#vergil surana

[icy-warden]

ZevWarden Week 2023 Day2: Secrets, Kept and Told

“So… blood magic.” Zevran’s voice is soft but his eyes are not. Vergil lazily blinks at him, sipping at his drink.

“Mind control. Is it possible?”

“Have you ever done that?” 

An unspoken question is what Vergil hears in between the lines. He unhurriedly swallows the mouthful of wine, a pleasant glide of dry sweetness in his throat and closes his eyes. His knee touches Zevran’s thigh when he shifts, their sides plastered to each other. He can feel Zevran’s ribcage expand and collapse as he’s breathing. Vergil rests his chin on his shoulder, lips ghosting over the skin of his neck. 

“Would you like to see for yourself?” 

He quietly delights in the shudder his murmur elicits, hiding his dark chuckle in the warmth of Zevran’s collarbone. The hand on his side tightens, bringing him closer.

Not away.

Ah.

Interesting. Quite a marvel, his crow. 

So brave. So curious.

“You’d like that?” He whispers along his ear, teeth grazing his pulse point, “Be on my mercy, entirely, as you’re not able to move, to scream without my permission? Surrender yourself and trust that your mind is still your own after I’m done with you?”

Zevran’s throat moves under his lips as he swallows, “That’s a little bit... disturbing.”

“It is, isn’t it.” Vergil leans away, hearing the slight shudder of Zevran’s breath when he does so. Still, Zevran holds his gaze, squeezing back when Vergil lets their fingers intertwine. His thumb brushes the delicate skin of Zevran’s wrist, feeling the bumpy lines of thin veins. Feeling the rush of blood just under the pad of his finger, silent call of life begging to be used as he sees fit. It would be easy to fall for the allure it offers. It would be easy to take and take and take. To take and manipulate. 

It would be easy. The power rush, the thrill, the pleasure.

It is a path he doesn’t want to follow. Not with how twisted it can become. So easily.

He still remembers the screams of mages who were tortured under Uldred. Jerky movements of those under influence of the mind control, their faces contorted into a grimace as they followed the orders of their master. Glassy looks when their puppet strings have been cut. Living corpses without souls left behind, their minds destroyed beyond recognition. Sacrifices, for the better good.

“The yoke must be released, whatever the cost.”

He would never risk Zevran’s mind to be violated like that. Not by his hand. Not by anyone’s hand. Not until he still is by his side.

“I hate to disappoint, but no.” Vergil murmurs, watching Zevran’s eyes gleam under the candle light. “It’s too dangerous to just plunge into one’s mind without damage. I had no time to experiment and I do not wish to. It’s just… too much, even if I’m curious how it works.”

For a few heartbeats, Vergil doesn’t move, maintaining some space between them. His shoulders lose some tension when Zevran flips their hands, draping himself over Vergil’s side. The touch is relaxed and welcome.

“So,” Zevran says, tone low, “it’s still the good old rope that comes to play when I’d wish to be under your utter mercy?”

Vergil briefly closes his eyes, tilting his head back when Zevran kisses a spot under his jaw, a hint of tongue only warning before his lips close over the skin and suck. He can’t help his next words be a little breathy.

“If you wish so, yes.”

There are also a few spells that can be handy, ones that he finds himself to be eager to discuss with Zevran some time soon.

[icylook]

Vergil Surana was promised some refreshments and attention he deserves if he agrees to a picnic 🍸💙 thank you for the tag @heniareth ✨

[Picrew]

[heniareth]

For @icy-warden here is my contribution! All the love for Vergil from Ilanlas (although they start in a rocky spot 😌😌). This takes place an unspecified number of years after the Blight.

✨

Ilanlas groans and opens his eyes.

There is stone above him—rough, natural stone, but in some places the wall has been completed with brick and mortar. A small trickle of water runs down the wall and disappears into the ground. The air smells damp and musty. This chamber has not been open until now, when they came crashing down into it. The chute hidden behind the trapdoor through which they have fallen is overhead. Not even three people standing on each others’ shoulders could reach it.

Creators. That is a long fall.

Carefully, Ilanlas sits up. The room remains where it is, his head is not spinning. Nothing seems to be broken, either.

The silence, however, is stifling.

“Vergil?” he asks, a sudden fear clawing at his throat.

“Here,” Vergil answers.

Ilanlas lets out a quiet sigh of relief. “You are alright.”

Vergil sits up with his own low groan. “You are bleeding.”

Only now does Ilanlas notice the trickle of warm liquid down his cheek and throat. He wipes it away; his hand comes away stained. Not red. His blood hasn’t been red in years.

For as long as he’s known Vergil.

Suddenly, Ilanlas is acutely aware of the fact that this is the first time they are alone in… years. He still doesn’t know what to do about the fact that they are both here, on this mission to secure an ancient Warden base. They haven’t been alone ever since they met each other again; there have always been other Wardens around them, day in, day out. Until now. He knows he should do something. The rather cold end of their relationship during the Blight still eats away at him. If only he knew what.

Next to him, Vergil frowns and suddenly stands up.

“This place blocks magic.”

Ilanlas snaps out of his thoughts, straining his senses for any shift, prickle, smell that usually accompany him at all times, varying in intensity as the Veil stretches thinner and thickens again.

Nothing.

How hasn’t he noticed that until now?

“You cannot cast?” he asks Vergil.

“I’m afraid not.” For all his cool (cold) demeanor, there is an undercurrent of frustration in Vergil’s voice that Ilanlas knows well. “We will have to find another way out.”

He looks around. The walls seem solid, there are no openings other than that blighted hole in the ceiling that is completely out of reach. And Vergil cannot cast spells.

Brilliant.

He steals a glance at Vergil. Vergil notices and holds his gaze, expression smooth and unperturbed like polished marble. Ilanlas wants to curse.

It has been like this—they have been like this—ever since they ran into each other at the small Warden camp outside the ruin’s gates. Neither of them had expected the other to be there, and when they saw each other, it was too late to turn around. Ilanlas isn’t entirely sure he would have actually turned around, but a part of him certainly wanted to. Then Vergil had put on that cool, untouchable mask of his, greeted him like they hadn’t shared a tent and a bedroll and more, and moved on. By that point Ilanlas was too angry to think clearly and marched in after him. Needless to say, with his long legs, Vergil still kept well ahead of him.

And now they are here. Trapped in a room that could be crossed with three wide steps and no way to get out or call for help.

“You are still bleeding,” Vergil says.

He manages to sound… accusatory, or disappointed, Ilanlas doesn’t even care to know. Instead of guessing he marches over to the faint trickle of water is about to slap his hand against it and wash the damned blood off.

Then he stops. That smell.

“The water is strange,” he says.

Vergil steps closer—staying clear of him—carefully sniffs the water and then draws back, one eyebrow raised.

“There is lyrium in it.”

Lyrium! He found something important, he can feel it. The feeling bubbles up warmly in his chest, making him stand taller. He shoots a glance at Vergil.

Still that impenetrable mask.

The feeling doesn’t burn as brightly anymore.

“I don’t think this lyrium comes straight out of the stone,” Vergil continues. “We aren’t deep enough for that. Someone must have put it here.”

“What for?” Ilanlas asks. “A glyph?”

“Most likely,” Vergil says. It is odd, standing next to him and not feeling the magic that pulses under his skin. “It might be what blocks magic in this room.”

Ilanlas nods. This is good. They have a lead. His mind latches onto the problem and the solution that they just have to find. They will be out soon.

Ilanlas almost smiles. “Let us take a look around then.”

They separate to search the walls and the floor. The rock is granite, like above, around the Warden base. The brick wall matches what is left of the building in age, color and consistency, although the bricks down here have absorbed significantly more moisture than the ones above ground. Where the water trickles down the wall, there are some algae, moss and fungi. Their only light comes from the hole in the ceiling. Ilanlas takes no more than a passing glance at it, wishing for a ladder. Vergil however walks over and cranes his head to look up. Then he lets out a hissed curse.

“What is it?” Ilanlas asks.

“The glyph,” Vergil says. “It’s up there.”

Ilanlas joins him and looks up. The light that emanates from the hole seems to come from one of its walls, and it’s a soft, blue glow. Very much like a lyrium-powered glyph.

A glyph that is unreachable and that he didn’t see.

Time to come up with a solution. He’s good at that, right?

“We could throw something up,” Ilanlas tries.

Vergil scoffs. “And have live lyrium raining down on us?”

Ilanlas bites down on the insides of his cheeks. Hard. It does absolutely nothing.

“Do you, or do you not want to leave this place?” he snaps.

“I would love to,” Vergil snaps back, “but preferably without lyrium burns.”

“Then why don’t you- Gah!” Ilanlas throws his hands in the air and turns away.

A solution. He has to find a solution, not fight. Not with Vergil. Not again.

He focuses on the wall in front of him. Grey granite, smooth and slick. Dark, muddy red bricks. Many of them with plenty of space between them, enough for a foot or a hand to hold on to them. Shame that the bricks are farther up the wall than he can stretch.

Vergil, however…

“I might be able to reach the rune,” Ilanlas says, slowly, carefully, so that only the words he wants to say come out. “You will have to help me get up, however.”

Vergil looks down at him. “You want to scale the wall?”

Ilanlas nods.

“You are hardly a lizard.”

Ilanlas bites his tongue again. He will not blow a second time.

“It’s a long fall,” Vergil says, voice still sharp. “I won’t be able to catch you, should you fall.”

Ilanlas loses the battle and is speaking before he can stop himself again. “It almost sounds like you care.”

Vergil’s face is painfully neutral except for the tension in his jaw. Ilanlas wants the room to collapse and bury him then and there.

It doesn’t, however.

“Would you rather I didn’t care?” Vergil says, icy cold.

Ilanlas opens his mouth. Closes it again. Takes a deep breath, and then another.

“No,” he says quietly. “I prefer you... caring.”

I am sorry, he wants to add. Those words stay in his throat, however.

Still, Vergil relaxes his jaw and looks almost a bit surprised. The impression lasts for a moment only, however, before Vergil turns back to face the wall and studies it with a calculating gaze.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Stand with your back against the wall and hold your hands out like this,” Ilanlas says and demonstrates, lacing his fingers until they form a sort of step. “I will step on your hands and then on your shoulder.”

Vergil wordlessly takes his cloak and wraps it around himself, protecting his robes from Ilanlas’s feet. He also pins his hair all the way up. Then he stands with his back to the wall, holds his hands out and gives Ilanlas one short nod. Ilanlas nods back, takes a deep breath and then swings himself up, onto Vergil’s shoulder and further up until he finds purchase on the brick portion of the wall.

For a fraction of a second, Vergil’s face has been so close. Ilanlas had no idea how much he was missing him until they met again here, at this expedition, and now it burns in his chest, in his cheeks and in his ears. No time to think about that now. The bricks are softer than expected: too much moisture. The edge under his right foot crumbles and he has to find purchase elsewhere. With his magic blocked, he has no idea where Vergil is in the room, but he hopes he has stepped back. If he falls, they shouldn’t both get injured. That would be foolish.

He climbs.

Sweat is forming on his forehead. It trickles into the wound on his face. It itches. His fingers and toes dig into the softening bricks. Ilanlas carefully and quickly feels for the next foothold, praying to every single one of the Creators that there is a next foothold and that it doesn’t crumble. He tests a brick with his left foot. It holds. Ilanlas pushes himself further up. The brick he’s holding on to with his left hand gives way, and all the weight he was putting on it suddenly plummets towards the floor. He hears a quiet gasp from right underneath him before he rights himself again.

“Vergil,” he strains through gritted teeth. “Step back.”

“That fall can kill you and I cannot heal you,” Vergil answers sharply from below.

“I don’t want to injure you, Vergil,” Ilanlas says.

“Then you shouldn’t have climbed that wall.”

Ilanlas groans in frustration and continues climbing.

Finally, he reaches the top of the wall. The hole leading into their small prison has a ledge, which means he has a handhold. The hole is also, however, just out of arm’s reach.

His arm’s reach, at least.

“So,” Vergil says from below. “And now?”

Ilanlas breathes in. Breathes out. Then he flexes his muscles and pushes himself away from the wall, towards the ledge of the hole. There is a shout, air rushes past his ears and then his hand hits the ledge and curls around it. He dangles from one arm over the room, reaches up, finds purchase, and then his muscles scream in protest when he pulls himself up. Finally, he is sitting on the ledge, feet dangling down into the room, solid stone underneath and behind him. The lyrium-filled glyph that is blocking Vergil’s magic sits right in front of him. He leans back against the wall, panting heavily. His heartbeat thunders in his ears.

Below him, Vergil lets out a sharp breath. Ilanlas does smile at that. He half hopes Vergil doesn’t see it, but only half.

Down in the room, Vergil is staring up at him with an intensity that could freeze him in place if his magic was working.

“I found the glyph,” Ilanlas announces.

“Good,” comes the sharp answer from below. “Now get us out.”

Ilanlas dislodges the glyph with his thieves’ tools. The rune flashes, then dims, until it lies inert.

“You should be able to cast now,” Ilanlas calls down.

For a second, he hears nothing.

Then a strong, cold wind rushes upwards, sending his hair flying and driving tears into his eyes. A shadow flies towards him, Vergil appears in the wild current of air and grabs him by the arms.

“Hold on,” he says, pulling him in.

Ilanlas has no time to answer. He clings to Vergil as they ascend the dark shaft at breakneck speed, shooting out of the trapdoor like birds on an updraft. Some strands of Vergil’s hair have come loose and are dancing in the wind. Ilanlas steals a glance at his face and likes what he sees: a triumphant glint in his amber eyes and a satisfied smile on his lips.

He looks handsome.

Vergil sets them both down and the wind subsides. Now that he has access to his magic, Ilanlas can feel the Veil thinning around Vergil again. It is like walking next to a faint thunderstorm, or ice so cold your skin freezes before touching it, but it’s not unpleasant. It never has been, except... In the last days, that magic had been standing between him and Vergil, like an invisible barrier. Now, it is not as tightly coiled. A cool breeze, a welcome change after the stuffy air down in the small room, smooths Vergil’s hair down again and ruffles his own.

Ilanlas tries for a smile. “We did it.”

Vergil looks him up and down. “You are a fool. And you are still bleeding.”

The triumphant glow in Ilanlas’s chest implodes. Annoyance makes his movements harsh as he wipes the blood from his cheeks. “I told you, it is nothing. You could heal it and be done with it.”

“It will hurt,” Vergil says.

“That is nothing,” Ilanlas repeats.

“And it will leave a scar,” Vergil says. One light finger draws along the edge of the wound. “Such a handsome face shouldn’t scar.”

Ilanlas holds his breath and tenses his shoulders to avoid stepping back and away.

“I do not care about that either,” he says quietly.

“A shame,” Vergil says. His hand is still lingering close to Ilanlas’s face. “You-”

“I-” Ilanlas lowers his head and lets out a sharp breath. “I apologize.”

“What for?”

He looks up again, straight into Vergil’s amber eyes. “For what I said before. And… a lot of other things.”

Vergil frowns.

“Before,” Ilanlas completes the thought. “During the Blight.”

Now it is Vergil who looks away and clears his throat softly. “We best get going before the others send out a search party.”

But he doesn’t turn away. He is still keeping his hand on Ilanlas’s face, hovering, waiting. Carefully, Ilanlas nudges it closer, eyes never leaving Vergil’s.

One pale finger smooths down his cheek. Ilanlas takes a careful step closer, leaning into the faint touch.

“Don’t do that again,” Vergil murmurs, watching him carefully as he runs his fingers along his cheekbone, his jaw. “That was…”

“… reckless?” Ilanlas finishes the sentence. When Vergil nods, he continues: “I am reckless.”

“I know,” Vergil says.

Ilanlas smiles. He does know. He knows him.

Still watching Vergil, he turns his head and places a light kiss to the knuckle of his thumb. “I will be more careful. I promise.”

Something changes in Vergil’s eyes. The air around them is suddenly heavy. It is not unpleasant. And this Ilanlas knows well.

“You will get a sore neck,” he says, quietly.

“Or you might get a cramp from standing on your tiptoes,” Vergil answers, just as quiet, the ghost of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

Ilanlas finds his smile widening. A sore neck and cramped legs; both of those things have happened in their past.

Vergil looks around, finds nobody, then nudges Ilanlas backwards.

Ilanlas lets himself be led. He feels more than sees the rising ground underfoot, the rubble that has once been a wall, and then he’s eye to eye with Vergil. Now he can lean closer to capture his lips in a kiss—soft, warm, eager lips. It has been a long time since they last saw each other, and suddenly Ilanlas discovers himself starved. He leans down closer and kisses harder. Vergil grasps the back of his neck and nips at his bottom lip in return, kisses the corner of his mouth. A quiet groan escapes Ilanlas. Vergil answers with an equally quiet hum and lets his lips wander freely, along his jaw, throat, motions that are so achingly familiar. Ilanlas lets out a gasp at the quick, sudden nip of teeth who know only too well what they are doing. Vergil says something, words breathed against his skin, and then the caress of his lips takes the bite of his teeth away.

“I apologize as well.”

Ilanlas lets out an approving hum and tilts Vergil’s head so he looks at him again.

“So,” he says, voice raspy. “You still care.”

Vergil frowns slightly. “Of course I care.”

Ilanlas nods, swallows. Forces the words out. “So do I.”

A smile settles on Vergil’s lips.

“We… we should talk,” Ilanlas says. “Not now, but soon. Last time… Not talking did not work.”

Vergil sighs and looks away, but nods. “I suppose I agree.” He looks at Ilanlas. “But it doesn’t have to be now?”

“I… do not think so.” Ilanlas shrugs. “I am not sure.”

Don’t leave an apology waiting, Ilanlas Mahariel, he hears Keeper Marethari say in his mind, lest the opportunity might escape you. But he has already apologized. And he doesn’t even know what to say. They just need a bit of time.

“Hm.” Vergil reaches one hand around his neck to twirl one of the short strands of hair there around his finger. “Soon.”

“Soon,” Ilanlas agrees.

He takes the opportunity to kiss him again; less hurried, less starving, but just as insistent. He hadn’t noticed he was leaning onto Vergil, but he does now. It feels… calm, and it’s ridiculous. A few hours ago, they couldn’t be in a room together without making everybody else uncomfortable. Now, kissing seems as natural as breathing. It will not be enough; it wasn’t enough last time. There are many things he wants to say, many things he should have said ages ago but didn’t know he had to say. He just needs to figure out how to say them. They will come back to it soon. And they won’t let years pass before they do.

Not again.

[fabiansteinhauer]

Cano

1.

Jedem Anfang wohnt ein Kippen inne. Vergil lässt Aeneas zwei mal anfangen. Das erste Buch fängt die Geschichte an, das zweite Buch fängt ebenfalls die Geschichte an. Das erste Buch setzt in der ersten Person an, cano. Das erzählt einer, von dem ein Name nicht gesagt ist. Das zweite Buch stellt einen Erzähler vor, der zurückblickt und damit als Zeuge eine Geschichte anfangen lässt, er beginnt von Laokoons Kippsal (s.o.) zu erzählen. Sein Name wird gleich mitgeteilt: pater Aeneas.

Sein Zeugnis geht mit einer Taufe einher, weil ab dem zweiten Buch nicht nur über Leute erzählt wird, die Namen tragen. Der Erzähler erhält selbst einen Namen; der einen Namen trägt tritt als Erzähler in Aktion, das Erzählen wird Aktion, die Aktion Erzählung. Die zwei Anfänge fangen beide an, sie springen vom Anonymen ins Namhafte und tauschen den Namen Vergils gegen den von Aeneas aus. Da findet eine Trennung statt und ein Austauschmanöver. Da wird etwas gekreuzt und ‘versäumt’ (Rheinberger/ Augsberg), so, dass man man dabei zuschauen, mitlesen kann.

2.

Man kann so eine Doppelung der Anfänge selbst zur Technik des Anfangens zählen. In einem Text zur Macht des Anfangs schreibt Vismann, das gelungene Anfänge immer zwei mal vorkämen. Wenn das stimmt, dann ist der Anfang von Vergils Aeneas wieder mal gelungen und damit wieder mal der Anfang Roms gelungen.

Vismann bezieht ihre These vom gelungenen Anfang auf die Institutionen, die einmal als Gaius’ Insitutionen und dann als erster Teil der Justinian'schen Rechtssammlungen, wieder als Institutionen, den Anfang dessen markieren sollen, was als römisches Recht vorgestellt wird. Das Doppeln und Spalten oder Spalten und Doppeln, das Scheiden, soll eine Technik sein, anzufangen. Man soll mit dem Scheiden anfangen. Sagt man so. Im Detail sind die Vorstellungen darüber, was das heißt, sehr unterschiedlich.

3.

Kommende Woche startet die Summer Acadamy am MPI, ich werde dort mit den Kolleginnen Ragini Surana und Anna Clara Lehmann Martins sowie dem Kollegen Haochen Ku ein Round-Table-Gespräch zu der Frage When does law begin? und zu Traditions und Perspectives führen. Nelson Goodman hatte einmal vorgeschlagen, die Frage, was Kunst sei, durch die Frage, wann sie sei zu ersetzen. Das Gespräch könnte in diese Richtung laufen.

Aus der Perspektive der Forschung, die ich betreibe, wird ’anfangen’ selbst als juridische Kulturtechnik verstanden, das heißt, dass ich erforsche, wie Anfänge markiert und eingerichtet werden und wie Juristen dabei beteiligt sind. In einer Studie zum juristischen Bilderstreit habe ich so eine Untersuchung das erste mal für die Markierung des Anfangs des modernen Bildrechts in Deutschland gemacht. Der Bismarckfall ist ein künstlicher Anfang in einer künstlichen Welt, die für künstliche Intelligenz, künstliche Klugheit, künstliche (Juris-)Prudenz wahrnehmbar und denkbar gemacht ist. Dass der Fall nicht wirklich mit einem modernen Bildrecht anfängt, das kann man natürlich sagen, ist als Kritik aber etwas phantasielos, auch wenn es stimmt und richtig ist. Es gibt ein Bildrecht vor dem Bildrecht und Modernität vor der Moderne, beides kommt durchaus auch am und im Begriff des ius imaginum vor (etwa in Lessings Texten zum ius imaginum, die zwar philologisch pedantisch und korrekt sind, aber doch modern an antiken Texten hängen). Insofern fängt mit dem Bismarckfall nicht wirklich ein modernes Bildrecht an. Aber der Fall richtet das moderne Bildrecht doch auch modern ein: Der Fall fängt da an, wo ein majestätisches Subjekt in seinen Bestand vom Tod wie vom unbeherrschten Bild bedroht sein soll. Das ist sicher auch alles andere als phantasiereich, weil fast alle Vorstellungen um den Bismarckfall bürgerliche Gesellschaft in ein Adelsphantasykostüm stecken wollen, das nicht weit gedacht ist und schon die Inszenierungen des Todes nicht fassen kann. Aber immerhin tun die Richter so, als ob sie modern wären und lassen ihrer Musterung freien Lauf. Sie geben sich zu erkennen. Ich glaube allerdings nicht, dass sich das moderne Recht durch Selbstreflexion auszeichnet. Dass es Leute gibt, die das behaupten, bestreite ich nicht.

4.

In einer Studie zu Geschichte und Theorie des Kinorechts habe ich das Anfangen für die Anfänge des sogenannten Kinorechts am Beispiel der Kampagnen von Albert Hellwig um die Idee der Suggestivkraft untersucht (man kann bei Hellwig einen Wechsel von dialektischen und rhetorischen Verfahren zu kasuistischen Verfahren beobachten) und in einem Text zur Geschichte und Theorie juridischer Kulturtechniken habe ich das am Beispiel von Fritz Schulz und der Art und Weise, wie er das römische Recht anfangen lässt, getan.

Mich interessiert zwar auch die Historizität, das historische Ereignen oder Passieren, das man Anfang nennt, aber nicht ohne die Technizität, die dabei mitläuft, um den Anfang zu fassen, zu begreifen, wahrnehmbar, vorstellbar, reproduzierbar und im Prinzip 'ausübbar’ zu machen. Anzufangen kann als juridische Technik verstanden werden, mit der auch Zeit in Perspektive übersetzt wird. Nur weil etwas künstlich, technisch , fingiert, symbolisch, imaginär oder artifiziell ist, heißt das nicht, dass es nicht echt ist oder in Wirklichkeit nicht stattgefunden hat. Es gibt sie noch, eine Angst vor der Konstruktion, mit der sich sogar moderne Juristen an Gegebene, Natürliche, Echte und an eine rohe Wirklichkeit klammern, vielleicht nur, um für die Übersetzung von Zeit in Perspektive keine Verantwortung übernehmen zu müssen. Muss man aber nicht tun, muss man nicht haben. Die Rechtswissenschaft ist eine alte Wissenschaft künstlicher Welten, und alles was sie mitmacht (und sie macht scheinbar alles mit) passiert ja doch, auch wenn es was kostet.

Für Hannes Seidl und Daniel Kötter Musiktheaterstück Land habe ich Land.Libretto geschrieben, das ist ein Text, in dem es unter anderem um zwei unterschiedliche Modi des Anfangens geht. Ab urbe condita: Die Gründung Roms kann man auf das Verb condere, aber auch auf condire beziehen. Damit sind unterschiedliche Modi der Gründung und des Anfangens verbunden. Grob gesagt hängt das eine eher an einer Bewältigung von Zeiträumen, also auch daran, Zeit wie einen Raum zu behandeln. Man übersetzt das am besten mit bergen, stiften. Das andere hängt daran, Zeit durchgehen zu lassen, man übersetzt das am besten mit zubereiten, fermentieren oder reifen. Die Anfänge des Rechts können insofern ebenfalls als Moment verstanden werden, in denen Recht gestiftet oder geborgen wurde. Oder sie können als Moment verstanden werden, in den Recht zubereitet oder fermentiert wird oder in dem es reift.

5.

Eine anderen Vorstellung verbindet den Anfang des Rechts mit bestimmten, raffinierten Handlungsformen, zum Beispiel mit dem Vertrag oder der Gesetzgebung, mit der Formulierung von Sätzen, die der Qualität eines Satzes des Prätors, also einem Interdikt entsprechen. Mit Vismann und Suresh geht ich davon aus, dass bereits (choreo-)graphische Akte, Formeln und Protokolle juridische Kulturtechniken sind, die Recht anfangen lassen. Zugespitzt ausgedrückt: Immer, wenn etwas anfängt, egal was es ist, fängt auch das Recht mit an, weil Juristen schon so lange darin involviert sind, zu preparieren, was ein Anfang ist, dass sich das archäologische Sediment nicht trennen lässt, ohne etwas am Anfang zu verkehren. Wenn der Urknall ein Anfang ist, dann auch für das Recht. Wenn Leben und Tod wider Erwartens nicht gleichursprünglich sein sollten und das Leben doch erst lange nach dem Tod anfing, dann fing damit auch das Recht an.

Will man einen Moment identifizieren, an dem nur das Recht und nichts als das Recht anfing, ist das ein Versuch, aus der Konkurrenz und der Rivalität, letzlich aus der Doppelgängerei und Spalterei selbst auszusteigen, mit Luhmann gesprochen: Es ist der Versuch, das Paradox des Anfangs zu invisibilisieren. Mit anderen gesprochen: Es ist der Versuch, durch inwendige Selbstbehauptungen Chancen zu kanalisieren, Möglichkeiten zu limitieren oder aber, anders gesagt, sich zu verschanzen.

6.

1929 lässt Warburg seine Bild- und Rechtswissenschaft sowie seine Polarforschung übrigens im Zuge einer biographischen Legendenbildungbei der Lektüre von Lessings Laokoon anfangen. Das schreibt er so in dem amtlichen Schreiben Vor dem Kuratorium. Why not? So geht es auch.

[cdhurricane]

🌒 The Moon, Vergil Surana Tarot Card 🌘

A little-bit-late birthday gift for dear @icy-warden

[m-m-m-myysurana]

Ok funny story, I’m in a server which is doing an event for this years OC kiss week, and theres a sign up sheet for it... in which a third of all characters are Suranas hahahaha

And so, I have entitled this painting the Suranapocalypse.  

[hurl-a-can]

OC smooch. For a discord server OC kiss event. Das and @icylook‘s Vergil Surana. A bad photo of the pic because still no scanner. (Which is also why I’m posting it here for now, and not on my art blog.)

[october-rosehip]

Our server had a holiday exchange and I drew these for @icylook . Vergil is always a fun subject. I swear he POSES.

[icy-sims]

Sim!Vergil got a little makeover of the details I only see I think °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

[snarky-bee]

Zevraholics Anonymous OC Kiss Month has begun!!! 💋 💋 💋 

To kick it off here’s a kiss from Kallian to @icylook’s Vergil Surana 😘 

***

“Are you sure you aren’t lonely, sipping your wine all by yourself in the corner,” Kallian slurs. 

The elf in question sighs and straightens up in his seat, eyes rolling up to the ceiling briefly. He shakes his head indulgently but he prepares for the onslaught of the drunken girl. With Kallian, it is always an onslaught. 

“Here comes Hurricane Kallian,” Vergil murmurs. He tastes another mouthful of rich wine. 

“Powerful and unstoppable?” She muses with a grin. “Don’t look at me like that, mate! I came to keep you companyyyy,” she lets the last word trail off songlike.

Vergil’s eyes glint and he gestures to the empty spot on the sofa. “I was thinking more like ‘a destructive force of chaos’ - careful!” He reaches up with quick reflexes to steady her wrist before her own tumbler of amber liquor spills on the seat. “Thank you for perfectly proving my point,” he chuckles despite himself. “At least you have the decency not to spill on my Orlesian silk trousers,” he gestures to his outfit. The long cape-like jacket alone would be a tragedy for her to soil with a poorly timed wave of her arms. 

“You ponce,” Kallian says not for the first time. Still, she smiles with mischief in her eyes. Her mood isn’t easily soured by some silly teasing. She creeps closer to him, scooting along the couch until their knees touch. Her eyes are big, imploring him to pay attention. “Vergil. I need to tell you - I need to tell you a secret,” her voice drops into a stage whisper.

His eyebrow goes up in interest. “I do hope it is a good one. Or at least useful,” he says, relaxing into the couch, one arm confidently draped across the back. “Your stories do tend to be interesting,” he concedes. 

Kallian grins a lax smile born of one too many shots of liquor. She inches ever closer, nearly spilling amber liquid over her lap. She frowns at the glass as if it was the rum’s fault for trying to escape. In one gulp, she downs the last couple mouthfuls, making a face as it burns down her throat.

“Well?” Vergil prompts, already growing impatient, nonetheless a bit entertained at the faces she is making.

“Huh?” she blinks and stares for a second. Stares at his perfectly kept silky hair, framing beautiful cheekbones and pale skin. Right. That’s why she is here after all. “Come closer,” she urges in a whisper. “Come, come,” she says when he doesn’t instantly move.

He can hear her perfectly fine from where he is but her verbal prodding soon becomes physical, with Kallian poking his leg. With a huff, he leans in towards her. “Yes, Kallian?” Vergil says in a patronizing tone.

“Pretty handsome elf,” she says as she pats his cheek. 

With surprising speed for her level of inebriation, Kallian surges forward and brushes her lips against his.

Vergil stiffens and all at once she pulls away entirely. He frowns. “What, may I ask, was that?”  

Kallian giggles out peals of laughter. “It’s Truth or Dare! That was a dare!” She snickers some more at the wrinkle of his nose. “Your turn now, truth or dare! Pick one!” Her voice is loud now that she isn’t whispering.

“No,” he says flatly. He picks up his glass of wine and leaves the couch before another disaster occurs.

[icy-warden]

"Is this love, when your hands on my neck feel safe?" - Vergil

[smolpocketsmonsters]

otp question meme for A&V

No numbers? Just the entire thing? Well then -cracks knuckles-

1. Who is the most affectionate? Is there any question that it’s Aether? Vergil is the emotionally constipated one of the two of them and a lot of the affection between the two of them is rather quiet and soft.

2. Big spoon/Little spoon? Vergil’s the big spoon of course uvu/

3. Most common argument? Safety. Both of them are constantly going out into danger. In fact, their big fight started with safety as well, and Aether is almost constantly on the ball to lecture Vergil about an injury that was obtained by stupidity. Sometimes, Aether needs to get lectured too.

4. Favorite non-sexual activity? Bathing and washing each other’s hair. Vergil is high maintenence with his bodily cares and has this ritual that goes with his hair which makes it glossy and soft and it was extended to Aether to take care of his appearance more. Ever since they started, Aether’s got this constant glow to his skin and hair and you can tell when V’s been away for too long because Aether won’t do it for himself.

5. Who is most likely to carry the other? =v= Vergil.

6. What is their favorite feature of their partner’s? Aether has always been drawn to Vergil’s handsome amber eyes, even when they first met when Vergil caught Aether out of a tree.

7. What’s the first thing that changes when they realize they have feelings for the other? When Aether realized he had feelings for Vergil, Aether had already been the Vigil’s Keep Consulting Healer for two years and had known Vergil for just shy of five. He tried acting like everything was normal, and succeeded for the most part, but he made adjustments to his traveling time away from Vigil’s Keep so it would exist more regularly and evenly spaced apart. He would spend three months at the Keep, three months away from the Keep, lather, rinse, repeat, for two years until he was adopted by the Lavellan clan and had to adjust it again to five months, allowing him a month of traveling each way. He thought the distance would help keep his feelings under wraps but as the saying goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

8. Nicknames? & if so, how did they originate? Aether usually avoided nicknames with Vergil, but occasionally he would call him a raven. It wasn’t until a couple weeks before the Exalted Council for Aether to call Vergil ‘ma vhenan’. My Heart.

9. Who worries the most? Hehehe was that a serious question? They both worry about each other a lot but it’s hands down Aether who worries more. He worries about everyone, and everything. It’s hard to make him relax.

10. Who remembers what the other one always orders at a restaurant? They both are pretty good at this.

11. Who tops? Vergil. Aether has topped on occasion but prefers it when his Warden does.

12. Who initiates kisses? Both of them but Aether’s happen more frequently.

13. Who reaches for the other’s hand first? Aether’s more prone to initiating non-sexual touch so there you go.

14. Who kisses the hardest? Despite Aether being the pyro, Vergil’s the one who kisses with fire and passion. =v=

15. Who wakes up first? Aether usually wakes up with the sun and always has his bed in a position where sunlight can fall on his face in the morning, but Vergil wakes up first more often, usually stemmed from a slight sound or shift.

16. Who wants to stay in bed just a little longer? Surprisingly? Vergil. Aether’s a busy body and is used to being up and about almost immediately, at least until his depression strikes and then he doesn’t want to leave his bed at all.

17. Who says I love you first? Aether. It took a while after they finally became official (after 10 years of being an on again off again thing) before they were one day lounging together on Aether’s sofa in Skyhold before Aether just out and said it.

18. Who leaves little notes in the other’s one lunch? (Bonus: what does it usually say?) Hehehehe, Aether, cuz he’s a mom like that. It’s usually found in the pack of potions he sends with Vergil when Vergil is traveling, and usually is just a message to be careful and come back safely.

19. Who tells their family/friends about their relationship first? After they became official or after they became a regular on again off again thing? Neither really told, but it’s pretty obvious that Vergil’s people knew first that Aether and Vergil had a thing going. Even when they became official, they didn’t really tell. It was just… kinda obvious that it simply was.

20. What do their family/friends think of their relationship? No one really thought much of their relationship in the beginning since it seemed to be almost exclusively sex and general companionship with no real strings attached. When Vergil came to Skyhold though, it was rather apparent to Aether’s inner circle that Aether had feelings for Vergil. There were some thoughts that the one-sided feelings were unhealthy but after Vergil became Aether’s saving grace from depression and it turned out the feelings were mutual, no one really had a bad thing to say about it. Aether’s good for Vergil. And Vergil might be rough around the edges but he does care about Aether too.

21. Who is more likely to start dancing with the other? Aether’s the dancer of the two, and when they are alone and Aether’s feeling a little playful, he’ll ask Vergil to dance.

22. Who cooks more/who is better at cooking? Aether’s the cook. Dalish know all sorts of recipes and can make good food with almost anything they can find.

23. Who comes up with cheesy pick up lines? Aether’s not good with pick up lines so probably him.

24. Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear during inappropriate times? I’m pretty sure I have at least two 'ask me’s that answer this question. It’s totally Vergil.

25. Who needs more assurance? Aether’s the more emotionally needy one, especially after they recover from the break up.

26. What would be their theme song? Chainsmokers & Coldplay - Something Just Like This

27. Who would sing to their child back to sleep? Aether would sing Da'elgara back to sleep, with Vergil standing in the doorway, watching.

28. What do they do when they’re away from each other? They go about their duties as they do even when they are together, but they think about each other often and try not to miss each other too much. They write frequently now.

29. one headcanon about this OTP that breaks your heart In any of our AU’s, its very easy for Aether and Vergil to have a bad ending. One misstep can end up in Aether in a bad case of depression and disappearing for good and Vergil going back to being cold as stone.

30. one headcanon about this OTP that mends it We’ve got more AUs where this misstep doesn’t happen than AUs where it does ovo

TADAH

[smolpocketmonstercoffee]

🐬 (ﾉ^ヮ^)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

Part 1

He stopped eating eight days ago.

It was an ugly feeling, but it was really the only thing he had control over.

He couldn’t deny that this place was nice, that the living corals and seaweeds that decorated his little home were a comforting reminder of home, but that was as far as the comfort went. The sand was not deep enough to sweep a nest where he could lay his weary head to rest before he found cold glass, and every fixture and rock was, well, fixed in place. Impossible to move and reorganize the space to sooth his own anxiety.

He never thought he would have missed the restaurant that he had been at before, where the sand was deep enough to hide filters and a heater in one spot that was so wonderful to sleep over. The coral and kelp had been fake though and the patrons occasionally tapped the glass but at least…

At least it was only ever quiet when all the lights had been turned out and every human left.

But for the last twelve days, all he ever heard was the quiet hum and buzz of the filters in the loneliness of this place, made all the more lonely by the man who bought him.

The man hardly lingered in the room for more than a few minutes in the mornings, and in the evening it would be a couple long hours filled with silence, the man pouring himself a glass of something fine and settling on one of the seats in the fast room where he would watch his captive until he retreated for the night.

There was a woman who came during the day, who cleaned and kept everything neat, but she never said anything other than ‘smile, fish-face,“ while she took photos with her phone. And there was a man who would cook for the man, who would drop food into his tank and sit and watch and wait for him to take it and eat or not.

That man he happily disappointed for the last eight days.

It was getting harder to ignore the hunger though, every time food was dropped into the tank, but this was his protest, and unless something changed, he would continue this protest or die in the process of it.

The soft sound of the door opening and then shutting alerted him to the man’s return, and he spared the man a glance before settling himself back down on the bottom of the tank, staring out the window at the city so far below.

Sometimes he would close his eyes but all he would see is the ocean that he had been stolen from and feel the longing ache in his chest.

The pop of a cork and the sound of the cushion compressing, and it was just another silent day in that apartment with the man who owned him staring and the mer who was owned willing himself to die.

"My assistant made a suggestion,” he heard the man say, and his ears pricked, slowly lifting his head to look at him, amber eyes boring into his own steady green, “that I should talk to you. 'To try to lift your spirit’, she said. We shall see if it’ll work. If not, there will be other steps taken.”

His protest had been noted, and with displeasure, the man had been given advice on how to deal with it. For the man to quench the silence that was slowly killing him with loneliness, and finally speak.

To him.

In silence, the mer listened as the man spoke, giving vastly unimportant details of his business and the office that he ran, examples and the buffoonish people who he had to deal with that day.

There was one moment where his pause in speech was greater than usual, where a tiny flicker of emotion crossed the man’s fair features and his eyes settled more upon him, but he didn’t stop speaking, unknowing to the cause that in his rapture at the interaction, the mer had crept from his nesting spot to stare with his nose almost touching the glass.

It was food for the starving mouth.

He nearly bolted upright the next morning when the man came out of the room that he would always stay the night in, and saw him looking right at him, amusement on his face.

He was fastening a length of handsome fabric around his own throat, like he always did before he left for the day.

And the man spoke.

“Good morning,” he greeted.

And a faint smile rose to the mer’s lips, an unconscious gesture being made in return of presented palms, and if he knew the look of hopefulness on his own face, he might have scolded himself but he was so starved with the desire for that socialization that he didn’t care.

The man grumbled something about the day and about a contract, and then he started to approach and unconsciously, the mer slipped through the strands of kelp that grew, drawing close as the man gently put his hand to the glass.It was a thoughtful expression on his face, and in that moment, Aether decided one thing.

That day, his starved protest would come to an end.

[cdhurricane]

My half of a trade with the lovely @icy-warden - Illustration of Vergil Surana inspired by this fic  12th Haring by @icy-warden

[impossible-rat-babies]

Inktober 2019 is officially done and finished with and wow I can’t believe I managed to do all of these portraits, wowza. It’s always so cool to step back and look at all these work as a whole over the course of the month and see how it’s all come along.

thank you so much to everyone who offered up their characters and those who let me draw them for this month I had so much fun drawing each and every one of them and getting to know them if I didn’t know them already!

Here’s to hoping for more progress next year and each year after!

2018 :: 2017

1. Wanda Becket -- @dickeybbqpit

2. Aloth Corfiser -- for @acindra

3. Pollux Bixby -- @goblin-deity

4. Bo Jani -- @miserycollections

5. Mask -- @astralthepony

6. Cathaoir -- @notactuallyherenotreally

7. Anariel Lavellan -- @yukamine

8. Azira Stoneway -- @rebel-in-ink

9. Vergil Surana -- @icylook

10. Samahla Lavellan -- @i-am-not-that-gamer

11. Dimitri Enallasani -- @goblin-deity

12. Meeran Adaar -- @maxgayz

13. Watcher Sinead -- @mistralrunner

14. Jesse Hawkens -- @moon-sugar

15. Tamarion -- @lazysupernova

16. Annie Albright -- @arlathen

17. Ellanis Tabris -- @apostatetabris

18. Jupiter Flynn -- @schoute

19. Darva Lavellan -- @goblin-deity

20. Lenya Mahariel -- @merilsell

21. Desideria Becker -- @curiousstrawberry

22. Ellana Lavellan -- @cassandra-pentughasst

23. Mahon Lavellan -- @rennybu

24. Aoife Fawcett -- @goblin-deity

25. Shae Lavellan -- @luinquesse

26. Arvaari Adaar -- @whenyoulosesmallmind

27. Nin Lavellan -- @sunshinemage

28. Pollux Bixby -- @goblin-deity

29. Micah Lavellan -- @goblinlore

30. Isenril Lavellan -- @astraielle

31. Casper Dwight -- @goblin-deity

[raymurata]

2019 wips p1. Feat. @minwrathous Nymn Surana and @icylook Vergil Surana and @madamsnark Kallian Tabris.