#siege arc

[berrysquared]

hi Berry Berrysquared do you by any chance have more stuff on your Hotguy the Siege thingy I like it very much

also btw love ur art <3 <3

because you asked so nicely, here are some hotguy sketches I made recently (and a bonus volleyball playing scar) <33

I actually do plan on coming back to Hotguy the Siege but since my unpublished art and storylines for it are quite old at this point, I wanna remake and polish them a bit first!! But it will come back soon!! and hey its gonna have better art now sgdhfagsd

[now-you-sound-like-a-jedi]

"You're not gonna slow it, Heaven knows you tried..."

Bo Burnham, All Eyes on Me

[sarahspokelse]

Ahsoka and Praise

Thinking of this moment:

versus this one:

And this one

I really think Tales of the Jedi helps put Anakin/Ahsoka’s confrontation in the Mortis Arc into context. Ahsoka asks Anakin if he is proud of her.

For Ahsoka, the droid test in totj was easy. It wasn’t unfair for Anakin to challenge her and present her with something more rigorous. But he should have praised her. Everyone else seemed impressed, even excited at Ahsoka’s proficiency. Yet the person she really needs the reassurance from is her teacher. Her master. Her brother. He doesn’t give her much. She’s a teenager. While she’s resilient and wise, she still needs the positive feedback from adults in her life. Anakin isn’t even on time for her test.

So when Ahsoka confronts Anakin, her deepest fears and frustrations are founded in insecurity and his lack of recognition. He pushes her. It leads her to survive time and time again, but he doesn’t always allow her to enjoy her accolades or provide her with the praise she needs.

In the 501st painting their helmets and armor in Ahsoka’s image, they provide her the recognition and honor she didn’t always receive from Anakin. They helped train her. They helped raise her. They saw how hard she worked and when she returned to them, they made sure to give her what she deserved.

[spacemagicandlaserswords]

I'm up to the Siege of Mandalore arc.

I'm not ready for this.

I'm not ready for The Clone Wars to be over either.

[kaitropoli]

"Entrée de Jeanne d'Arc à Orléans"

by Jean-Jacques Scherrer

Oil Painting, 1887.

Musée des Beaux-Arts d'Orléans.

HISTORY

Joan of Arc (one of the many spellings of her name) is one of France's patron saints and was honored for her role in the Siege of Orléans (1428-1429) during the Hundred Years' War (1337-1453).

She grew up as a peasant, her father being a farmer, but she had divine visions that she was visited and guided by archangel Micheal, Saint Margaret, and Saint Catherine. After having these sights, Joan acted accordingly, joining forces with the French by gaining respect for her piety and firmness, swaying Captain Robert de Baudricourt into her favor.

Long story short (definitely watch a video or read about her history instead of going off of my quick knowledge, in case you're interested and I miss certain facts... soz): Joan of Arc promised Dauphin Charles that he would be coronated at Reims if he allowed her to fight the English. Yeah... they were skeptical—mainly due to Joan being a 16-17-year-old woman at the time—so Charles had sacerdotal authorities interrogate her. After review, and considering the devastating turnout of Orléans (which has been under British siege), the clergy decided it'd be best for Charles to use the young woman as she's asking to be involved.

Assigned to join in taking back Orléans, Joan arrives with supplies on the 19th of April, 1429, alongside Commander Étienne de Vignolles (or *thank God for nicknames* La Hire). May 4th was when things started to pick up, the French launching an attack, which the saint almost missed due to napping (hey, I get it), and in the meantime, Joan sent out letters to the British, basically telling them to fuck off her land before a sword gets shoved up a not so divine place. On the 7th, Joan was WIA, but that didn't stop her from continuing her duty, and by the 8th, the British surrendered.

Joan of Arc is widely remembered as a woman who faced perseverance when it was uncommon for a woman combatant to exist, especially one who instantly rose to the top, fighting as a leader amongst male French commanders. Even burned at the stake by the English around the age of 19, Joan kept her faith, the same that got her onto the battlefield and was depicted proudly on the flag she waved. In 1920, she was finally recognized by the Roman Catholic Church and canonized by Pope Benedict XV as a patron saint for her home country. She's respected as a martyr and seen as a symbol of freedom, not only in a patriotic context but as a feminist (as she is hailed as one of the earliest feminists in middle-age history).

Again, I beg of you, if you are interested in learning more about the Siege of Orléans and/or Saint Joan of Arc, check out a video or pick up a book on the topic. I'm terrible at regurgitating historical information, especially when I haven't gotten any sleep. I'm not a historian, just a 19-year-old girl who likes to post art (ಠ_ಠ).

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[waheelawhisperer]

SAY IT LOUDER FOR THE WRITERS IN THE BACK, DAGDA

[kara-knuckles]

As much as I liked the Darknights bits in Episode 13, on the whole I found it pretty frustrating, because it kinda devalued every storyline from Episode 12.

Amiya once again gets an arc about generational Sarkaz bullshit. The Revenant is barely mentioned, despite being a really damn big deal.

What about the Dukes? Last chapter has shown that they are willing to become more involved in the conflict, and now that their forces barely avoided getting hit by The Shard, surely we will get more from them? Nah, the Duke of Windermere probably holds the record for the shortest amount of time it took an established character to die, the biggest impact her forces did was GTFO-ing for the sake of Siege's arc, and the most the other Dukes managed was finally lifting their asses and telling us to tune again in half a year for Episode 14, where they maybe will do something. Maybe. Probably.

Speaking of Siege, remember all the introspection she did in 12? Morgan's realization that they aren't some heroes of legend? Who cares! Let's go full superhero comic, complete with hyper aggressive fighting, deep wound in a polluted area with no consequences, being given a convenient banner to rally people around, and even returning a fallen friend we knew for a week and mourned deeply!

…Baird who? Her buddy Delphine doesn't even get a line connecting her to Glasgow, let alone actually include her with the group in the archives. Nice CG with the real heroes, though!

Last time we saw Paprika she was with Manfred, one of our main antagonists. Will we learn more about him? Will it have some kind of effect on her? LOL. LMAO, even.

Remember all the soul searching Damazti did? How the climax of the chapter was their death? Forget it, we got not one, but two of them, complete with reset personalities!

Obviously, this means we don't get more insight from them about Golding, and Heidi is long forgotten by the narrative, but look! Lettou's arc is hitting rock bottom, perhaps he can spare some thoughts for his old friend he drove to suicide? Maybe even do some elegy about how it ties into Gaul's fate? Nope! His catalyst is actually some rando with a dementia (which I loved on a thematic level, but, you know *gestures at the list*).

Even Ines, who frankly barely did anything in 12, got her injured state completely ignored in favour of telling us Hoederer got a haircut, so that she could do some acrobatics atop a flying skeleton a few days later. But hey! They actually acknowledged her big moment of jumping from the airship, now that's a progress!

[thecleverqueer]

Five compelling deaths for Ahsoka Tano that were squandered:

1.) During the Mortis Arc:

Because, I mean, she was dead. So…..

2.) During the Wrong Jedi Arc:

We all know Ahsoka was innocent from the start. But, what if that didn’t come to light? Hear me out. Ahsoka is framed for the temple bombing , and the subsequent crimes committed in relation to the bombing. The proof that she’s innocent does not surface. She is put on trial, and is found guilty of the bombing as the evidence was stacked a mile-high against her (keep in mind, we only know that she was innocent because we were following her point of view during the entire arc). She is sentenced, and is put to death for the crimes. Anakin is furious, both at the council and the senate. Does he stay with the Jedi? Does he still follow Palpatine after this? I don’t know. Maybe not. Barriss, overwhelmed by the guilt of having her ex-girlfriend executed for her crimes, probably doesn’t make it out either…some Romeo and Juliet shit. To add fuel to the flames, the evidence that Ahsoka was innocent resurfaces after she’s gone. The whole Jedi order is rocked by this discovery, and everyone is both shocked and devastated that they let a 17-year-old kid take the fall in such a way. Realizing that they have been completely blinded by the dark side, Yoda steps down as grandmaster. Mace Windu takes Yoda’s place, sees the rising darkness, pulls out of the war, and brings all of the Jedi back to the temple to regain focus. During this time, they discover Palpatine is the dark lord of the Sith, and a team of Jedi go and destroy him.

3.) During her duel with Maul:

I’m not going to pretend that Maul is formidable or super strong, but Ahsoka was buffed during that battle. Maul is older, and has bested stronger Jedi (see Qui-Gon Jinn). Maul’s arrogance and over-confidence probably got the best of him. But, what if it didn’t? What if Maul defeated Ahsoka? Bo-Katan could have come back concerned about Ahsoka’s well-being (because let’s face it, Ahsoka is the only other person in the galaxy that Bo doesn’t despise), and as Bo re-enters the throne room, Maul strikes Ahsoka down. Bo-Katan quickly realizes that Maul has killed yet another person that she loves. Maul is distracted by his victory, and in a fit of utter rage, Bo-Katan shoots Maul right between the eyes and drops him. Bo-Katan takes the dark saber from a now dead Maul, and goes on a rampage until she slices Gar Saxon into a million little pieces. Oddly (or maybe not-so-oddly), because she won the dark saber in combat per the creed, the night of a thousand tears does not happen.

4.) During Order 66:

Nearly every Jedi in the Galaxy died, but Ahsoka was spared because Rex gave her about thirteen seconds before he executed the order. Thanks to Fives, he knew what was happening. What if he didn’t hesitate? What if he didn’t flinch because he lost total control? What if he did still hesitate, but Ahsoka didn’t react? What if Rex tagged her with that fatal blow? Holy shit. I tear up thinking about it. Imagine Rex immediately realizing that he just ended his little sister’s life on that bridge. He would’ve been consumed by pain and guilt. It wouldn’t have taken Rex as long as it took Cody to get to that point either. Rex would have immediately pictured that skinny little kid in the tube top (f*^% Lucas for that BTW) coming down the landing ramp on Christophsis. He would have run up to her limp body, grabbed her and wept uncontrollably. It would have been so painful. After Rex came to his senses, he would immediate gather his brothers together to share Five’s message. All of the clones on the Tribunal would be outraged, and they would devise a plan to remove the inhibitor chips. After removal, the clones on the ship would make it their mission to save other clones in the galaxy from similar fates, jump starting Rex’s rebellion, but with A LOT more help.

5.) During her duel with Vader:

In fairness, she really shouldn’t have survived this. In all honesty, she didn’t. She died. Again. And, she was resurrected in the weirdest, least Star Wars’y way possible. So, what if she hadn’t been? What if she’d died like she probably should have? What if she wasn’t brought back from the dead through a time-portal? Well. Vader would have been an even bigger piece of shit. I’m not confident that it’s possible, but yeah, damn. It was one thing to watch him strike down old Obi-Wan (who had multiple chances to defeat him, but didn’t), but for him to slice through Ahsoka? Ouch. Not only would Anakin/Vader have murdered children, he would have slaughtered his whole-ass family save the twins who he doesn’t know about. It would have been compelling is all I’m saying. I would like to say that he would feel remorse, and turn from the dark side, but Ahsoka’s death would have been inconsequential to him. It wouldn’t have mattered. He wouldn’t have given a shit. He didn’t. I’m sure he assumed she’d died anyway after that epic explosion. Also, evading this particular demise set up a precedent: Ahsoka cannot die. I mean, if Vader couldn’t take her out, then nothing else in the galaxy can either. So, in short and in closing, she really is going to be Gandalf.

[illustratus]

Joan of Arc at the Siege of Orléans | Jeanne d'Arc at the Siege of Orléans

by Jules Eugène Lenepveu

[damaskino-26320]

Every day I wake up and remember that the Son Of Dathomir arc will never be animated…

[robotsandramblings]

so i whipped up a Bad Batch rewatch schedule! 📺

it's totally doable! there are 7 days when you do two-parters (ie. two episodes back-to-back), and for the rest, you can watch one (1) episode per day, including the Clone Wars S7 intro arc! 😄and that will take you right up until Feb 20th!

below, i've added calendar images (dunno how good the quality is, sorry!) and a bullet point text list, for those interested 😊

Jan 23, 24, 25, 26: Clone Wars S07 E01-04

//

Jan 27: S01 E01 Aftermath

Jan 28: S01 E02 Cut & Run

Jan 30: S01 E04 Replacements

Jan 31: S01 E05 Rampage

Feb 1: S01 E06 Decommissioned

Feb 2: S01 E07+08: Battle Scars & Reunion

Feb 3: S01 E09 Bounty Lost

Feb 4: S01 E10 Common Ground

Feb 5: S01 E11+12 Devil's Deal & Rescue on Ryloth

Feb 6: S01 E13 Infested

Feb 7: S01 E14 War Mantle

Feb 8: S01 E15+16: Return To Kamino & Kamino Lost

//

Feb 9: S02 E01+02 Spoils of War & Ruins of War

Feb 10: S02 E03 The Solitary Clone

Feb 11: S02 E04 Faster

Feb 12: S02 E05 Entombed

Feb 13: S02 E06 Tribe

Feb 14: S02 E07+08 Clone Conspiracy & Truth and Consequences

Feb 15: S02 E09+10 The Crossing & Retrieval

Feb 16: S02 E11 Metamorphosis

Feb 17: S02 E12 The Outpost

Feb 18: S02 E13 Pabu

Feb 19: S02 E14 Tipping Point

Feb 20: S02 E15+16: The Summit & Plan 99

Feb 21: Season 3 Premiere!!!!!!

[retrocgads]

USA 1990

[gizkalord]

THREE YEARS AGO TO THIS DAY I CRIED SO HARD OVER VICTORY AND DEATH THAT MY GLASSES FOGGED UP AND I COULDNT SEE THE CREDITS

[berrysquared]

Also in case someone is reading this and is interested ! The next intro page will be Pearl’s one and then Mayor Jellie (as voted by twitter) and then I think I will focus more on actually drawing scenes from the au for a while :]