other ordinary elf. And of course, there was a practical angle to consider as well– it did no one in the clan any good to eat or bathe or sleep next to a man who turned stomachs and stoked fever simply by virtue of his presence. So it was only natural that he stand apart from the others, exalted and exiled both. In his younger years it had tormented him, this glorified ostracism, but with age had come grudging acceptance and eventually, wisdom. He had learned to cherish the privacy he had that few others did, to use it to his advantage, and so he had known that when he'd requested his personal quarters be fitted with a door, there would be no objections. In fact, he'd been given the very best door scavenged from the boat they'd used to sail to the Floe– the door to the former captain's cabin, one with a simple latching mechanism connected to the handle. But it had been installed before they'd known the severity of the iceberg's constantly growing and changing geography, so eventually the floor of the settlement warped, causing his door to latch only when very forcefully pulled from inside the threshold. So to hear his door close and latch, he knew, could mean only one thing: someone was in here with him.

Everyone in the clan had been in his quarters at least once– it was practically a rite of passage for fresh arrivals to the Watch to assist the High Harbinger when the time next came to clean his wounds and change his bandages, to acquaint themselves personally, intimately, with the living proof of Rymrgand's dominion over all. In lieu of any newcomers, the task usually fell to Valbrendhür, but Hafjórn filled in most of the time when the old man was unavailable, although everyone in the clan had done their duty. (He still cringed to remember when it had been poor, innocent Brythe's turn, how the girl hadn't been able to look him in the eye for weeks afterward.) In any case, a clan member joining him in his room after dark with neither permission nor forewarning was unprecedented and not a little alarming, so he quickly tucked his book behind him as he sat up to see who it–

Who–

Vatnir froze. It was not Valbrendhür or Hafjórn or Brythe. It was not a member of his clan at all.

A woman stood at the door to his quarters, an orlan woman with tawny skin and golden fur and fiery red hair that, bizarrely, floated about her as though she was underwater. He gawked at her, utterly stunned, his heart hammering wildly in his chest, his breath quick and shallow.

She was completely naked.

It wasn't real. It couldn't be. This couldn't be happening, it was impossible, made no sense whatsoever. This must be a dream, or a hallucination, or– or a vision, oh, gods, a real one? But what could it mean? Why her? Why–

He watched as the woman's hand slid off of the door's handle and fell to her hip. She turned slowly to face him.

And when she saw him, she smiled.

Oh gods, oh gods, oh–

It all certainly felt dreamlike, what with the eerie way she glided gracefully across the room, gradually closing the distance between the two of them. But it felt too real to be a dream, although not quite real enough to be real. Her form seemed to shimmer and shift before his eyes, and the dim light from his hearth didn't quite correspond with the shadows on her body, as though she were instead illuminated from within. Her hair drifted and swam in the air, hanging like a cloud of red smoke around her head and shoulders, mercifully obscuring her eyes, sparing him the terrible brilliance of her gaze. He could only just barely endure beholding her as she was, if he had to see those striking violet eyes looking at him, into him– oh, gods, he couldn't bear it.

A moment passed, and suddenly she was standing before him at the foot of his bed, close enough for him to reach out and nudge her with his toe– if he could actually bring himself to move at all. The most he could do was stare in abject fear and awe at the otherworldly spectacle before him, trembling in every limb.

"Vatnir."

Her voice was smooth and hot and slick, like fresh blood gushing from a slit throat.

Pleasure and terror entwined shot throughout his body like lightning, electrifying every nerve ending in him, and he shuddered obscenely in response. He did not, could not answer her.

Her smile broadened slightly, and there was something dangerous behind it, something cold and predatory. She laid her hands against her sternum, pressing them between her perfect breasts.

"I know your heart, child of dusk. Long have you yearned for the warmth of another."

A great plume of steam gushed forth from her mouth as she spoke, and it cascaded over the bewildered priest, obscuring his vision. When he could see again, she had produced a living heart, held like a sacrificial offering in her upturned hands. It burned with a flame that spat and sparked, hotter and brighter than any torch.

"You would have my heart beat next to yours. And I would have the same."

She thrust the flaming heart at him, and instinctively, he flinched away from it. Her soft laughter was like broken glass scraping stone.

"But wisely, you see that if I were to place it beside yours as it is now, it would reduce you to cinders."

She shifted slightly, and before he could blink she was in the canoe with him, one foot on either side of him. He knew orlans to be small in stature, but she seemed to tower over him as tall as any adra titan.

"You know what you must do, then, if you wish for my conjugality."

She shifted again, and suddenly she was on her knees, straddling him. This close, he could feel the blistering heat radiating from her, from the heart that lay in her palms, but the breath that brushed across his chin and naked gums was as cold as the winds of the Void. He dimly felt his teeth start to chatter.

"Smother it in the snow. Purge its impurities. Extinguish it, and my heart shall be yours, as shall I. Until the end of all things."

She forced the burning heart into his mouth.

He tried to scream, but only the hiss of sizzling flesh issued forth from him. The pain was blinding, but oddly, it only lasted an instant– and then the taste of blood filled his mouth, rank and coppery, and he choked and gagged on it as he writhed beneath her. Despite his best efforts to reject the foul meal, his body turned traitor and he swallowed against his will, a liquid warmth flooding into him, burning all the way down his throat, tingling in his joints and extremities, throbbing in his belly, leaving him feeling drunk, disoriented, sick. She cupped his face in her hands, ember hot and sticky with half-dried blood.

"You understand now the risks. Do you accept my terms, child of dusk? Will you treat with me?"

It was phrased as a request, but it was definitely a command. Her voice thundered in his ears, shook his bones, drove tears to his eyes. She gripped him by the horns that jutted from his jaws and pulled him close, closer, ever closer.

"Yes," he breathed. There was nothing else he could say. The heat of her heart inside him roiled and swelled.

"Then," she whispered, her chill breath raising goosebumps on his neck, "beg for me."

He swallowed again, thickly, choking off a groan, gasping for breath like a dying animal. She was so, so close now...

"Please–" he managed.

It was enough.

She did not fall onto him so much as into him, her body slamming into his with the force of a burning building collapsing into itself, pressing the breath from his lungs. She drove herself against him, her thighs sliding against his crotch, her belly filling the hollow of his own, her wild hair lighting on his face and crown and horns like drifting embers. She lifted her face to meet his gaze– he caught a glimpse of blue, ice blue glinting beneath the fiery locks– and then wrenched his head down to her level, crushing her mouth into his, forcing his jaw open, her breath still ice cold but her tongue red hot inside him.

And he moaned at last, sweat beading on his brow, heat and chill churning within him like a fever, the molten heat of her mouth crawling down into his stomach to mingle with the fire of her heart, and then back up through his veins to ignite the very tips of him, like how it felt when his fingers regained feeling again after the numbness of the cold had worn off. He was suddenly very acutely aware of what felt like a long, hot stone pressed into the flesh of his inner thigh, and his knees trembled as he thrusted timidly but insistently against her, his whole body aching for release, her horrible, haunting laughter ringing in his ears–

And he jolted awake as a pair of strong, heavy hands shook him hard enough to make his teeth rattle and his head snap painfully back and forth on his neck.

"High Harbinger! The Messenger! The Messenger is here!" Hafjórn's voice rang out far too loudly in the tiny room, his pale grey eyes glinting with fervor. Vatnir bit back a cry of shock, managing to only sputter and cough instead.

"What–" He could still taste her blood in his mouth, could still feel the warmth, the yearning ebbing throughout his body. "The– what? Who? The–"

Hafjórn looked at him as though he'd just asked what snow was. "The– the Messenger! Did you not feel his holy presence?" As if on cue, the structure shuddered around them as the ground rumbled and quaked from an incredible force crashing into it.

Oh, gods, it's back.

"I– y-yes, of course," he stuttered, panic rising in his gullet. "I just– I was just dreaming, just now, of... his resplendence. It– it must be a sign. A holy premonition. Of course."

Hafjórn's eyes widened with awe, then shone with admiration for his blessed leader. "Of course!" he cried, clasping his hands together in front of himself, enraptured. "Oh, glory be to Rymrgand!"

"Glory be," Vatnir echoed numbly. "G-go forth, brother, and meet our lord's servant. I must–" skyt, he had to think of something, quickly– "I... m-must tend to myself before I join you. My dream was... powerful, vivid. It... affected me. Physically." He hunched over, clutching at his stomach and throat, and gave a very convincing performance of a dry heave, praying that Hafjórn would take the hint and leave instead of, gods forbid, offering to help.

The other man winced beneath his roughly stitched-together hood– gods, did he sleep in the thing?– and hurriedly rose to his feet as the ground shook beneath them again. "Oh! Uh– certainly, High Harbinger. By all means, take your time. I, uh, I'll just... make sure the others devote themselves properly to worship until you arrive!" He shuffled awkwardly backwards to the open door, bowed his head quickly, and retreated into the hallway.

Vatnir waited for Hafjórn's footsteps to fully fade before he scrambled for the switch hidden inside the aurochs skull above his bed.

He managed to hold it together until after he'd gotten the sliding wall back into place, until he was safe, alone in his hidden room. He'd been numb and detached, his mind shocked into merciful silence and his body relying entirely on muscle memory– right up until he noticed that in his stupor, he'd unconsciously taken the fucking book with him, was cradling it against his chest again, like a child with a security blanket. His hands spasmed and he dropped it on the floor, staring vacantly ahead as the full horror of the harrowing experience struck him, little by little, piling on more and more, like a burgeoning avalanche, just waiting for something to give way–

He glanced down to see that the book had landed on its spine, had fallen open to display the portrait of the Watcher of Caed Nua.

He staggered to the other side of the room, fell to his hands and knees, and vomited.

And when he'd finished, he crawled beneath the table, thick cords of drool laced with snot and bile trailing from his ruined mouth, and he curled up into himself, shaking almost as hard as the walls around him were. What was that... that waking nightmare, that mad, spiraling delusion? It was unlike any dream he'd ever had, and Nyvardir allegedly kept his beer free of hallucinogens. He could only conclude it must be a vision, but Rymrgand had never seen fit to send him visions before, and if that was the first, he never wanted to go through another. What kind of lesson was he supposed to derive from that? What did it all mean? Was it a warning of some sort? An omen? A–

–I know your heart–

A punishment.

Vatnir twitched, and his gaze fell again on the book, still lying open on the floor where he'd left it. Of course that's what it was. Divine retribution. He had profaned this holy place with his lies, spilled the blood of his kin, traded away sacred scripture for worldly frivolites. And now he was reaping the rewards of his blasphemy– a vicious, sinister mockery of his deepest and most secret desire sent to humiliate and torture him, a message that his transgressions against his clan and his god had not gone unnoticed. Something between a sigh and a sob shuddered up out of him, and he pressed his masked face into his hands, as though he could hide from the revelation.

–smother it in the snow–

And then anger, righteous and indignant, boiled up inside him.

He had never asked for this, this clan, this body, this life. And yet, because he bore the Beast's mark, he was expected to endure without complaint, without even the most remote hope of the smallest sliver of relief, ever? That he was, in fact, expected to rejoice in his curse, to celebrate the fact that he would suffer, more and more, every day, until his inevitable death? He couldn't accept that, couldn't bear the notion that to live like this was his fate, indelible, inescapable. And as for his clan's jommydra, what else was he supposed to trade with? He had no other bargaining chips, no way to earn coin by laboring or stealing or fighting. He'd even gone so far as to weave flaws into his copies, glaring omissions and outright falsehoods to throw anyone who might actually be able to read it off his trail, to obscure and protect his clan's true lore. It wasn't as though Maribel or her customers would know the difference. And even if he hadn't, wouldn't that have been a small price for the clan to pay to afford him, their beloved scapegoat, the briefest reprieve from his constant agony? He had nothing else, barely even had the faculties to enjoy what little he could get his hands on, and now the Beast would deprive him of even his fantasies? How dare he try to take this from him, how dare Rymrgand send him a vision like that when all he had ever done since he'd first drawn breath was serve to the best of his ability, whether he'd wanted to or not–

–will you treat with me–

Vatnir sat a while, rage and fear and frustration washing over him in great waves as the tremors that shook his walls slowly grew fewer and further between. And when they stopped at last, when the dragon finally ceased its assault and again retreated back to wherever it had come from, he slowly clambered out from beneath the table and rose to his feet, his hands clenched into shaking fists at his sides.

A plan was forming in his mind.

Maribel and her sister were at least punctual, if little else. They would be back in a month. That might be enough time to come up with something. A story, backed up by some obscure myth or fable that he'd not used in any sermons yet, something to explain why this outsider has come to the Watch, why she must do battle with the Messenger. He was reminded, vaguely, of a half-remembered tale he'd once read about a messianic figure of some sort, a warrior who had befriended death and walked hand in hand with it, bringing cleansing oblivion wheresoever they trod–

–child of dusk–

Yes. Yes, he could work with that. He'd have a lot more planning to do, a good bit of reading, a little serious acting. But he was practically an expert at all that by now.

Reluctant but resolute, he plodded over to the book and rescued it from the floor, handling it with as much care and respect as his shaking hands could provide. He carried it to the table and propped it up, still open on the Watcher's portrait, so that she could inspire him as he sat down across from her and got to work, rummaging through his things for his writing kit.

It could work. It would work. He'd make it work, no matter how much he had to lie and cheat and beg. He lit a stumpy candle and fitted the heating dish for his sealing wax above the flame, carefully spread a thin slice of cream-colored leather out in front of him, and with a practiced hand and a jagged fingernail, he opened an old wound and dipped the nib of his quill into the blood that welled up from it.

The first step in his plan, he'd decided, was to write a letter.

—

"You're sure it's hers?"

Marri squinted at the vessel she'd pulled up alongside, her ledgers and cargo manifests forgotten for the moment. The enormous galleon dwarfed her tiny sloop, and although her eyesight wasn't what it used to be, she could still make out the name painted on the side of the hull: Hyridh ix Ensios.

Bela didn't bother looking up from her recently returned copy of New Legends of the Eastern Reach. "It's hers," she assured the Endings godlike, casually turning another page. "Zamar may be old, but his memory hasn't failed him quite yet. She commissioned it right after her return from Hasongo, he told me, and now it's just about finished. Distinctive name, isn't it?"

Six beady magenta eyes rolled in unison. 'It's nonsensical," Marri grunted. "And it doesn't tell us where the captain of this newly commissioned ship is, either."

With a huff, Bela slammed her book shut, shooting a glare at her decrepit sister. "You truly do think me a fool, don't you, Maribel?"

"Can you blame me?" Marri snarled, glowering right back at the bigger woman. "First, you let that horrible priest have that precious book of yours that you keep boasting about having lifted from that Waelite temple every chance you–"

"I lent it to him!" Bela protested. "And in case you haven't noticed, I got it back. And I wouldn't have had to lend it out at all if someone hadn't smoked all the good whiteleaf before we got to–"

Marri swatted at her dismissively. "Bah! You're lucky he gave it back, postenago, and luckier still he managed to restrain himself from befouling it with any of his myriad discharge." She shuddered with disgust, spitting a wad of phlegm on the floor of the cabin at the mere thought. "And then, you accepted his request to deliver this ridiculous thing to the most sought-after kith in the Deadfire– and for no extra charge!" She held the aforementioned burden aloft in her gnarled hand: a thin scroll of tanned hide, sealed with azure wax that had been stamped with the emblem of the aurochs.

Bela pouted, twisting a thin, wiry flower stem between her forefinger and her thumb. "I... oh, I felt bad for him, serre," she mumbled. "He looked worse off than usual this last time, all pale and haggard. And when it comes to him, that's saying something." She winced and lowered her voice, as though discussing a deathly ill family member just outside their sickroom: "He said the dragon came again. Killed eleven of his followers. And there I was, come to snatch away the only token he had of his sweetheart..." She smirked and gently patted the book's cover, unable to help herself.

"You're a child," Marri snapped, "and so is he. And you still haven't told me how we're supposed to track down this Watcher he wants us to give this stupid thing to." She sneered down at the little scroll, scratching at an open sore beneath one of her curving black horns. "Doubtlessly it's just some insipid love letter anyway. We should have thrown it into the sea as soon as we–"

"Calloste!" One of Bela's long doe's ears twitched, and she rushed to the cabin's open door, listening intently.

A woman's voice raised in song, clearly well-trained... a shanty, one known to be a favorite of–

Bela laughed triumphantly. "We will find her," she chirped as she yanked the scroll from her sister's knobbly fingers, "by finding her ship first, of course, and waiting for her to return to it. As she is now."  With that, she rushed out of the cabin, bounding eagerly after her quarry, and Marri only sighed and shook her head as she turned to the cabin's tiny window and watched her sister flounce up the pier.

The Watcher was not difficult for Bela to catch up to, and she seemed pleasant enough, despite displaying the slightly stiff and formal demeanor befitting a woman of her station. She accepted the scroll graciously, and although her eyes hardened a bit when she noticed the symbol of Rymrgand embossed in the wax seal, she still thanked Bela, tipped her generously, and then continued on her way like any other customer. Marri noted with glee how the orlan stood just a bit too close to the dark-haired elf accompanying her, and laughed out loud when she slipped an arm around his waist after Bela had turned away from them. Ha! Serves that priest right, the little creep.

As soon as Bela stepped back into the cabin, Marri turned to her, her snaggletoothed mouth twisted into a petulant scowl. "You're splitting that money with me," she demanded.

"I wouldn't dream of keeping it all to myself, dear sister," Bela cooed, snapping a bronze ōa in half and tossing the skinny woman her share. "So you saw her? She's a magnificent little woman, ac? And her beau! So handsome, but so austere." She laughed as she stuffed the money into her coin pouch. "Poor Vatnir! Cuckolded before he could even introduce himself to her!"

"Yes, yes, it's all very amusing, I'm sure," Marri grumbled, cramming her paperwork back into her desk drawer and taking up her spyglass and sexton. "Now, if you're finished playing errand girl, can we get back to building our trade empire and earning our tickets back to the Republics, if it's not too much trouble for you?"

Bela rolled her eyes and shouted the order to lift anchor, and in minutes, their little sloop was in open water again, speeding off toward the next opportunity.

Nothing holding us back now, she thought, and a chill wind filled their sails, carrying them off into the blood red horizon.

—

[thcbeautywithin]

Tag dump

all rose and honey || aesthetic beauty of all literature || quotes she’s beauty and brilliance and bravery || portraits if only I could wish your kiss was not a falling star || beast music is the literature of the heart || melodies behind the beauty || headcanons honey and wildfire are both colour gold || about beautiful things have dents and scratches too || inspiration heart of gold and stardust soul || headcanons beauty is truth, truth beauty that’s all you need to know || answers  pursuit of truth and beauty || ask memes

[the-essence-of-a-complex-soul]

What I think Hope-Swan Jones will be:

Her eyes as blue as the sea,

Her skin as fair as snow,

Her hair as golden as the sun.

She was a quiet soul, and her sheer brilliance and beauty astonished those around her. But for the most part, she was a living portrait of her mother, and had inherited Emma’s features, blonde hair, and personality. But she had Killian’s eyes.

I would expect Hope to be really quiet when she is young, like Killian was when he was young. But as she grows older, I expect for her to open herself up more and learn to put herself out there. 

I think that Hope, being more like Emma, would definitely be more like a princess than a pirate. I expect her to love castles, balls, dresses, and love living a royal life. I often think that people forget that her roots are from the Enchanted Forest, and she is part of the Royal Family, as well as a Royal princess of the United Realms. I hate when people try to make her all modern, because she is not. She is so much more than that. She is a Royal Princess for God’s sake, and most importantly a Charming, and people just completely forget about her heritage and try to make her as an ordinary, common girl. Well she is not. She is special.

And why is she special, may you ask? Because firstly, she is the daughter of the legendary Savior and Captain-Hook, a pirate-princess, the granddaughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, as well as the product of two generations of true love. She has the strongest light magic in all the realms, and her beauty enamors and enhances those around her.

Obviously she has magic. SHE IS THE PRODUCT OF TRUE LOVE AND HER MOM IS THE SAVIOR. She has strong light magic, and I hate how people just completely brush that off. Magic runs in her family, and I expect Regina, Emma, and Elsa to all teach her magic and help her control her powers, since they are tied to emotions.

I would expect Hope to be a huge book worm. While her parents are discussing things at the Sheriff’s Station, Hope would curl up in a corner all day and read continuously. She also would be a huge day dreamer, and would always doze off and delicately observe things around her.

Being the daughter of Captain Hook, I would expect her to have a large temper. She is also extremely tough, and hardly ever cries. She also fiercely loves her family and friends with all her heart, and will do anything to protect them and insure their safety. 

She also has a sense of justice. Anytime she sees anything unfair happening, she would never by stand. Her courageousness and bravery allowed her to stand up for anyone. Everyone knows not to mess with Hope Swan-Jones, unless you want you front teeth to be knocked out.

I expect Hope to have a strong and fierce connection with the sea. She would have a little secret hide-out by the ocean, where she would store her most prized possessions.I expect her to just spend hours in front of the sea, pouring her head over books and daydreaming away.

I also expect Hope’s best friends to be Melody (Ariel’s daughter), who is a red-head and part mermaid, as well as Elsa’s daughter, who inherited her mother’s pale blonde hair and her ice powers. Since Melody would be half-mermaid, every time her feet touches the sea, her legs would turn into a mermaid’s tail. I expect her and Hope to go swimming all the time, and Melody would swim so fast and far that Hope would have trouble keeping up!

Also, being the daughter of a feisty Savior and the fierce Captain Hook, Hope has an adventurous side. She would often sneak out and venture off to many realms as a child. She and Elsa’s daughter, both being users of magic, would defeat any monster or source of Evil that comes their way. I expect her to go on many adventures, like Henry did, and be the hero and save everyone, since she comes from a family of heroes anyways.

I also expect to be a very smart an intelligent kid. Killian would teach her many foreign languages and would educate her on everything about the stars and the sea. Little Hope knew everything from tying the simplest of knots to leading the helm with an iron fist. 

Being more like a princes, I expect Hope to prefer the Enchanted Forest and their Castle any day. That wasn’t a problem, since the realms are now united. Hope Swan-Jones knew everything from shooting  arrows to sword fighting and riding horses.

I also expect Hope to be a dancer. She would take dance classes with her best friends, and her favorite styles would be acro and ballet.

I also expect Hope to be very mischievous. She and her best friends would to the naughtiest things, often landing themselves up in trouble. They would sneak out all the time to meet each other at each others castles, and would get themselves grounded by wanting to help when the vilest of villains attacked the United Realms.

I expect Hope to be crowned as the Queen of the United Realms after Regina, and to bring great change and happiness all over the Realms. She would be the Greatest Queen in all history, and people would look up to her.

I expect Hope to have a specific name, such as the Light One, being the product of true-love and having the strongest light magic in all the Realms. Just like how Emma is called the Savior, Killain is called Captain-Hook, and how Henry is called the Author, Hope would also have a specific role like that as well.

And lastly, I expect Hope to have an adventurous, fairy-tale like life. She would not be born into her happy-ending, she would have to fight for it, just like the rest of her family did before her. And most importantly, she will get past all the obstacles in her life, with the one the one thing she was named after, and what she is the embodiment of. HOPE.

[gyrlversion]

10 Pictures That Will Redefine Your Expectations Of Gender

Soraya Zaman

“Caden is a beautiful and spiritual soul. He has an amazing calm way about him that shouldn’t be mistaken for shyness.”

Soraya Zaman is an Australian-born photographer whose work often highlights concepts surrounding gender and sexuality. As a queer nonbinary person who identifies with the pronouns they/them, Zaman’s work carries an added vitality and a deeply personal connection to their subjects and their subject’s stories.

Zaman’s new book, American Boys, is a collection of portraits capturing a state of flux — not just in terms of gender, but in lifestyle, location, and mentality. Zaman spoke with BuzzFeed News about their journey to produce this book and the importance of visibility among the gender nonbinary community today.

Soraya Zaman

“Aodhán identifies as a trans man and also as ‘Two Spirit’ within the Native American culture and comes from the Cherokee. He taught me that before colonization, there were no labels for gender-nonconforming indigenous people.”

How would you describe your book American Boys?

American Boys is a portrait series of 29 transmasculine individuals from big cities to small towns across the USA captured at distinct stages of their transition. Each series is accompanied by first-person accounts from conversations we had together.

These images show a glimpse into everyone’s life at a specific moment in time. Capturing their personality, their honesty, beauty, vulnerability, strength, and so on. They are affirmative images of everyone, and it is work that informs and expands upon understandings of gender identity outside of the binary and is real and validating.

American Boys looks to challenge people’s own perceptions of traditional binary gender roles.

Where did the portrait series begin for you, and when did you feel it was complete?

This project began back in the summer of 2016. At the time, I was looking to explore expressions of transmasculinity, as it was something personal to me and my own feelings and journey of gender identity. It didn’t take me long to realize that honoring and sharing stories, and validating and centering everyone I met and photographed in an affirmative way, was really important, especially in the now-changing political climate. There isn’t a lot of transmasculine representation in the media, and I wanted to create something that took these important narratives out of online spaces and put them into something more permanent.

Honestly, I don’t think this series is complete! The transmasculine community is rich, diverse, and deep — 29 people cannot adequately represent any community. There is definitely more to say and share, and I’m looking to do a second book.

Soraya Zaman

“Chella is an artist, writer, storyteller, and role model to many in the trans, nonbinary, and queer community. He’s also deaf, but in no way does this slow Chella down.”

How did you meet your subjects?

I discovered everyone in this project through Instagram. I mostly sorted out people who were using their online platform to express what was happening in their lives in an interesting way. To me, they were natural storytellers with a willingness to share for good or bad. That resonated with me.

I reached out over DM to see if they were interested. It was also important for me to feature transmasculine lives all over the country and to not just represent people who live in New York and LA and other places typically thought of as queer hubs. There is an extra level of bravery required to live and exist as a trans person in smaller towns where community and safety can be harder to find.

How important do you believe nonbinary representation is in the media?

For so long, we’ve all just been fed the same cisgender, heteronormative view of the world. When I was a kid, there was nothing in the media that reflected back to me how I see myself. The binary gender roles that have been constructed by the Western world confine us in a way that doesn’t leave any room for nuance or complexity. These rigid binary ideologies of what is expected are dangerous, oppressive, and toxic to trans and nonbinary people.

Soraya Zaman

“Lazarus laughed with me about having basically been every letter in ‘LGBTQ’ and now just wants to be identified as a unicorn.”

We are asked to fit into a box that ultimately can never contain our multitudes. It’s really only recently that we have begun to see queer, trans, and nonbinary people represented in a way that doesn’t feel tokenistic. So this work is personal to me because it forms part of the current conversation on expanding gender expectations and is contributing in a positive way. It allows people to be seen and feel proud of who they are, something that was missing for me in my youth.

What do you hope people will take away from these images?

The project is an intentional call to the nostalgic, internalized idea of American boyhood and the notion that masculinity belongs exclusively to cis men.

I hope that it helps people unpack the belief that gender identity must align with one’s sex assigned at birth and move away from these restrictive categories of gender. It’s also about an affirmative centering of transmasculine identity. I hope that people take the time to not only look at the images but also read the personal accounts. If people can’t “see” themselves in any of the images, then perhaps they can find a shared experience in some of the stories.

I want people to know that they are not alone in their journey. We are all in this together forging unique identities and the best possible lives for ourselves all across the country and globe, and there is power in that. Hopefully it helps move us all closer to a culture that welcomes, validates, and provides safety for all identities.

Soraya Zaman

“Russel is kind and sweet. He has a gentle way about him, although he told me that he hasn’t always been this way. Feeling dysphoria used to make him an emotional wreck, angry at the world, and he would get triggered by small things and lash out. There was a point though where he just kind of found more peace and got focused on bringing in positive things and how far he’s come, rather than thinking about how he maybe wasn’t where he wanted to be yet.”

Soraya Zaman

“Rufio! What an amazing bundle of body-building-bear–like brilliance! Rufio is so full of life and spirit. He’s also a staunch feminist, especially with his experience of white male privilege that came with passing.”

Soraya Zaman

“Elijah is a kind and compassionate quiet achiever. He grew up in South Texas in a Christian Baptist family. When he finally came out to his mother, she knew that their family might attack him with scripture claiming that being transgender is against God’s will. So they both studied the Bible and found verses to debunk what they might throw at him.”

Soraya Zaman

“When I met Justin, he was at a number of beginnings. He was beginning his life after top surgery, which he had one week earlier, and was about to start college. Justin was excited to leave his school days behind where he lived under the radar, quiet, and kept to himself, which really isn’t Justin at all. He’s actually very funny and well-spoken, self-confident, and embracing leadership roles both as a member of the Quaker community and at the LGBTQ center in Richmond, where he established a trans people of color group.”

Soraya Zaman

“Emmett is a transgender Mormon and a self-proclaimed rebel in his own way. Emmett has had to reconcile his faith in the Lord with his gender identity, and the road has not been easy.”

Soraya Zaman

“When I hung out with Jaimie, who btw is an incredible musician, he spoke to me about his experience with back-handed compliments. People saying to him, ‘Wow, you’re so hot…for a trans guy! Even I’d have sex with you!’ — like he should be especially honored these people find him attractive.”

To pick up your copy of American Boys, visit daylightbooks.org.

Click here for more photo stories from BuzzFeed News.

The post 10 Pictures That Will Redefine Your Expectations Of Gender appeared first on Gyrlversion.

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[imnewtoethnomusicology]

Correlation of Genius and Insanity

Does crazy actually equal genius? Albert Einstein once said “the step between genius and insanity is very short”. Speaking of Einstein, while he did develop the Theory of Relativity, he was also known for having terrible personal hygiene. He refused to wear socks because he thought they were pointless. He wrote in a letter to his cousin, “Even on the most solemn occasions, I got away without wearing socks and hid the lack of civilization in high boots”.

Many others who are considered now to be great geniuses have had their own quirks about them as well. Many psychologists that have studied the lives of people like Einstein, Michelangelo, Van Gough, and others have come to the conclusion that they all experienced some type of mental illness.  While they can’t confirm exactly what illness and whether they did actually have it, it is highly hypothesized. This video by the channel Seeker explains the link between genius and creativity: https://youtu.be/VWzhVauFbSU. This essay will look at three individuals: Mozart, Joan of Arc, and Shakespeare and explain both their brilliance and their “crazy side”.

Mozart

Mozart is viewed by many people as a musical genius, and to an extent this is true, as he was a successful performer and composer from an extremely young age. With child prodigies, people often believe that they are not only experts in their field, but also very intelligent and mature overall. For Mozart this was not the case. He had a very immature sense of humor from when he was a teenager, until the day he died. He started off with writing letters to his sister, Nanerl, containing naughty puns and jokes. This evolved into blatant displays of sexuality and scatology when writing letters to love interests and he continued this for the rest of his life.

Excerpt from a letter to his cousin:

Deares cozz buzz!

I have received reprieved your highly esteemed writing biting, and I have noted doted thy my uncle garfuncle, my aunt slant, and you too, are all well mell. We, too thank god, are in good fettle kettle … You write further, indeed you let it all out, you expose yourself, you let yourself be heard, you give me notice, you declare yourself, you indicate to me, you bring me the news, you announce unto me, you state in broad daylight, you demand, you desire, you wish, you want, you like, you command that I, too, should could send you my Portrait. Eh bien, I shall mail fail it for sure. Oui, by the love of my skin, I shit on your nose, so it runs down your chin…

Excerpt from a letter to his father:

[He was] an arrogant ass and a simple-minded little wit of his profession … finally when he was a little drunk, which happened soon, he started on about music. He sang a canon, and said: I have never in my life heard anything more beautiful … He started. I took the third voice, but I slipped in an entirely different text: ‘P[ater] E: o du schwanz, leck mich im arsch’ [“Father Emilian, oh you prick, lick me in the ass”]. Sotto voce, to my cousin. Then we laughed together for another half hour.

Joan of Arc

Joan of Arc was born in early 1412 to a peasant family in Domrémy, northeastern France. Somewhere around the age of 12 or 13, Joan is said to have had her first holy vision. She saw in a field near the church of her hometown, St. Michael the Archangel, St.Catherine, and St. Margaret telling her she would have a role to play in ending the Hundreds year war that had been raging in both France and England. They told Joan that she must help the usurped heir of France, Charles the VII, to regain the throne. Joan set out from her home village to request an audience with the French court, which she was at first denied. It was only when Joan seems to have predicted the future correctly in ensuring French victory in a few small battles that she quickly gained favor of the desperate French court, who allowed her a small degree of military power with which she acted as a soldier, commander, and prophet. Joan, despite her lack of education, age, and sex, helped lead the French to a truce with England- effectively ending the war, and seeing her prophesies to fruition by the age of 18. However, shortly after this Joan was captured and sold by enemies to England, where she was burned at the stake for heresy.

While many praise Joan fairly for her unparalleled bravery (she even received sainthood in 1920), Many modern historians claim that she was suffering from some form of schizophrenia, or was convinced by an elder and was simply lucky, rather than truly prophetic. Other scientists claim that Joan may have been religiously emboldened, allowing reduction in the sensation of physical pain contributing to some of her military success.  While the story of Joan of Arc is incredible, history is still yet to decide if her visions were that of God, or insanity.   

Shakespeare

According to an article in the journal Cognitive Processing, geniuses these days are more likely to have a dark and crude sense of humor. http://nymag.com/scienceofus/2017/01/a-twisted-sense-of-humor-just-means-youre-a-chill-genius.html. This is because of the nature of these jokes requiring our brains to make more connections than simple puns. It seems that possessing a higher IQ means that your brain craves more of a workout for jokes. Mozart was not the only potty humored genius we know and love. William Shakespeare is also well known for slipping in dirty jokes and puns into his works. A few good examples of this can be found in this article: http://mentalfloss.com/article/54442/10-shakespeares-best-dirty-jokes

The article lists a few of Shakespeare’s more widely known dirty jokes, such as in Much Ado About Nothing (in which the word ‘nothing’ was also slang for women’s privates at that time), the character, Benedick, says “I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes.”. At this time, ‘to die’ was a euphemism for climax. Clearly, Shakespeare was not against some potty humor. With so many of our historical geniuses secretly deemed as insane or immature, one may wonder, "why does our society shame these kinds of behaviors?".

Credit

Intro - Janelle Purser

Mozart - Sammie Carper

Joan of Arc - Rosemary Bennett

Shakespeare and editing - Serena Stieglitz