#the carmine cavalier

[time-woods]

appleslices

[starry-mang0s]

Silly little doodle of the silliest little guy :>

This lovely bug belongs to the lovely @time-woods !!

[signedoutsorry]

I saw @time-woods Chasing Stars AU and I cannot express how much I love it! Sīdus and Carmine are so silly and I love them both so much, so I drew Carmine. I’m probably gonna draw Sīdus later lol

[processedcheesesquelch]

Chasing Stars (Adventure Time Au) (4897 words) by time_woods

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Adventure Time: Fionna and Cake (Cartoon 2023), Adventure Time (Cartoon 2010) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Prismo/Scarab (Adventure Time), Sīdus/Carmine (Chasing Stars Au) Characters: Prismo (Adventure Time), Scarab (Adventure Time), Sīdus The Fallen Star, The Carmine Cavalier, (more characters to be added later) Additional Tags: Adventure Time AU, chasing stars au, this is like enemies to lovers but one sided enemies and lovers but they dont have a lable for it, neither of them like each other in the begining btw, Sīdus is joke flirter but then it becomes/ gen, this is prismos and scarabs therapy, they colab on the main fic, i put other cause neither of these mfs are cis, they both genderqueer in some way, some of that cosmic gore again, carma has knee problems and its totally not cause im projecting

Summary: Based on the mention of the character creator at the end of Fionna and Cake, the medieval mystery fantasy drama. This is based in fantasy but I will say it does just become a story about learning how to experience being yourself and what you are when your whole existence is caked in what others label you as. This is also them majorly projecting onto these characters though Scarab won't admit this and views Carma completely separate from himself. Feel free to look into that as much as you will. This starts with the two comic pages I did so after those expect writing and maybe the occasional drawing to relate. (this is also written sorta like a script)

[wildflowercryptid]

For the last/surnames for your mjv pieces, is there any specific meanings/symbolism when you give them those surnames? Like “Hinoki” for Kieran & Carmine, since Hinoki means “cypress” and it’s a real life tree.

(Sorry if this is a specific question. This is my autistic brain and curiosity of fictional name symbolism)

YES, THERE IS!! i'm also an autistic person who's obsessed with name etymology so i love giving characters ( original or otherwise ) names that symbolizes something about them or something they're associated with.

since i didn't do this before, i'm gonna use this as an excuse to explain the etymology behind the full names i gave the SV kids! some of them are more interesting than others, fair warning.

putting it under a cut since this may get a little long.

CRATER CREW + KITAKAMI KIDS

FLORIAN RUSSEL CAVALLARI & JULIANA SIGAL CAVALLARI

> cavallari ( spanish, from "caballero" meaning knight, cavalier, or rider ) — referencing their connection to koraidon, the designated ride pokémon of scarlet. > russel ( french, little red ) — meant to signify his role as the protagonist of scarlet. > sigal ( hebrew, viola ) — meant to signify her role as the protagonist of violet.

NEMONA CAMINO VALIENTE

> camino ( spanish, road ) — references her role as the main companion of the victory road storyline. > valiente ( spanish, brave or bold ) — meant to signify her forward and adventurous nature.

ARVEN MITO ALFARO

> mito ( spanish, myth or legend ) — references his role as the main companion of the path or legends storyline. > alfaro ( spanish, the lighthouse ) — references the poco path lighthouse, the professor's old lab and his childhood home.

PEONELOPE " PENNY " CASSANDRA ESPINOSA

> peonelope ( peony + penelope ) — there's no real significance to this name choice, i just thought it'd be funny if peony continued the trend of shoehorning his own name into his kids' in increasingly ridiculous ways. > cassandra ( greek, to shine or excel ) — meant to sound similar to cassiopeia. it also made me think of shining like a bright star. > espinosa ( spanish, thorn ) — meant to reference penny's relation to chairman rose through her father, peony. this is actually her mother's maiden name, peony took her surname to distance himself from rose and kept it even after getting divorced.

CARMINE & KIERAN HINOKI

> hinoki ( japanese, species of cypress native to central japan ) — references their family's craft of mask making, as hinoki wood is commonly used to make noh masks.

TEAM STAR CAPTAINS

GIACOMO LAUREANO MORENA

> laureano ( spanish, laurel ) — larry's name from the spanish translation of sv. meant to reference my headcanon that larry is giacomo's father. > morena ( spanish, dark-haired ) — a loose reference to his dark type specialization.

MELA CANDELLA LUCERO

> candella ( spanish, candle ) — a loose reference to her fire type specialization. > lucero ( spanish, derivative of " luz " meaning light or morning star ) — also meant to reference her fire type specialization, along with her role as team star captain.

ORTEGA ÁLVARO VERA REGINO

> álvaro ( spanish, elf warrior ) — meant to signify his fairy type specialization. > vera ( spanish, river bank ) — pulled from veracidad, which i headcanon is the apparel company that ortega's family owns. it also references the ruchbah squad's base's proximity to the water. > regino ( spanish, from the latin " regis " meaning king ) — meant to signify the affluence of his family.

ATTICUS HENZO

> henzo ( from the scientific name of the fall-blooming anemone, eriocapitella hupehensis ) — atticus's name from the spanish & italian translations of sv. i thought it sounded fitting and i thought it was cool that it could be referencing hattori hanzō, ( who's name could be read as to partially conceal. )

ERI NESPERA

> nespera ( portuguese, common name for loquat ) — eri's name from the italian translation of sv. i just thought it sounded pretty.

BB ELITE FOUR

LACEY TAMAYO TURNER

> tamayo ( japanese, generational jewel ) — loose reference to her relation to lian, clay's hisuian ancestor. > turner ( from turnip ) — clay's name in the german translation of bw/bw2.

AMARYS NERINE

> nerine ( from the genus nerine ) — amarys's name in the original japanese of sv.

CRISPIN HINO

> hino ( japanese, fire ) — reference to his fire type specialization.

DRAYTON LIRIO

> lirio ( spanish, iris or lily ) — draydon's name in the spanish translation of bw/bw2.

also, here's the first post i made about their names, along with age, gender. and sexuality headcanons!

[auburniivenus]

"Don't worry I got you."

A   luxuriant   woodland   where   sunlight   weaves   through   the   canopy's   embrace,   Orihime   embarks   on   a   quest   not   for   vulnerable   souls.   She's   prompted   by   an   INCESSANT   appetite   for   an   apple,   no   ordinary   apple,   but   one   that   shimmers   with   the   vitality   of   the   nascent   dawn—luminous,   magnificent,   its   captivating   rouge   murmurings   of   surreptitious   dulcet   taste   and   momentary   rapture.   For   her,   this   produce   represents   not   the   impure   as   muttered   in   reverent   tones   by   the   intellectual   and   world-weary.   It's   rather   a   hymn   of   ECSTASY,   an   homage   to   the   splendors   of   mortal   delectation.

Her   every   step   vibrates   with   echoes   of   antiquity;   the   soil   underfoot   choruses   tales   of   roots   entrenched   in   ardent   union.   She   accelerates   towards   her   verdant   NEMESIS,   that   imposing   custodian   whose   branches   cradle   the   desirable   gemstone   of   nature.   With   a   heart   pounding   in   fervid   expectation,   she   commences   her   climb.   Her   tender   fingers,   fragile   yet   solid,   embrace   the   coarse   bark;   each   grip   is   a   silent   entreaty   to   the   woodland   spirits.   Her   ascent   is   poetry   in   motion—a   pirouette   enacted   on   a   dais   sculpted   from   timber   and   foliage,   every   maneuver   rendering   an   opus   upon   the   daybreak's   palette.

As   she   draws   near   to   her   precious   prize,   the   apple   appears   as   a   lantern   of   unregulated   jubilation,   its CARMINE   coat   woven   with   promises   of   nectarous   delight   potent   enough   to   elicit   distaste   in   celestial   bodies.   Her   caramel   gaze   ignited   by   voracity,   Inoue   extends   her   arm;   her   digit-tips   quiver   with   hopeful   trepidation.   The   cosmic   scheme   pauses—a   reverent   hush   descends   over   creation   itself;   even   the   coppice   succumbs   to   this   epochal   juncture's   enchantment.   However,   amidst   her   zealotry’s   crescendo,   equilibrium   betrays   her.   Temporality   elongates;   her   heart   pulsates   as   a   solitary   drumbeat   in   a   mute   universe   while   she   acquiesces—albeit   momentarily—to   gravity’s   austere   embrace.

It   isn't   despair   into   which   she   descends   but   rather   into   uncharted   orlay—thus   decreed   by   providence.   For   there   emerges   a   cavalier   incarnate   seemingly   from   her   own   aspirations'   very   essence;   with   an   archangel's   poise,   he   positions   himself   beneath   her   declining   form.   Into   his   awaiting   arms,   she   gracefully   collapses. “M-My   apologies."   Utters,   voice   tremulous   yet   laced   with   wonderment   at   such   fortuitous   salvation.   "I   fear   I   may   have   courted   hubris   too   fervently.” @battleguqin

LOOKING FOR SOMETHING, SOMETHING EXTICING.

[mysteresurterre]

Entre brumes et neige - épisode 18

Episode précédent

___

La pulsation noire trouble un instant la mare de sang qui se trouve entre les pieds de Cynthia, Andhiir, Orvasa et Anthemos. Tous ont les yeux fixés sur elle tandis que la couleur carmin se colore de noir, un noir d'encre qui engloutit toute volonté et happe les quatre aventuriers.

C'est la chute, puis l'arrivée sur une terre enneigée prise entre de grands arbres et de hautes montagnes. Sur le faîte de la colline qui leur fait face, les aventuriers voient une longue caravane qui s'étire. Une quinzaine de chariot. Plus étonnant, lorsqu'ils se regardent les uns les autres, ils ne sont que des enfants.

"Eliana" crient des adultes. "On t'a dit de ne pas t'éloigner de la caravane". Ils se plantent devant Andhiir qui soudainement est prise de panique. Elle supplie les parents d'arrêter la caravane, de faire demi-tour, de ne pas continuer sur cette voie. Elle essaye de s'échapper mais les parents la tirent par la main. Dans l'espoir de créer une diversion, Anthemos lance : "Un béhémoth, là-bas !"

Ce qu'il ne sait pas, c'est que son mensonge n'en est un qu'en apparence. En quelques secondes, il y a effectivement un béhémoth qui s'attaque à la caravane. Au milieu du tumulte, Andhiir aperçoit une silhouette sur son dos et Orvasa voit sa mère protéger cette caravane dans un combat vain. Quand l'une se précipite droit vers le danger pour essayer d'apercevoir la face du mystérieux cavalier, l'autre court jusqu'à sa mère mais arrive trop tard. Un coup de corne l'a envoyée au loin.

L'enfant qui cache les traits d'Andhiir grimpe la queue du béhémoth, remonte le long de l'échine tandis que le carnage continue. Puis elle aperçoit un visage aux yeux jaunes scintillants et la scène se délite autour des quatre compagnons. La chute dans une obscurité impénétrable reprend, à ceci près que la silhouette, une robe noire, les accompagne.

Lorsque le groupe atterrit, ils sont dans une bibliothèque souterraine. Anthemos reconnaît sans mal les archives des robes noires et aussi ce couloir enfoncé entre deux rangées de livres : celui qui conduit vers une porte secrète qui cache les archives du sixième clan. D'ailleurs, la porte en est ouverte et de la lumière passe au travers de l’entrebâillement. Anthemos s'y dirige, suivi de près par ses trois compagnons. Un bruit de corde grince de l'autre côté de la porte, n'augurant rien de bon. Là, suspendu à une poutre se tient le cadavre de la robe noire qui lui a montré l'existence du sixième clan. Lorsqu'il l'a vu la première fois, il a pris peur. Il était jeune, il n'était pas encore aussi enhardi. Aujourd'hui, il fait face à l'horreur et prend sur lui de découvrir les raisons de ce meurtre. Tandis qu'il détache le corps avec Cynthia, Orvasa et Andhiir prennent en poursuite une silhouette qui grimpe les marches de cette tour qui semble sans fin.

Orvasa et Andhiir utilisent la ruse pour forcer l'assassin présumé à se mettre à découvert : un homme aux traits canins avec une moustache et une barbe... un homme qu'ils ont déjà vu à Sanctuaire car il faisait partie du conseil. En dessous de ce combat, Anthemos retrouve serré dans les mains de son ancien mentor une note : "Teothos ne peut commander son armée sans sa couronne". Dans l'autre main, il a tout juste le temps d'apercevoir une bague ornée d'un crâne d'oiseau à trois yeux, dont chaque orbite est serti d'un cristal orange qui n'est pas sans rappeler les cristaux qui désignent les chefs des Clans. Tandis que tout cela se passe, Cynthia observe une brume verdâtre se former dans le couloir et s'avancer peu à peu vers eux. Quand la brume entre finalement dans la salle, elle s'infiltre dans le cadavre qui s'anime... puis toute la scène se décompose.

La chute amène nos quatre héros dans une clairière où se tient une cabane. A côté, un grand homme coupe du bois. Andhiir et par dessus tout Cynthia reconnaissent sans problème la silhouette d'Ormenos. Le gardien du Seuil se tourne vers Cynthia et lui demande où elle se cachait. La tension dans l'air est palpable, puissante. Cynthia répond et son maître ne laisse pas passer cette effronterie. Un murmure, un mouvement de ses doigts et Cynthia se retrouve à flotter dans les airs, écartelée lentement. Ses compagnons s'attaquent à Ormenos et parviennent à libérer Cynthia. Pendant que l'adolescente déchaine sa rage sur son maître, Celunomos apparaît et réclame alors le corps "qui ne lui a jamais été donné". Il ajoute ensuite de ne jamais le croiser dans les Limbes tandis qu'une brume verdâtre envahit la clairière. Les volutes de fumée cachent des créatures indicibles, des langues perforantes finissant par un dard pointu, des griffes épaisses, des corps sinueux. Puis les créatures passent à l'attaque et Celunomos lutte comme il peut pendant que les quatre aventuriers s'enferment dans la cabane.

Une dernière fois, le paysage se délite sous leurs yeux pour laisser place à la caravane où tout a commencé : celle qui les amenait à Sanctuaire. Le voyage est calme jusqu'à ce que les béhémoths attaquent d'un côté. A l'opposé de l'attaque des béhémoths, la brume verte s'approche et Cynthia, Orvasa, Anthemos et Andhiir y sont attirés. Ils se réveillent enchaînés face à une présence terrible : Karvaxus, seigneur des Abysses. Ce dernier leur demande de rappeler à Teothos la dette qu'il a envers lui, puis il trace sur leurs visages des runes avant de les renvoyer vers Vélène. Les quatre aventuriers seront son passage vers les Clans et vers Teothos.

Tandis qu'un nouveau paysage s'ouvre sous leurs pieds, une déchirure incandescente perce le voile de cette réalité et la voix d'Amarande retentit : "j'ai besoin de votre aide !"

[mrs-han]

HOO. So I’ve been a little busy lately, but here is one of the pieces I wrote for @mysme-rbb !

This was a collab piece with @pondlilies00 ! It was an honor working with you, darling!

~~~

You couldn't understand how he could sleep so soundly.

Your silver-haired captive lay blissfully in repose in your bed, nearly wholly unaware of the bounty that lay on his head... and your own, in due time.

You were supposed to kill him - to bring the queen his heart in a cold, velvet-lined box. You weren't entirely sure why the queen wanted her son and heir out of the way, but questioning the queen's motives was unthinkable. As her top enforcer, you had never gone against anything that was asked of you...

... Until now.

As the ethereal man adjusted himself, you kindly adjusted his blankets and let out an afflicted sigh, stirring him awake.

"Your Highness, please go back to sleep," you hummed, rubbing your forehead. "Remember, you can't be going out in the middle of the night anymore."

"Ah, how many times have I told you? Call me Zen," the prince lightly chastised, reaching over and tapping her forehead. "Are there more guardsmen out there?"

"A couple of hundred, maybe more, Prince Hyun. The least attention you attract, the better. And I mean it this time."

Zen blushed furiously and averted his eyes. "I made two or three different pies," he grumbled, his regal air now childish.

"Gooseberry, blackberry, cherry, apple," you emphasized. "You brought strangers to the cottage, Prince Hyun. It's dangerous."

As much as you couldn't understand how he managed to remain so upbeat, his attitude impressed you. He was a figure straight out of a fairy tale, his presence and demeanor so innocent and full of life that you couldn't understand how he and his pessimistic mother could be related.

"Try to keep a low profile this time. That includes keeping your singing at a minimum volume."

"Can do," Zen winked.

"And outdoor baths need to be taken indoors from now on."

"Then... how will God come to appreciate their most perfect creation?"

"They'll survive. The problem is, you may not."

"Ouch," Zen hissed, his hand over his throat. "Fair point! Anything else?"

"... I'll be visiting your mother tomorrow."

Zen's expression twisted into a mixture of confused affection. As much as you wanted to lend a supportive hand on his shoulder, you knew better than to jeopardize yourself any further. "I shouldn't be very long, but you understand why I need you to lay low."

"What do you need to see her for?" Zen asked, his carmine eyes staring at you demandingly yet benevolently.

"To deliver this." You set the velvet box in front of the prince, tapping the top of it. "She's growing impatient and is beginning to believe that I haven't exterminated you."

"Exterminated?" Zen squinted.

You waved your hand. "Her words, not mine."

"Still, that's a bit -"

"There is a heart inside," you proceeded, your brows knit firmly. "The heart of a pig, to be exact. It's similar to that of a human, so your mother's suspicion should be ebbed for as long as time will allow."

"You killed a pig?" Zen inquired, leaning closer to the box.

"I did what I had to do," you responded, your voice colder than you intended.

"I understand," Zen nodded, his eyes glued to the casing. "Still... you need to come back safely. I'm not necessarily in a position to protect you."

"I won't leave you alone out here, Prince Hyun -"

"Here you go again," Zen sighed, raking his fingers through his silky hair and tsking at you. "What did I tell you to call me?"

"... I can't call you anything other than your title."

Zen shone a smile that briefly wiped away your anxiety. "What's the use of calling me by some royal title when I'm practically stripped of it anyhow?"

"So long as you're still breathing, you still have your title, Your Highness."

Zen frowned. "Will you be stiff towards me forever, then?"

You opened your mouth, perplexed by his cavalier manner. "I'm not stiff."

"Then call me by the name I asked you to call me by!"

"... No. Honestly, I can't imagine where you came up with that name."

"Sit and let me tell you a story," Zen chuckled.

You did what was commanded of you, setting the velvet box far away from you. "Go on."

"Now, you're the first person I'm telling this to, so react however you'd like, but... I've always dreamed of becoming an actor. You know, if I wasn't a p... a p..."

"Prince?"

Zen snapped his fingers. "That."

"I didn't think you had much trouble with your position," you spoke softly, leaning on your knees. "You seemed -"

"How I seemed wasn't how I was."

You leaned back, folding your arms over your chest. Perhaps there was more trouble in paradise than you knew. Still, it wasn't any of your business. "We're all assigned roles in life, Your Highness. There are the ones who were born into power and the ones who were born to serve them."

"That's such a cynical way of viewing everything," Zen lamented. "You remind me of one of the scholars who tutored me. Everything was so black and white with him, and I couldn't stand it."

"I'm... sorry," you mumbled. "If it makes you feel any better, I've... always believed that everything happens for a reason. Good or bad. You haven't been able to become an actor because you were born a prince."

"But I was able to meet you."

Your eyes locked with his. "Pardon me?"

"You heard me," Zen smirked, leaning against his arm. "You saved my life. I have plenty of time to pursue my acting career, so long as I'm not recognized. The earth is big, after all! But it's because of you that I'm able to think of my future."

You exhaled sharply and cast your eyes down towards your cold hands - the hands that had taken so many lives in the past, killing without question or remorse. Clenching your hands tightly, you bit the inside of your lip and shook your hair from your face. "I... don't know what to say."

"Then, let me speak in your place," Zen hummed, kneeling in front of you and taking one of your stiff, relentless hands into his own. "Thank you for saving my life. Thank you for taking me away from a situation I had no power in... you are my hero. My very own knight in shining armor."

"Y-Your Highness," you stammered while attempting to pull your hand from his.

"I owe you the world," Zen's voice fell, a deep sincerity behind his words.

"You may repay me if both of us come out as survivors -"

"We will," Zen whispered, a bright smile on his lips. "I doubt you can fall short, but if you do? I'll pick up those pieces."

Your tense expression softened for the first time that night. The prince was certainly very eloquent... no doubt, he would have made a stellar actor in his time. But his words were honest... at least, they seemed that way. You wanted to believe him, to put your trust in someone other than yourself.

"If you don't mind me asking," Zen began, finally moving his hand from yours to scratch the back of his head. "Why -"

"I do mind," you interrupted. "I refuse to keep you up any longer than I have. Besides, I have an early morning."

The light in Zen's eyes sank. The barrier he attempted to crack in regards to his savior seemed impenetrable. "Right... right. I'll ask you tomorrow, then!"

You curtsied, your movements swift and practiced, and left the room... while Zen stared at the velvet box before him. He didn't regret too much in his life... except when he took a peek at what was inside.

~~~

"It's about time."

The booming voice of the queen rumbled through your very being. You curtsied deeply, all power that you held at that moment snatched away. "My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty. The prince did not make the task any easier. He is much stronger than I anticipated."

A dismissive huff followed by striking heels against limestone approached you. Without another thought, you presented the box before your queen, its weight far less than it was the night before.

"Where was it done," the queen demanded, grabbing the box from you.

"Twenty miles from here. I was able to drown out his cries thanks to the waterfall."

"And the weapon?"

Unsheathing the dagger from the holster at your side, you presented the weapon to the queen. A minute or two of silence felt like an eternity, and your courage began to dwindle... until she finally spoke. "Fine."

Exhaling softly, you bowed your head. You were in the clear, and it was foolish to dig your grave more than you had. But as images of the prince's kind face flashed before your eyes, you couldn't help but wonder why. Why did his mother want him gone? What had he done so wrong that he deserved to die?

"Your Majesty -"

"You are dismissed," the queen spoke sternly, turning her back on you and halting all of the rebellious questions that lay on the tip of your tongue.

Still, you couldn't let it go. You stood, clenching your fists firmly at your side. "Your Majesty, what if the prince's blood was like that of a lamb's?"

She paused and faced you, her domineering presence overwhelming. You continued. "I don't understand why -"

"Your job isn't to understand. Your job is to shut your mouth, accept whatever it is I ask you to do and do it."

"Your Majesty -"

"I need to prepare for the boy's funeral. When I need anything else from you, I will tell you about it accordingly. You are dismissed."

Your nerves started to spark within you—nerves of steel and turbulence. None of it seemed right with you; none of it made sense. You began to open your mouth, ready to shoot out another argument, but the queen had disappeared from your eyes. More weight began to pile onto your shoulders as more worries infiltrated your mind; would she ever find out that the heart was that of a pig's? Would she ever be able to find the cottage that housed her banished son? How soon? How long? What would happen to you then? More so, what would happen to the prince?

Your head began to throb at the possibilities. You felt a well of emotion bubble in your chest, but you weren't sure what to do... no, you weren't certain of anything anymore.

~~~

The walk back to the cottage was usually a peaceful endeavor for you in the past. Today, however, your mind couldn't silence itself. Not only did you feel morally conflicted, but this was the first and only time you had gone against the queen's word. Death was the only sentence that awaited you - not now, but eventually. What would become of the prince then? What would he do as soon as you were apprehended? You clenched your fists tightly and decided to make some sort of a game plan with him... when you noticed more animals moving in the same direction as you. The closer you drew to the cottage, the more you heard his melodic vocalization... the prince was singing.

"Damn it," you cursed under your breath, sprinting towards the bungalow at full speed. You stopped in your place as you witnessed several furry creatures climbing up and over the opened windows; deer, badgers, squirrels, and mice cluttered towards the door.

"What... the hell," you uttered. "Your Highness?!"

His singing suddenly stopped, and he poked his head through an open window, his crimson eyes full of life. "You're home!"

"What... what are you doing?!" You shouted in disbelief, attempting to open the front door.

"Just cleaning around!" Zen beamed, tying a towel around his waist and placing his hands triumphantly on his hips. "I needed help, so I called a few friends!"

"A few friends?!" You yelled, a smile behind your wonder. "Your Highness, do you remember anything I told you last night?!"

Zen placed a hand on his chin tentatively. "To keep a low profile. Right?"

"And what aren't you doing right now?" You glared.

"... Oh."

You looked around and tried your hardest not to smirk - this man was out of this world. "We're just going to attract more attention to ourselves at this rate. We have to get all of these animals out of here now."

"But we aren't done cleaning -"

"Now," you emphasized.

"All right, all right. Everyone out now, come on!" Zen encouraged, gently ushering the animals out of the cottage. "Set everything where you left it. I'll take care of it!"

Somehow, the creatures seemed to understand him completely. Broom and mop handles clattered against the floor as the animals flit out - and as soon as the hatches closed, you let out a loud laugh.

"Huh? What's so funny," Zen asked a slight smirk on his lips.

"How on earth did you manage to do that?!" You bellowed, hands on your stomach. "Never in my years of life have I ever seen something like that!"

"Well, maybe because you've never met me before," Zen huffed pridefully. "My voice is so beautiful that it even attracts the animals of the forest! Impressive, no?"

"Are we a part of some fairytale or something?" You laughed, wiping at the tears in your eyes.

"When you're with me, plenty of unexplained things can happen!"

"Still, your Highness, I told you not to attract any attention -"

"If you think about it! The only attention I attracted was that of the animals!"

You shook your head. "You don't think that's going to attract whoever may own them?"

"... Well..."

"It's... we'll deal with whatever happens when it happens." You kicked your shoes off and set your bag on the floor.

"How did everything go with my... mother?" Zen asked tentatively.

"... I don't want to say," you grimaced. "Considering the current situation, you know? I don't want to upset you."

"You could never," Zen spoke softly.

"... She seemed to believe it. That the heart was yours."

"And?"

"... And that's it for now," you nodded, moving to grab the brooms and mops from the floor.

"Wait, what?" Zen pressed. "That's it?"

"Well... I'm not entirely sure."

"What if she finds out that the heart isn't mine? What if she comes after you?"

You pushed your hair back and looked at him. How was he more worried about you than he was about himself? "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. If and when Her Majesty comes after me, I need you to -"

"No."

You blinked. "No?"

"She won't take you anywhere. I'll make sure of it myself," Zen spoke resolutely.

"... Your Highness, you... you'll be executed as soon as she sets her eyes on you. You have to understand. Nobody will possibly side with you."

"We don't need any of my mother's men to ensure our safety. I'll do it myself."

You stood up straighter. "Your Highness, you aren't thinking clearly."

"I respectfully disagree," Zen said kindly, a smile behind his eyes. "You've been protecting me, right? It's time I defend you now. While you've been away, I've been working to secure a safe house just for the two of us. It won't keep us safe forever, but it will do the trick for a month or two. You know how we neighbor three countries?"

You nodded slowly.

"The house is on the border with a country we're allies with. My mother is bright, so she'll eventually find out what's going on... but we'll be long gone by then. We'll disappear, both of us."

"What..." you exhaled. "How did you... manage to secure such a location?"

"I have my ways," Zen winked. "There are some good things about being a prince."

"But there are problems with that," you protested. "If Her Majesty finds out we're hiding out by a nearby country, it could spark a war. We're both fugitives now, and I can't risk anything happening to you."

After the words spilled from your mouth, you bit the inside of your lip. You weren't trying to confess anything to him, and the last thing you needed was for your words to be misconstrued.

"I don't want anything to happen to you either," Zen cooed softly, taking your hand in his. "You won't have to risk anything anymore. Leave it to me, and I promise I'll take care of you."

A twinge of heat sparked through your chest. Your brows began to furrow as more protests rose within you... and just as quickly, Zen placed a finger on your lips to silence you.

"Everything is going to be all right," Zen nodded, his confidence palpable. "It's time for us to switch roles. I will be your guard, and you will be the princess I must set out to rescue."

You pulled your head away from Zen's finger. "I'm not cut out to be a princess."

"So now you understand where I'm coming from."

You rolled your eyes. "... Fine. Fine, I trust you. When do we set out?"

"Tomorrow night. They know we're coming, so pack light."

"... Thank you," you whispered, the anvil on your shoulders lifted and partially shared. "I'll repay you for your kindness, Your Highness."

"Stop calling me that," Zen drawled, putting his hands over his ears. "I thought I explained to you why I didn't like being called that!"

"Sorry," you shrugged. "I'm not changing the way I address you anytime soon."

"Just try calling me Zen."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"It's only three letters! Your Highness has..." Zen counted on his fingers. "... eight..."

You grinned. "Still not doing it."

Zen hesitated. "I'll cry."

"How will I know you aren't acting?"

"Ouch!"

You let out a bellow of a laugh, one louder and bolder than you had released in days. And as you looked at your prince's gracious yet mischievous eyes, the more you began to believe that everything would be all right.

[firewoodfigs]

hug me ‘til you drug me, honey, love me 

(for @royaiweek day 1 - letters & day 2 - little pistol. thank u mods!! 💕)

read on ao3 

Summary: They don’t, can’t remember each other - not when they’ve been stripped of their identities and labelled with letters and numbers, before being slotted deftly into an inescapable hierarchy and social destiny. The only brief memory they have of each other lies within a letter inscribed onto her back.

Rating: M, for Machiavellian bastards!! 

a/n: (i) inspired by many pieces of art - Huxley’s Brave New World (some of the italicised lines, as well as the title, are taken from his book), Wilfred Owen’s Anthem for Doomed Youth, snippets from Mother Mother’s Little Pistol, as well as soterianyx’s analysis of Riza’s tattoo and my friend’s explanation that fire on sand brings glass (hello friend thanks for teaching me physics!!).  (ii) please note the rating - it’s rated for graphic depictions of violence and war, and the context of this piece is based on an autocratic dystopia. (iii) count the alphabets if you’re confused by who’s who xD  (iv) i wanted to experiment with a different writing style - it’s meant to sound more detached etc (quite out of my comfort zone tbh haha because i'm typically a sap) to bring across the ruthlessness of everything that’s going on here. feedback is greatly appreciated!

~x~

Memory. Identity. Emotions.

The Amestrian military has no need for silly things like these. Sentimentalities are but frivolities in a war zone. The military needs people who can kill without batting an eyelid - cavalier about murder, like the Autocrat’s rapier. Soldiers who will mindlessly obey orders; subjugate themselves to the will of the State without resistance.

The individual is not its own being. It is a part of the State.

Bearing this axiom in mind, A-18/13 dutifully accepts his fate as a State Alchemist. He snaps on his ignition gloves, staring blankly at the red sigil - a lost, distant memory, perhaps? Regardless, he does not probe, does not flinch as the heat engulfs his hands and reminds him of a bittersweet embrace that he’s never tasted.

After all, the perfect soldier wastes no time on ruminations like these.

A-18/13 is armed for battle and ready to abide by the State’s decree. What might have once been remorseful reluctance and moral scruples are now replaced by an undying loyalty, an unwavering fealty to the State.

The white coat shrouds him like a cloud, but there’s an inexplicable coldness to it. It’s odd. He’s supposed to be the Flame Alchemist, but using his powers for simple comforts like warmth instead of killing feels rather inane. And so he refrains from doing so.

Instead, he stands ruler-straight with the rest of the State Alchemists, ignoring the subtle hunger and discomfiture bubbling in his throat.  

“For the greater good,” the soldiers chant, mouths moving like parrots. “For the greater good of the State.”

On the other side of the room, E-18/8 likewise accepts her orders. She’s young - hardly an adult by legal standards - fresh out of the academy, but it’s of little import to the State. All that matters is her talent in handling a gun, a rifle; her readiness to be shipped out to the desert. Notwithstanding her relatively petite stature, there’s a stubborn strength in her shoulders that beguiles her age and inexperience in war.

“Stay in the shadows, fire at any threat,” is the command given to her. “Sacrifice yourself for those who are above you.”

At their behest, she salutes before stepping forward to accept her instrument of death. The rifle feels cool against her palm, but she doesn’t flinch. What might have once been a burning desire to protect someone has been quashed and replaced with hands that are cold as ice. Indifferent to bloodshed.

“For the greater good,” the soldiers recite again. “For the greater good of the State.”

Their hollow voices reverberate across the room like the sounds of a lonely, dispassionate choir.

“Silence, silence.” Chanting dies off into light, regular breathing. The air is sibilant with the categorical imperative as they await further orders.

The Autocrat begins his descent down the stairs, into the basement shrouded by a thickening, eerie atmosphere of gray. He enters into the room: regal, powerful and of stalwart built.

The ultimate Alpha.

Everyone bows deferentially. “Fuhrer King Bradley,” his puppets’ voices resonate in perfect harmony across the room.

He looks upon them from the platform on which he stands with an unreadable expression. Then, with a deceptively pleasant smile, he asks, “You know what Ishvala is, I suppose?”

A rhetorical question. The soldiers chime in with the answer he anticipates, without any need for prompting. “A dead religion,” they reply, in perfect harmony.

Deadened, darkened eyes turn to look at him.

“Wonderful. Such excellent soldiers you all are. Well, remember this now, even if you forget everything else.” There’s a gleam in his eyes that’s disgustingly delightful as his lips curl upward, undertones of menace lingering within. The Autocrat draws his sword out. The tip of his blade meets the ground, and he rests his palms on the hilt as he barks out his next command. “All orders are to be obeyed immediately, for the greater good of the State.”  

“For the greater good of the State,” his lackeys reply, an incantation thoroughly internalised by now.

He smiles once more, before letting his gaze linger for a little while longer on A-18/13 and E-18/8. The two soldiers who, reportedly, were the most difficult amongst the lot to deal with during the extraction process.

Amelos potamos, it was called - a process by which soldiers were medically induced into a coma before utilising alchemy to tap into their subconscious, to extract and seal their memories away.

The goal was for them to wake up without any recollection of who they were, save for their fighting capabilities, as the gold-toothed doctor so kindly explained to the Autocrat. Emotional capabilities eroded so that troublesome fetters like - god forbid, feelings! - could get out of the picture. Consciences atrophied, minds brainwashed. All obstacles to the full realisation of their indestructible power in the war erased.

Reduced to subconsciousness, amelos potamos had been a surprisingly easy process to perform on most soldiers. For the general majority there was no struggle against the process, and they awoke into nothingness: nothing but shells of their former selves. For some, their minds had repelled against the procedure initially, as if desperately grappling on to fragments of their former selves, but eventually they’d succumbed as well.

A-18/13 and E-18/8 had, however, proved to be most cumbersome with their startling mental resistance. Even in their subconscious their minds had clawed frantically at the memories they shared with each other, stubbornly refusing to let go of the basis behind their shared bond. The doctors struggled to find a way around this, and even when they arrived at a solution it was a long, painstaking process to go through the elaborate removal of their memories, piece by piece - for there were so many - and -

-- and destroy every single trace.

And finally, at the end of it, they recalled nothing, felt nothing as they arose from their comatose states to a chilly hospital room. To a perfect world, without hindrances to ruthlessness. The perfect soldiers were engineered thus.

What man has engineered, nature is powerless to put asunder.

The Autocrat smiles beatifically at last, eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure. He inspects the soldiers once more with all the coldness of someone debating a pawn’s move on a chessboard.  “It’s time.”

At his beckon, they march out into battle like an army of marionettes.

~x~

Out in the battlefield, the Amestrian soldiers are like industrialised man-machines, way ahead of their time. An inward dehumanisation, an outward mechanisation. The Alchemists, in particular, possess a power so lethal that they could wipe out an entire army of men with the slightest snap of their fingers, the briefest clap of hands.

This they do unflinchingly, without hesitation.

True to the gold-toothed doctor’s predictions, there were no obstructions to the realisation of their full potential. Gone were nuisances like compunction, pity - foreign concepts that didn’t belong in the desert. The soldiers simply stare at their corpses laid out before them with glazed eyes, before continuing to traverse the desert like the very harbingers of doom themselves.

Death and destruction follow them, wherever they go. There is no remorse to be felt amidst the rifles’ rapid rattles; no guilt or sympathy that halts their movements.

Neither does fear plague the brave, heartless soldiers - not even when the soldiers are held at gunpoint or witness an explosive being thrown their way. Epsilons like E-18/8 protected those who were ahead of them in the hierarchy, and were willing to kill, murder; sacrifice their bodies without a second thought.

When A-18/13 was almost stabbed from the back, for example, E-18/8 had fired a shot straight to the culprit’s head that instantaneously killed him without batting even so much as an eyelash.

Her victim’s blood spills in the distance. A bright splash of scarlet, like carmine roses growing on a decrepit wasteland. He falls lifeless to the ground.

She doesn’t recoil in the slightest: her eyes are as lifeless as the cadaver’s.

For the greater good of the State, they cantillate in their heads. An anthem for doomed youths who are slotted into an inescapable social destiny.

A-18/13 notices the sniper hiding in the comforting darkness of a bell tower from the corner of his eye, and makes a mental note to thank the stranger as she begins walking towards their base camp for their lunch break. They stand six feet apart, glassy-eyed amidst desultory conversations.

He approaches her slowly when their eyes meet. There’s an uncomfortable feeling stirring in his gut - have we met before? But he’s quick to quash it, as if stepping on a bothersome insect. “Thank you for earlier,” he says.

“Not at all. It is my duty, sir,” she responds tonelessly, before taking a seat opposite A-18/13 and B-13/8. They sip coffee and eat ration bars in a wordless, somewhat peaceful quietude despite the chaos around them.

The coffee tastes like dirt, and the ration bar reminds them of cardboard.

They eat anyway, without complaint.

Incidentally, A-19/10/11 happens to overhear their interactions. He turns around to face them. “Cadets like her deserve no thanks when they are simply doing their jobs,” he sneers. It's doltish, he thinks, to thank someone for something they're ordered to do.

E-18/8 makes no protests or objections despite the condescension in his statement. In a world without trivialities like memories or identities or emotions, the hierarchy’s austerity elicits no complaints.

Suddenly, a bell goes off. Duty calls. It signals the end of their lunch break, and they're quick to finish the last of their measly meals before standing once more for battle.

E-18/8 slings her rifles and prepares to leave. Her back reminds A-18/13 of the tall, white columns of an estate that occasionally appeared in his dreams.

A ponderous lump begins to form in his throat, but before he can ponder further the bell chimes again. Around him, soldiers recite the dreadful axiom once more.  

War wages on. The Flame Alchemist rises, and the sigil on his leathery glove begins to glow a lethal claret.  

A snap. Bodies burnt beyond recognition. Another snap. Curses and vows of vengeance eventually subsiding to muted prayers.

It’s a mortifying sight to take in: the entire place reeks more of death than sand.

The desert wind carries the howls of pain, the screams for mercy and the broken pleas for salvation from a god who doesn’t seem to hear the dying voices of its people. Please, stop - what did we ever do wrong? Don’t take my lover’s life, take mine instead -

(I pray that you’ll always be that way… May you shine like fire before men; kindness and mercy your strongest traits.  And most of all, I pray that our love for each other will always -)  

A-18/13 simply regards all of this with a vacant, uncaring look. He’s quick to snap once more, incinerating mortals into ash - from dust we were made, and back to that we shall return - as if they were but matchsticks waiting to be lit up.

Unfettered by scruples, carefully curated gardens and entire landscapes are eventually swallowed by a lake of fire and brimstone. Roses are set on fire, and there’s a pistol party going on somewhere behind him.

A cacophony of bullets, a symphony of death.  

(Be thou for the people. You’re… you’re the most honorable of all my apprentices, and you deserve to have it. If you just ask my daughter, tell her you’ll use it for the right reasons… she will give you the key to the secrets of flame alchemy.)

(Can I… can I trust you with my back, Roy? You’re a good man, and I’d like to put my faith in that dream of yours.)

His expression remains unfazed.

~x~

Amelos potamos, despite its promises of creating the perfect soldiers, did not grant its victims immunity from physical sensations.

Pain. It's a complex feeling (feelings? god forbid something like that exists!) - equal parts physical and mental. It's as much biological as it is psychological.

E-18/8 bites her lips to stop herself from screaming in pain when the explosion burns her instead of A-18/13. Jumping in front of him to defend his body was an intuitive reaction, one that doesn't even require any contemplation.

(I would do anything to protect you, Riza. Even if that means sacrificing myself.)

(As would I, Roy. A life without you is not one worth living.)  

Surely, it must have been the call of duty that compelled her to act that way. The words of A-19/10/11 echo in her mind, and she decides that she doesn’t deserve any thanks or show of concern for merely complying with orders. She’s prepared to walk - no, crawl - back to the weather-beaten tent despite the agony that sears through her, but -

-- for the first time since the war, the Flame Alchemist’s expression cracks ever so slightly.

He crosses the distance between them in two long strides and ushers her towards the tent, allowing her to lean on him for support. E-18/8 staggers from the pain, but holds in her scream nonetheless. A subtle hint of worry starts to sneak into his frown.

A-18/13 pushes aside the flap and quickly shuts it for privacy, before setting her down slowly on the bedrolls and deftly removing what was left of her uniform jacket and undershirt so that he could tend to her wounds.

The lacerations that she’s sustained look awful. It’s the worst on her shoulders, angry blisters mottling her smooth skin. His eyes move lower down her back - the injuries there don’t look as bad, and for the most part the ink there remains.

The scene feels strangely familiar, like he’s done this before.

He pours out the antiseptic and dabs gently at the gaping wounds. She winces, but before she can yelp she contains it with another hard bite down her lips.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

E-18/8 thinks it’s strange. There’s nothing to apologise for. In the first place, it’s an oddity why someone higher in the hierarchy like him is even helping her dress her wounds. But she supposed it made sense - she couldn’t reach those wounds herself, after all, and it was best to repair his subordinates quickly so that she could resume her duties as his human shield.

“Not at all, sir,” she manages to exhale through the pain. Bandages are rolled around the injured area on her shoulders fastidiously. He moves on to the wounds on her back.

It is only then that he takes a closer examination at the tattoo, and to his surprise he realises it’s an alchemical array - an array that’s strikingly similar to the one on his gloves.

The epiphany hits him then, like a blaring truck. It bears an uncanny resemblance to the back of the nameless, faceless girl that appears in his dream.

He wonders why he dreams of someone he supposedly doesn’t know.

“Sir?” she asks, snapping him out of his reverie. His mending has come to a pause. E-18/8 wishes he would hurry up so that they could return to their duties. The perfect soldiers, after all, wasted no time on silly musings or dilly-dallyings.

“Ah, sorry,” he apologises again. A frown makes its presence known on her ashen countenance, but she swallows the pain as the dry air kisses her blisters along with the - dare she say, irritation?

“We should hurry up,” she whispers softly through gritted teeth, masking her - well, she didn’t know if it was irritation causing her teeth to grind against each other.

“Right,” he replies. He makes quick work of patching up the last of her wounds, before continuing to trace the tattoo in a dazed trance. There’s a tender sort of carefulness to his movements as he caresses the planes of her back. It elicits a shudder from the blonde, and she pins the blame on the desert wind that blows in fiercely through the little gaps pockmarking the flimsy tent.

His fingers continue their methodical dance down the grooves of her spine. E-18/8 shudders again, but the winds have stopped.

The Flame Alchemist gently thumbs the words that lay below the intricate array. Poems alluding to love and apology and light; frivolities that are unequivocally frowned upon by the State.

(Through fire, we gain knowledge and truth - the same way fire brings clarity to sand in the form of glass.)

(Well, that’s very... poetic, Roy.)

Further down, there’s an inscription that stands out in a gentle blue cursive - like the waters of an ocean, or a clear, azure sky he doesn’t quite remember seeing since time immemorial. The only images they saw in the desert were rivers of blood that drowned land and sky in crimson, the colour of the sigil on his glove and the words above.

This particular inscription, though, is different. Aside from the disparity in colour, it speaks not of holy flames or physics or thermodynamics. Instead, it’s a letter, seemingly addressed to someone. It’s intriguing and frightening all the same, because it whispers taboos and a dangerous secret that he can’t quite wrap his finger around.

Nevertheless, he runs a finger across the alphabets spelling out a… a name.

A name.

His face pales, like the posthumous whiteness of marble - does this blaspheme against the State? - but ignoring the warning bells his fingers continue their descent.

It’s not just a name, but two. Two names, framing an inscription of identity. Emotion. Memory.

My dear Riza, dearest Riza Hawkeye,

You will always be your own person, And I will always love you for that.

Lest we forget, Roy Mustang

“Ri...za,” he calls apprehensively. The foreign taste lingering on his tongue makes him feel like he’d just eaten the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge.  “Riza,” he tries again, “Hawkeye.”

“Who is that, sir?”

Riza Hawkeye.

The image of a young girl in a sundress flashes before him. His mind reels like a film-roll as memories flash past, sepia tones of nostalgia colouring them. It’s vague, but he’s starting to see the barely discernible outlines of a girl who looks like a younger version of the injured sniper before him.

The nameless, faceless girl that haunted him in his dreams…

Was it - was it her?

“It’s… I think it’s you.” he says, a desperate plea for them to remember, remember - lest we forget -

“That’s impossible, sir. I go by E-18/8,” she answers, but there’s a nervousness that creeps around her placid tone as she remembers the occasional dreamful slumber.

The picture of a younger her with a nameless, faceless raven-haired man, summertime and sunlight kissing their skin as they sat together on the front porch, feet dangling and fingers intertwining. The dream would always end, without fail, whenever he began to whisper their names to the wind.

But once, just once… she’d seen him mouth a “ri” before the dream came to an abrupt end.

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s you,” he says, with more urgency to his voice this time. A desperate plea for them to remember, remember - lest we forget - “There’s another name here - Roy Mustang. Does that sound familiar to you?”

(... Hello, Mister Mustang.)

(Please don’t call me that, Riza. Just call me Roy - I won’t bite, I promise.)

“... Vaguely, sir.”

(Alright… sir.)

(That’s even worse! I’m not some… some old-fashioned lord. I just want to be your friend -)

(... Friend?)

As if possessed by some kind of uncontrollable automatism, they begin to cry. A teardrop falls on an open wound on the small of her back, and she jerks upright.

“Sorry,” comes his third apology.

Acting purely on instinct now, he wraps his arms loosely around her from behind, trying to navigate through the storm brewing in his mind. He finally has a taste of the embrace he’s subconsciously been yearning for. It’s bittersweet and agonising all at once. Desire burns, and he finds himself longing for more.  

She makes no move to escape his hold. Instead, she rests her palms on his scorched skin, feeling the calluses with a rough, padded thumb. It’s warm underneath her. He lives up to his moniker, she thinks, as heat begins to surge through her body.

Hug me till you drug me, honey; kiss me till I’m in a coma…

An almost carnal desire spills from his heart, running to his lips. He presses his lips on the back of her neck to soothe it. She shudders again, and this time she knows - it’s not because of the wind, but him.

“What… what were we, Riza? What are we now?”

“I don’t know, Roy,” she cries out softly, as she turns to return his gesture of affection.

For the briefest of moments, their lips meet. Flames unfurl beneath them, and suddenly the only war, the only tussle is not the one awaiting them outside, but within them - their souls and memories desperately trying to reconnect with their bodies -

(I pray that our love for each other will always remain. I pray, Father, that you forgive us for our sins, past and future, and that the scarlet thread that runs between us will be one of love, not murder -)

The bell rings, again. Any memories that they might have recollected of each other immediately recede like a spectre.

For the greater good of the State.

They break apart from each other in stunned silence. E-18/8 is the first to stand, thanking him for tending to her wounds. “I am alright now, sir. We should get going.”

(Isn’t it interesting, Riza? Fire on sand brings glass. Here, let me show you - )

(Yes, Roy. I’m well aware. You’ve made that clear with your incessant rambling.)

Their consciences remain unclear as they step back out into the arid, sandy wasteland.

[jhin-mao]

Renaissance par la haine

Les cloches de mon être retentissent et annoncent l'approche du cavalier sinistre sur son cheval blanc. La mort s'approche, prête à s'emparer de ce fantôme qui se débat immobile. Ses griffes s'insèrent dans mon coeur et le déchiquete, faisant jaillir le sang carmin qui s'y accumule avec rage depuis tant d'années. Je fais sonner le carillon, la guidant vers ma propre fin, en fermant les yeux j'accepte mon sort et accepte le pari qu'elle me lance. Prête à déchaîner ma cruauté et le vent glacial qui cristallise mon moi profond. Prête à revêtir l'uniforme que le destin me confectionna il y a de cela treize ans. Il me scie à merveille, il est le seul habit qui me va, qui ne me serre pas. Il me rend libre de mes mouvement, entrave les chaînes que les autres brandissent sur moi. La naissance commence, le phénix de glace se dévoile dans ses propres cendres. Le moment arrive, les arbres pleurent, les loups hurlent, la lune pourpre se révèle, le sol tremble. Une chose inconnue vient fouler la terre pour la première fois. Elle s'élance vers ma maison. Alors que la mort me tient, m'empêchant de me débattre, je vois la silouhette funeste se diriger vers moi. Ses griffes acérées viendront me trancher la gorge. Mes larmes ne coulent plus, j'ai tout épuisé. Un cri sourd tente de se frayer un chemin dans mon gosier. Je ne suis plus qu'un gibier à abattre. La chasse commence. Mon bourreau et sauveur arrive. Si la mort me tient par les chevilles, pourrais-je toujours courir? Je maudit la force inconnue qui rend cette fuite possible. Mais le chasseur rôde, et je sais que tôt où tard il viendra, il m'attrapera, et de mon plein gré malgré moi, je me laisserai faire. Car ce sera à la fois un suicide et une renaissance. Le sang coule à flot maintenant, il déborde presque de mon corps. La créature viendra transpercer cette enveloppe et se nourir de cette vitalité. Elle lui donnera la force de déclencher une nouvelle ère. L'apocalypse approche, les cavaliers ouvrent son chemin. Le temps est venu, et tu n'y feras rien.

[thecomicsnexus]

A Song of Pain and Sorrow!

HEROES AGAINST HUNGER 1986 BY JIM STARLIN, CARY BATES, ELLIOT S. MAGGIN, PAUL LEVITZ, MIKE W. BARR, MICHAEL FLEISHER, BOB ROZAKIS, ROY THOMAS, J. M. DEMATTEIS, ROBERT BLOCH, ROBERT LOREN FLEMING, MARV WOLFMAN, TONY ISABELLA, GERRY CONWAY, BARBARA RANDALL, ANDREW HELFER, DAN MISHKIN, LEN WEIN, ED HANNIGAN, MINDY NEWELL, STEVE ENGLEHART, JOEY CAVALIERI, PAUL KUPPERBERG, DOUG MOENCH...

GEORGE PEREZ, PARIS CULLINS, DENYS COWAN, JAN DUURSEMA, KEITH GIFFEN, ROSS ANDRU, JOSÉ LUIS GARCÍA-LOPEZ, CARMINE INFANTINO, MARSHALL ROGERS, BERNIE WRIGHTSON, JOE BROZOWSKI, SAL AMENDOLA, CURT SWAN, BARRY WINDSOR-SMITH, ERNIE COLON, WALT SIMONSON, EDUARDO BARRETO, DAVE GIBBONS, JACK KIRBY, TONY SALMONS, DAN JURGENS, JOE KUBERT, DAVID ROSS, JIM SHERMAN...

KIM DEMULDER, TONY DEZUNIGA, VAL MAYERIK, ALFREDO ALCALA, JOE STATON, KLAUS JANSON, JERRY ORDWAY, MURPHY ANDERSON, KARL KESEL, MIKE KALUTA, GRAY MORROW, JIM APARO, JOHN BYRNE, JEFF JONES, TERRY AUSTIN, STEVE LEIALOHA, ROMEO TANGHAL, BRUCE PATTERSON, AL MILGROM, TOM MANDRAKE, BILL WRAY, JOE RUBINSTEIN, HOWARD CHAYKIN, GREG THEAKSTON, ALAN WEISS...

DAINA GRAZANUS, MICHELE WOLFMAN, GENE D’ANGELO, CARL GAFFORD, ANTHONY TOLLIN, TOM ZIUKO, GEORGE ROBERTS, LIZ BERUBÉ, NANSI HOOLAHAN AND TATJANA WOOD

SYNOPSIS (FROM COMIC VINE)

Superman delivers an acre of top soil to Ethiopia. A sirocco threatens to blow away the top soil, but Superman's quick actions save the majority of it. Lee Ann Layton, a member of the Peace Corps, casts doubt on Superman's ability to truly change Ethiopia for the better. Superman carries out his task to pepper the Ethiopian landscape with acres of top soil. The top soil is blasted out of Superman's hands. Miles away, Batman investigates the crash of an airplane, which was delivering food to Ethiopia. Seeing Superman flying overhead, Batman signals the Man of Steel to join his investigation.

A cursory glance with his microscopic vision reveals that a particle beam brought the plane down. Superman tasks Batman with enlisting the aid of Superman's nemesis, Lex Luthor. Batman tasks Superman with discovering how their unknown foe knows the schedules of the famine relief planes. Superman's investigation brings him into conflict with a trio of androids, which Superman destroys. Superman traces a broadcast signature to an alien craft, buried miles beneath Ethiopia. Superman confronts the Master, an alien that feeds off hopelessness and entropy.

Superman battles the Master, only to find himself teleported away, back to the surface. Batman storms Luthor's island base. Batman confronts Luthor. Batman convinces Luthor to use his plant growth formula to aid Ethiopia. Luthor only consents to prove his superiority over Superman. Batman, and Luthor, rendezvous with Superman. Suddenly their surroundings are plunged into pitch, as the entire planet is encased in a sphere of total darkness. With the Earth completely cut off from the light of the Sun, all life on Earth is in jeopardy.

Luthor locates the Master's ship, just outside of a refugee camp for famine victims. Luthor is visibly shaken by his encounter with the starving children. Luthor tasks Batman with evacuating the camp. Luthor teams up with Superman to confront the Master. The Master teleports Superman into another dimension. Luthor attacks the Master, who grows stronger feeding off Luthor's despair. Layton chastises the Batman for placing the camp in danger. Batman races to the Master's ship to render assistance. Superman flies faster than the speed of light to escape the Master's dimension of abject darkness.

Playing the instrument lodged in his chest, the Master releases four fireballs, each threatening a different city. Superman is forced to abandon Luthor, to deal with the new threat. Superman dissipates the fireballs. Luthor continues his desperate battle against the Master. Batman joins the fight. Luthor projects a force field around the Master's destructive instrument, preventing the Master from playing it. Nonetheless, the Master closes on Luthor, intent on crushing the life from him with his bare hands. Superman intervenes, and beats the Master into submission.

Superman wrenches the instrument from the Master's chest, then hurls the Master into the dimension of darkness. With the threat of the Master ended, Superman works with Luthor to end the famine in Ethiopia. Luthor's plant growth formula, however, fails. What worked on Luthor's world, Lexor, is incompatible with the soil composition of Earth. Layton explains that it took man years to turn Ethiopia into a desert, and a single afternoon of super-heroic efforts was never going to restore it. Layton states that it will take a concerted effort, on the part of the entire world, to save the African continent. As Batman, Luthor, and Superman depart, Layton allows herself to feel hope for the future.

BEHIND THE SCENES

1983-1985 FAMINE IN ETHIOPIA (FROM WIKIPEDIA)

A widespread famine affected Ethiopia from 1983 to 1985. The worst famine to hit the country in a century, in northern Ethiopia it led to more than 400,000 deaths, but, according to Human Rights Watch, more than half its mortality could be attributed to "human rights abuses causing the famine to come earlier, strike harder and extend further than would otherwise have been the case". Other areas of Ethiopia experienced famine for similar reasons, resulting in tens of thousands of additional deaths. The famine as a whole took place a decade into the Ethiopian Civil War.

The famine of 1983–85 is most often ascribed to drought and climatic phenomena. However, Human Rights Watch has alleged that widespread drought occurred only some months after the famine was under way. According to the organisation, and Oxfam UK, the famines that struck Ethiopia between 1961 and 1985, and in particular the one of 1983–85, were in large part created by government policies, specifically a set of so-called counter-insurgency strategies and "social transformation" in non-insurgent areas.

The economy of Ethiopia is based on agriculture: almost half of GDP, 60% of exports, and 80% of total employment come from agriculture.

In 1974, a group of Marxist soldiers known as the Derg overthrew the government. The Derg addressed the Wollo famine by creating the Relief and Rehabilitation Commission (RRC) to examine the causes of the famine and prevent its recurrence, and then abolishing feudal tenure in March 1975. The RRC initially enjoyed more independence from the Derg than any other ministry, largely due to its close ties to foreign donors and the quality of some its senior staff. As a result, insurgencies began to spread into the country's administrative regions

By late 1976 insurgencies existed in all of the country's fourteen administrative regions. The Red Terror (1977–1978) marked the beginning of a steady deterioration in the economic state of the nation, coupled with extractive policies targeting rural areas. The collapse of the system of State Farms, a large employer of seasonal laborers, resulted in an estimated 500,000 farmers in northern Ethiopia losing a component of their income. Grain wholesaling was declared illegal in much of the country, resulting in the number of grain dealers falling from between 20,000 and 30,000 to 4,942 in the decade after the revolution.

The nature of the RRC changed as the government became increasingly authoritarian. Immediately after its creation, its experienced core of technocrats produced highly regarded analyses of Ethiopian famine and ably carried out famine relief efforts. However, by the 1980s, the Derg had compromised its mission. The RRC began with the innocuous scheme of creating village workforces from the unemployed in state farms, and government agricultural schemes but, as the counter-insurgency intensified, the RRC was given responsibility for a program of forced resettlement and villagization. As the go-between for international aid organizations and foreign donor governments, the RRC redirected food to government militias, in particular in Eritrea and Tigray. It also encouraged international agencies to set up relief programs in regions with surplus grain production, which allowed the AMC to collect the excess food. Finally, the RRC carried out a disinformation campaign during the 1980s famine, in which it portrayed the famine as being solely the result of drought and overpopulation and tried to deny the existence of the armed conflict that was occurring precisely in the famine-affected regions. The RRC also claimed that the aid being given by it and its international agency partners were reaching all of the famine victims.

Four Ethiopian provinces—Gojjam, Hararghe, Tigray and Wollo—all received record low rainfalls in the mid-1980s. In the south, a separate and simultaneous cause was the government's response to Oromo Liberation Front (OLF) insurgency. In 1984, President Mengistu Haile Mariam announced that 46% of the Ethiopian Gross National Product would be allocated to military spending, creating the largest standing army in sub-Saharan Africa; the allocation for health in the government budget fell from 6% in 1973–4 to 3% by 1990–1.

Although a UN estimate of one million deaths is often quoted for the 1983–5 famine, this figure has been challenged by famine scholar Alex de Waal. In a major study, de Waal criticized the United Nations for being "remarkably cavalier" about the numbers of people who died, with the UN's one-million figure having "absolutely no scientific basis whatsoever," a fact which represents "a trivialization and dehumanization of human misery.". De Waal estimates that 400,000 to 500,000 died in the famine.

Nevertheless, the magnitude of the disaster has been well documented: in addition to hundreds of thousands of deaths, millions were made destitute. Media activity in the West, along with the size of the crisis, led to the "Do They Know It's Christmas?" charity single and the July 1985 concert Live Aid, which elevated the international profile of the famine and helped secure international aid. In the early to mid-1980s there were famines in two distinct regions of the country, resulting in several studies of one famine that try to extrapolate to the other or less cautious writers referring to a single widespread famine. The famine in the southeast of the country was brought about by the Derg's counterinsurgency efforts against the OLF. However, most media referring to "the Ethiopian famine" of the 1980s refers to the severe famine in 1983-85 centered on Tigray and northern Wollo, which further affected Eritrea, Begemder and northern Shewa. Living standards had been declining in these government-held regions since 1977, a "direct consequence" of Derg agricultural policies. A further major contributing factor to the famine were the Ethiopian government's enforced resettlement programs, utilized as part of its counter-insurgency campaign.

Despite RRC claims to have predicted the famine, there was little data as late as early 1984 indicating an unusually severe food shortage. Following two major droughts in the late 1970s, 1980 and 1981 were rated by the RRC as "normal" and "above normal". The 1982 harvest was the largest ever, with the exception of central and eastern Tigray. RRC estimates for people "at risk" of famine rose to 3.9 million in 1983 from 2.8 million in 1982, which was less than the 1981 estimate of 4.5 million. In February and March 1983, the first signs of famine were recognized as poverty-stricken farmers began to appear at feeding centers, prompting international aid agencies to appeal for aid and the RRC to revise its famine assessment. The harvest after the main (meher) harvest in 1983 was the third largest on record, with the only serious shortfall again being recorded in Tigray. In response, grain prices in the two northern regions of Begemder and Gojjam fell. However, famine recurred in Tigray. The RRC claimed in May 1984 that the failure of the short rains (belg) constituted a catastrophic drought, while neglecting to state that the belg crops form a fourth of crop yields where the belg falls, but none at all in the majority of Tigray. A quantitative measure of the famine are grain prices, which show high prices in eastern and central Tigray, spreading outward after the 1984 crop failure.

A major drain on Ethiopia's economy was the ongoing civil war, which pitched rebel movements against the Soviet and Cuban backed Derg government. This crippled the country's economy further and contributed to the government's lack of ability to handle the crisis to come.

By mid-1984, it was evident that another drought and resulting famine of major proportions had begun to affect large parts of northern Ethiopia. Just as evident was the government's inability to provide relief. The almost total failure of crops in the north was compounded by fighting in and around Eritrea, which hindered the passage of relief supplies. Although international relief organizations made a major effort to provide food to the affected areas, the persistence of drought and poor security conditions in the north resulted in continuing need as well as hazards for famine relief workers. In late 1985, another year of drought was forecast, and by early 1986 the famine had spread to parts of the southern highlands, with an estimated 5.8 million people dependent on relief food. In 1986, locust plagues exacerbated the problem.

TL;DR

The famine was caused by a series of events, most of them of politic nature (and the cold war didn’t help). But apart from the human causes, the region has been suffering draughts for a long time (and still does), ruining Ethiopia’s main industry.

AID (FROM BBC)

BBC's Michael Buerk achieved something very rare - he not only reported the world, but changed it a little bit.

His vivid on-the-spot coverage of a famine "of biblical proportions" in Tigray in northern Ethiopia pricked the conscience of the richer part of the world.

The money came pouring in. Bob Geldof's Band Aid and Live Aid led the way in galvanizing public attention, raising cash and mobilizing a huge relief effort.

As a result, many thousands of lives were saved - and tens of thousands of those facing starvation received food.

BBC World Service has broadcast an Assignment documentary based on the testimony of key figures on the ground in and around Tigray in the mid-1980s. Presenting evidence, that some of the famine relief donations were diverted by a powerful rebel group to buy weapons.

The documentary has revealed some uncomfortable facts and provoked a strong response. This morning a British newspaper, The Independent, gives over its front page to complaints from Bob Geldof and several leading charities. They accuse the BBC of "disgracefully poor reporting".

This documentary was put together by Martin Plaut, Africa Editor at BBC World Service News. He has a particular expertise in the Horn of Africa, and indeed reported from there on the famine back in the 1980s. He has spent almost a year gathering material and doing research for this documentary - and the BBC stands by his journalism.

As so often is the case, the famine that afflicted northern Ethiopia was compounded by war. Much of Tigray was controlled by a hard left-wing rebel group, the Tigrayan People's Liberation Front. They were fighting the Ethiopian army, then the largest in Africa. This was also the era of the cold war - and the Americans were seeking to undermine the Soviet-aligned Ethiopian government.

It is not in dispute that millions of dollars of relief aid was channelled through the Relief Society of Tigray (Rest), which was a part of the TPLF rebel movement. It was the only way of reaching those in desperate need in rebel-held areas. What Martin Plaut's documentary uncovers is the systematic diversion of aid received by Rest to buy arms for the TPLF.

Martin tracked down two key former members of the TPLF who explained how they managed to divert the money.

They are now at odds with the then TPLF leader, Meles Zenawi, who is currently Ethiopia's Prime Minister. But they are credible voices.

One of these former TPLF fighters, the rebel army commander at the time, makes an allegation which has attracted particular controversy - that the organisation made a policy decision that only 5% of the money received by Rest would be spent on relief, with the bulk going directly or indirectly to support their military and political campaigns.

Among the other accounts featured in the World Service programme, Robert Houdek, who was the senior US diplomat in Ethiopia in the late 1980s, states that TPLF members told him at the time that some aid money and supplies was used to buy weapons. A CIA document paints the same picture.

Bob Geldof was given every opportunity to express his point of view while the documentary was being made, but declined to be interviewed.

Some relief agencies - including Christian Aid and Cafod - pointed us towards their staff involved in directing food supplies 25 years ago, and those voices were included.

Two key aid workers active in and around Ethiopia in the 1980s confirm in the BBC World Service programme the way in which relief was channeled through Rest - though they dispute that there was a significant diversion of money for arms buying.

"If we were being conned, I think it was on a very small scale," said Stephen King, then overseeing from Sudan the work of Catholic charities in providing food to the starving.

The documentary did not say that most famine relief money was used to buy weapons - it did not suggest that any relief agencies were complicit in the diversion of funds - it explicitly stated that "whatever the levels of deception, much aid did reach the starving".

But there is a clear public interest in determining whether some money given as famine relief ended up buying guns and bullets.

And that's what the evidence suggests.

REVIEW

So, if you paid attention to the story behind this book, it was done by pretty much the same people that did Heroes for Hope (Marvel’s version). Now, I’ll be very direct here, I think this one works better than Marvel’s.

Marvel’s version is too vague and abstract about the problem (there is one panel explaining how they weren’t responsible enough with trees).

In this book, even with a crazy super-villain involved, there is at least one explanation about the cause and what WE can do from our comfy homes. Which was the whole point of the campaign. Sure, in my quick research I couldn’t find any evidence that peanut crops were involved, but let’s just say that the book doesn’t spend too much time explaining the issues.

In fact neither of the two stories explain the ongoing civil war. There are at least some vague references to conflicts in the area in this book.

Luthor’s involvement was a nice touch. But just like with “Heroes for Hope”, here the heroes involved only make a glorified World’s finest issue.

The villain is there only to give the heroes an excuse to stay longer. I cannot say that story makes much sense, but it is pretty much the same motivation the villain had in Heroes for Hope.

But at least the three characters involved were Batman, Superman and Lex Luthor, and everyone knows these characters. So it is accessible.

The character of Lee Ann Layton... I am not sure if this is an actual real life person or what, but she should calm the fuck down a little!

She starts attacking Superman’s efforts, and pretty much anything they try to do because they are not bringing money. Lady, at least they are trying!

The art feels a bit more uniform in this book than in Marvel’s version. Perhaps because the artists involved were mostly from DC, with experience on these characters.

In the end, it is important to remember that the artists involved did this for free.

How successful was this comic-book? I never found the exact figures and no one recovered the comic book sales charts of the eighties yet. Maybe some day someone will tell us. In any case, if only 5% went to help the people, and the rest to keep them hungry, maybe it is best not to know.

I give this special a score of 6

[time-woods]

he does in fact chirp

[starry-mang0s]

I drew my own fits for Carma and Sidūs!

I love the pretty bug he’s just the best 💛 I had so much fun drawing him in a skirt and jewelry 😊

Anyway I decided to keep with Sidūs’s tendency to not actually be wearing a real shirt and just gave him ribbons like in his masquerade outfit!

If you didn’t know these characters belong to the lovely @time-woods !

[circusglass]

" hey molly............ how did you uh- decide which god to follow and shit? did you pick at random or did they fucking beam down some light on you like 'you're my follower now'? seems weirdly common... "

@cobaltsouled​

“Mmh!” Molly pulls his tankard from his lips a bit clumsily, swiping some foam from his lips with a quick lick. “She caught me in an alley with my trousers around my ankles and decided, that one, they’re perfect! Liked my style.”

He flashes Beau a toothy, shit-eating grin, hitches his knees up so he can plant his feet against the strut of the table. The movement has him tipping her way. He allows his head to list back so he can watch her, though the solid carmine of his gaze makes it difficult to tell whether his attentions are anchored on her or the busy tavern floor.

“We’re kind of a uh, hm. Support group for followers and their wayward gods, aren’t we?” he muses softly, watching as Caleb chats idly with the barmaid, distracting her as Jester creeps behind the counter to rearrange a couple of bottles. He lifts his tankard to take a lazy pull, gaze sliding back towards Beau.

It’s a strange question to have trebucheted his way from her of all people, stranger still that his first instinct isn’t to lie. They’re liars, the both of them, by omission, by bombast, and that, by nature, never makes for an interesting conversation in his experience. He’s unmoving, but beneath the table his tail taps an uneven ditty against the roughly hewn floor.

“To tell you the truth, it was Gustav’s doing. Him and Desmond,” he admits, voice tempered as to not carry. “Used to watch Gustav pray and, well.”

He gestures idly, remembers the moons above his head when he’d unburied himself. She’s in the light, Desmond once told him as he stared up at the sky, back when he was nameless and wordless. Molly takes in a short, quick breath, lips twitching like he means to continue, but doesn’t. He could tell her that while he follows the Moonweaver, he feels drawn to another, more distant deity, nameable, terrifying, but–even he doesn’t understand that calling so well. Easier to ignore it.

So he hedges with a cavalier confidence that isn’t hollow, but isn’t entirely real either. “She fits what I value. Gods should reflect us, not the other way around, right?”

Maybe his tune will change if the Moonweaver ever reaches out to him. Probably not, though, and it’s best not to entertain the possibility. Molly finishes his drink.

[ladydarkglam]

Libertine "Vivre d'aventures en rencontres d'un soir Un pourpré de lèvres carmin et la courbe illusoire Libertine au coeur léger d'une étoffe de satin Papillonner la nuit et les jours de furtifs desseins Une peau de porcelaine et des mains de pianistes Doucereuses caresses comme un don d'artiste Velours d'une esquisse de jambes et de jarretière Corseter n'est rien de mal à l'indécence éphémère Jolie catin aux yeux de braise et d'iris jasmin Drapée dans tes rêves d'ambroisie et de parfum Au creux de ta poitrine le grain ocré d'une beauté Rousseur d'une lune déposée sur un soupçon d'éternité Les joues rosées quand se lève le soleil de minuit Crinière de ce feu et tes désirs de baisers interdits Brune quand les flammes te reflètent si belle Blonde lorsque la vie te transforme en jouvencelle Rousse si les safrans de ton âme se parent de blanc Tout et rien mais l'empreinte d'un tissu d'encens Vêtue de perles et de filets d'or , une broderie s'esquisse Et si Dieu ne créa la femme c'est en un brin de cuisse À offrir ce que tu as ,éthérée divine sans lois T'effleurer est augure de la volupté de tant d'émois Que ne frissonnes tu pas quand ton ombre te déflore? Gorge déployée te surprend à crier toujours encore À l'aube de tes reins ton hymen se devine charmant Alliance scellée sur l'autel des amours de l'instant Virginité épurée de ces versets de bures prostituées Sous ton jupon la douce déraison d'un écrin ambré Par-dessus la soie de ton boudoir tout est mystère De ces secrets cavaliers qui ne peuvent que se taire Des baldaquins et tes formes lovées de guêpières Libre et folle de n'être point jamais leurs prisonnières Aguicheuse lorsque tes poses te font tentatrice Une bouche à l'exquise d'une lyrique cantatrice Point de chant mais la chorale à genoux de tes amants Immaculée illusion de ce que le vent emporte d'autant Un corps à chœur qui se mêle, gémit et s'emmêle Juste la chamade des battements de ta candeur originelle Pécheresse parmi les Eve et les insouciantes Restera de toi le souffle d'une cire incandescente ." ©Gisèle-Luce de Christian-James

[tmnotizie]

MACERATA- E’ stata inaugurata ai Musei Civici di Palazzo Buonaccorsi di Macerata la mostra Capriccio e natura. Arte nelle Marche del secondo Cinquecento. Percorsi di rinascita a cura di Alessandro Delpriori e Anna Maria Ambrosini Massari, realizzata da Macerata Musei.

La mostra, che rimarrà aperta fino al 13 maggio 2018, è parte del progetto Mostrare le Marche, un progetto regionale nato dal protocollo d’intesa tra Regione Marche, Mibact, Anci, Conferenza Episcopale e i Comuni di Macerata, Ascoli Piceno, Fermo, Loreto, Matelica, Fabriano, che si propone un ciclo di sei mostre tra il 2017 e il 2018 per promuovere la conoscenza e lo sviluppo dei territori colpiti dal sisma del 2016.

“L’esposizione – ha dichiarato il presidente della Regione Luca Ceriscioli – è il secondo appuntamento del progetto regionale che nasce per valorizzare opere d’arte e percorsi legati a chiese e musei chiusi a causa del sisma. Per questo abbiamo scelto di dedicarci con particolare attenzione alla promozione, con l’impegno di mettere in atto una diffusione qualificata attraverso i principali media nazionali. Siamo convinti del fatto che le nostre opere d’arte, così preziose e numerose, capillarmente presenti sul territorio regionale, sono tra i nostri ambasciatori più autorevoli. Perciò, parallelamente a questa iniziativa, promuoveremo le Marche fuori dalle Marche, con un focus importante sulle arre del sisma. Abbiamo scelto Milano come hub:  il 20 dicembre sarà inaugurata al Museo Diocesano una prestigiosa mostra sui capolavori dei Sibillini, che porterà con sé una serie di attività promozionali che si protrarranno per tutta la prima metà del 2018. Protagonisti saranno poi, per tutto il 2018, i comuni di Ascoli Piceno, Fabriano, Fermo e Matelica che, nel riproporre all’attenzione del pubblico le pregevoli espressioni dell’arte marchigiana, contribuiranno ad avviare una nuova fase di sviluppo e di rivitalizzazione sociale, economica e turistica delle aree e dei centri marchigiani colpiti dal sisma, favorendone la ripresa anche culturale”.

“Questa mostra – ha affermato il sindaco di Macerata, Romano Carancini –  è il frutto buono di un percorso di collaborazione tra territorio e Istituzioni: la città di Macerata apre a tutti le porte del territorio che, seppur ferito, è vivo e pronto ad accogliere. Vogliamo dimostrare come il patrimonio artistico locale, ancor prima di essere storia, bellezza e fede, rappresenta una fonte di vita essenziale per le nostre comunità e ne forgia quei tratti identitari unici e irreplicabili di cui è impossibile fare a meno.”

“Questa mostra – è l’intervento del il vice sindaco e assessore alla Cultura Stefania Monteverde – nasce da lontano, dalla comunità di patrimonio che è la Marca Maceratese, che ha temuto di perdere se stessa insieme al patrimonio culturale gravemente colpito dal sisma. In collaborazione con le Istituzioni, fin da subito è iniziato un percorso di consapevolezza sulla tutela e sulla valorizzazione del patrimonio ereditato, che oggi porta alla prima mostra nel territorio colpito dal sisma con le opere messe in salvo e gli itinerari di un paesaggio ricco di arte e di bellezza. Un processo fortemente voluto per rilanciare lo sviluppo a base culturale, l’economia turistica, e soprattutto la ricostruzione del tessuto delle comunità. Un percorso virtuoso che ha spinto il territorio intero a candidarsi a Capitale Italiana della Cultura 2020″.

La mostra Capriccio e natura coglie l’occasione del temporaneo trasferimento nei depositi dei Musei civici di Palazzo Buonaccorsi dei dipinti della Chiesa di Santa Maria delle Vergini a Macerata, capolavoro del Cinquecento inagibile a causa del sisma, per un ripensamento completo su quel cantiere e sul suo ruolo nella storia artistica nelle Marche alla fine del XVI secolo.

Dallo straordinario punto di osservazione maceratese la visuale si apre ad abbracciare la pluralità affascinante di presenze artistiche nell’intera regione fra Cinque e Seicento, illuminando entro un largo raggio quelle relazioni e quei riflessi che possano far emergere, nel contesto del Centro Italia, la densità artistica dell’area maceratese.

Facendo luce sull’arte del secondo Cinquecento, snodo nella storia dell’arte regionale, la mostra intende contribuire a tenere i riflettori ben puntati sui valori di tutto un territorio, caratterizzato da un’altissima e diffusa presenza di beni artistici e di opere architettoniche di eccezionale pregio e interesse, gravemente colpito dal sisma del 2016 e che dovrà quanto prima essere oggetto di una graduale e integrale restituzione.

Il cantiere di Loreto, in epoca sistina, riverberava in tutta la regione un linguaggio nuovo e aggiornato sulle più interessanti novità romane e la Chiesa delle Vergini di Macerata è uno dei più begli esempi, pressoché integri, di complesso decorativo sistino, intendendo una fase culturale che va ben oltre il pontificato del papa marchigiano Sisto V Peretti, 1585-1590, e che consente di cogliere l’affiorare inquieto delle nuove tendenze naturaliste nel profondo cambiamento veicolato nelle Marche specialmente dalla poetica degli affetti di Federico Barocci e incarnato dagli esiti delle novità  caravaggesche, con la presenza, qui, di un protagonista come Giovanni Baglione.

Un panorama vivacissimo, proiettato sullo sfondo di una fase di profondi mutamenti che vanno dal capriccio manieristico a un nuovo naturalismo, documentando una raffinata ricerca artistica: Taddeo e Federico Zuccari, già nella collezione di Palazzo Buonaccorsi, da Federico Brandani al Barocci, dall’eccentrico Andrea Boscoli al Tintoretto, fino ormai al Seicento del Cavalier D’ Arpino e di Baglione, con al centro la figura chiave della scena artistica in città tra il 1560 e il 1590, Gasparre Gasparrini e il suo più importante allievo Giuseppe Bastiani, campione della cultura sistina nel maceratese.

In catalogo, oltre ai saggi di alcuni importanti specialisti del settore a livello internazionale, è presente un’ampia selezione dei cicli decorativi di epoca sistina diffusi nelle Marche che dà una precisa e folgorante idea della ricchezza del patrimonio.

OPERE DEL TERRITORIO IN MOSTRA

Ancona, Museo Diocesano “Mons. Cesare Recanatini”

Ascoli Piceno, Chiesa di San Pietro Martire

Ostra Vetere, Parrocchia Santa Maria di Piazza

Fabriano, Oratorio del Gonfalone

Fabriano, Monastero di San Silvestro Abate

Macerata, Musei Civici di Palazzo Buonaccorsi

Ascoli Piceno, Convento di San Serafino

Matelica (Colferraio), Santuario di San Michele Arcangelo di Rastia

Fabriano, Chiesa di San Nicolò

Macerata, Santuario di Santa Maria delle Vergini, Cappella Ferri

Macerata, Santuario di Santa Maria delle Vergini, Cappella Pancalducci

Macerata, Santuario di Santa Maria delle Vergini, Cappella Ciccolini

Macerata, Santuario di Santa Maria delle Vergini, Cappella Maggiore o dei Bifolchi

Macerata, Santuario di Santa Maria delle Vergini, Cappella delle Vergini

Macerata, Santuario di Santa Maria delle Vergini§

Santa Vittoria in Matenano, Collegiata

Apiro, Collegiata di Sant’Urbano, sacrestia

Camerino, Collezione privata Zucconi Galli Fonseca

Bologna,Collezione Galleria Maurizio Nobile Bologna-Paris

Firenze, Collezione Giovanni Pratesi

Tolentino, Museo del Santuario di San Nicola

Urbino, Galleria Nazionale delle Marche

Urbino, Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, depositi

Fermignano, Collezione privata TVS S.p.A

Treia, Concattedrale della Santissima Annunziata

ITINERARI

Da Macerata partono gli itinerari che indagano le moltissime emergenze artistiche che caratterizzano questa stagione:

Loreto con lo straordinario cantiere della Basilica della Santa Casa che in quegli anni ha la forza di centro propulsore,

Macerata la chiesa di Santa Maria delle Vergini è assoluta protagonista di questo momento

Palazzo Pallotta a Caldarola con la collegiata dei santi Martino e Giorgio e la parrocchiale di Santa Croce

Montecosaro la chiesa di San Rocco

San Severino il santuario di Santa Maria dei Lumi

Camerino la Madonna delle carceri,

Matelica le pale d’altare della chiesa di San Francesco (oggi esposte nel deposito attrezzato)

Macereto il Santuario di Santa Maria

Monterubbiano l’Oratorio del Crocifisso

Sant’Elpidio a mare la Basilica di Santa Maria della Misericordia

Mogliano il Tempietto della chiesa del Santissimo Crocifisso d’Ete

Offida la chiesa del Suffragio

Ripatransone Santa Maria del Carmine

Fabriano l’Oratorio della Carità e gli affreschi nel chiostro di San Domenico

Carassai il Duomo e la Chiesa del Buon Gesù

Serravalle di Chienti il ciclo della Pasqua nella collegiata di santa Lucia

San Ginesio la collegiata di santa Maria Annunziata

Cagli la chiesa di San Giuseppe o Sant’Angelo maggiore

Sassoferrato il convento di Santa Maria della Pace e la chiesa di Santa Maria del Ponte del piano

Urbino le cappelle del Santissimo Sacramento in Duomo e della Sacra Spina nello Oratorio di Santa Croce.

Una rassegna di episodi d’arte e di architettura per altrettanti incomparabili itinerari storico-artistici, parte dei quali oggi purtroppo gravemente manchevoli in quanto colpiti dal sisma. Su di essi la mostra intende portare attenzione coinvolgendo un più largo pubblico nella percezione e nella condivisione della urgente necessità di avviare per questo territorio una grande opera di restauro.

Orari: dal martedì alla domenica: 10:00-18:00. Aperture straordinarie il Lunedì di Pasqua, lunedì 23 aprile e lunedì 30 aprile 2018.  25 dicembre chiuso. 1 gennaio: 15:00-18:00

Biglietto: intero: 7€; ridotto 5€; gratuito per bambini e ragazzi fino a 14 anni, due accompagnatori per ogni gruppo scolastico, disabili con accompagnatore

Progetto MOSTRARE LE MARCHE: coupon sconto di 2€ a mostra scaricabile da eventi.turismo.marche.it  o reperibile negli uffici turistici delle Marche.

Info point biglietteria, bookshop e servizi visita:  Musei civici di Palazzo Buonaccorsi  0733 /256361, info@maceratamusei.it  www.maceratamusei.it,  Facebook e Twitter:@maceratamusei

  The post Macerata, ai Musei civici di Palazzo Buonaccorsi taglio del nastro per la mostra “Capriccio e natura. Arte nelle Marche del secondo Cinquecento. Percorsi di rinascita” appeared first on TM notizie - ultime notizie di OGGI, cronaca, sport.