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zeciex · 7 months

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A Vow of Blood

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Daenera Velaryon returns to King’s Landing with the intention of bolstering her mother’s position and reminding both the Greens and nobility that Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne. She has a specific goal in mind: to be a constant source of annoyance to the Greens and is willing to play the political game without hesitation.

However, what catches her off guard is the way Aemond gazes at her and seems to relish in her suffering. He openly expresses his desire to bring about her downfall, her ruination.

This situation leads to a tense game of cat and mouse, with each move escalating the already high stakes. Will their precarious situation crumble as the dragons soar above, or will fate intervene?

After all, love often demands the sacrifice of duty, just as duty can sometimes lead to the demise of love. Characters: Aemond Targaryen X OC, HOTD characters.

Chapter 12: The Whore that Lies

AO3 - Masterlist

“This is a bad, bad idea,” Jelissa said with a quivering voice filled with anxiety, her hands twisting in distress as she paced back and forth, wearing a visible path into the stone floor. Unlike her companion, Daenera, who appeared calm and composed, Jelissa was a bundle of nerves.

Meanwhile, Daenera sat upon the settee, attempting to stitch an intricate design of various plants. Her attempts proved futile, as the tansy resembled nothing more than a simple yellow circle, the bird’s-foot trefoil failed to portray its climbing nature and lay lifeless on the canvas, and even the coriander flower, while the most successful of her stitching attempts, left much to be desired.

Jelissa’s apprehension echoed in her voice as she reiterated her concerns. “This is a very bad idea.”

“Yes, thank you for your assessment. I will take it into consideration,” Daenera replied dismissively, eyes never leaving her embroidery. Jelissa wasn’t the only one who gave voice to her apprehension, Joyce had also expressed her reluctance, but Daenera knew she would ultimately follow through with the plan, as she always did.

Jelissa’s worry persisted. “What if we get caught?”

“We won’t get caught, but he will know.”

“And what if it goes wrong?”

“Then we’re sure to be ostracized,” Daenera answered simply.

Jelissa came with a feeble, mousy sound, beginning to further wear a path in the stone floor. How could Daenera be so nonchalant about it?

As the doors swung open, the three hooded figures made their entrance. Fenrick hastened to shut the doors behind them, visibly uneasy as he removed his own hood, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. He had been adamantly opposed to the plan from the very start.

Joyce followed suit, removing her hood and the figure beside her did the same. A cascade of dark curls spilled around the woman’s shoulders, thick and lush, slightly shorter and more coiled than Daenera’s own tresses. A faint, uneasy smile played upon the woman’s lips as she stood before Daenera, hands folded in front of her, a display of nervousness that contradicted the flicker of deception in her eyes.

Rising from the settee, Daenera carefully placed her unfinished embroidery on the table, her gaze fixed upon the woman. Slowly, she circled her, observing the woman’s figure and features with keen eyes, lips pursing in contemplation.

The room was charged with tension, the air heavy and warm.

The woman’s complexion was fair and unblemished, her face round and plump with youthful features There was a striking resemblance between the two of them, and in dim light, Daenera believed they could easily be mistaken for one another. However, the woman stood slightly taller and broader than Daenera, and the most distinctive difference lay in their eyes.

While Daenera possessed cornflower blue eyes, the woman’s eyes were a deep shade of gray.

Nevertheless, Daenera’s expression conveyed her approval to Joyce, a silent affirmation of her satisfaction with the woman standing before them.

“What is your name?” Daenera inquired.

“Selma, misstre-my lady,” The young woman answered and made a sweet, albeit, clumsy curtsy.

“And how old are you?”

“Nine and ten.”

“How long have you been in this profession?”

Selma released a burst of air that could have turned into laughter, her body assuming the coy posture that mirrored Daenera’s own. Coy, yet sly. The similarity between them was not lost on the princess.

“So, you’re asking how long I’ve been a whore?” Semla surmised, her tone carrying a hint of amusement. “Since I was two and ten, princess.”

“Would you prefer to be called a whore or a mistress of the night?” Daenera’s question seemed to puzzle Selma, as if she had never been given the voice of how she preferred to be addressed. Her wide gray eyes scanned Daenera, eyes flickering as she tried to decipher the situation.

Daenera didn’t mind the skepticism, in fact, she expected it. It would be unusual for a woman in Selma’s line of work not to be wary of any given situation, considering the risk involved.

“You can call me whatever you please, though ‘whore’ is the most common term used for what I am called,” Selma replied, her voice calm and measured.

She began moving around in the room slowly, her eyes darting over the surroundings, keen to gather as much information as possible about the situation she found herself in. Daenera understood as much.

Fenrick was less allowing, positioned near the door, and shifting uncomfortably, clearly unsettled by Selma’s ease in making herself at home. His scowl deepened, resembling someone bothered by a pebble in their shoe.

Joyce was more relaxed in posture, but her eyes never left the girl. And Jelissa was standing in a corner, swaying from one foot to another, wringing her hands in front of her, shoulders up to her ears.

“It is not often I am invited to The Red Keep,” Selma mused, running a finger over a table as if looking for dust. “Why am I here?”

“I have a task that requires someone of your profession .”

Selma’s clips curled into a playful, if not insolent, smile and plucked one of the berries from the array of fruits, savoring its taste behind her painted lips. Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “Obviously. I assume it requires deceit, deception and above all discretion.”

“Indeed, those are the key elements.” Daenera nodded, acknowledging Selma’s astute observation. “And what do you know about Prince Aemond?”

Daenera noticed Selma’s sudden shift in demeanor as her full attention was captured by the mention of Prince Aemond. The young woman’s eyes widened, her eyebrows rising and her lips parting in surprise. It was evident that this went beyond the usual encounters within the walls of the Keep. While whores were often sneaked in for the pleasure of lustful lords seeking refuge from the outside world, involving oneself with a prince was an entirely different matter. The stakes were higher, and the risk greater.

“He’s the one-eyed prince,” Selma replied, her filled with apprehension. “I’ve heard rumors about him… and how he lost his eye.”

Daenera leaned closer, her voice dropping to a hushed tone. “Tell me, Selma, what else have you heard about the prince?”

“He’s… unlike his brother. That the prince, Aemond, is restrained, a skilled fighter, fearsome and cold. One could almost call him frigid,” Selma revealed, hesitant and cautious.

Daenera nodded in agreement. “Yes, he possesses all those qualities. But he also possesses a sense of moral superiority and smugness. It infuriates me. Aemond carries himself with an air of righteousness, believing himself above the same vices that inflict his brother. I intend to expose his hypocrisy.”

Understanding dawned on Selma’s face. “You wish to humiliate him.”

Daenera’s eyes gleamed with mischief and she made an upside down smirk. “Exactly. Aegon is known for his indulgences in pleasure, he visits the brothels often and has a reputation of being a pervert. The Queen must be disappointed with her firstborn. I want to show her that her other son is no different.”

Selma’s eyes fixated on the heavy coin purse Joyce pressed into the palm of Daenera, greed flickering in the whores eyes.

“And what is the task you require of me?”

“I want you to surprise Aemond in his chambers, to be discovered in a compromising situation,” Daenera informed, head tilting to the side as she observed the woman. “I want you to make a scene when he tries to remove you from his chambers.”

“What if he does not try to throw me out? What if he takes my presence as a gift?” Selma posed a valid concern, her eyes glimmering with as much curiosity as the did caution.

Daenera’s mind briefly faltered at the thought. It hadn’t crossed her mind that Aemond might not react as she expected him to do. The notion grated on her. It felt like an itch she could not scratch. Bothersome, uncomfortable and confusing. After all, Aemond was a man, and men were weak to the desires of the flesh.

But Aemond was also a man of steel and ice, a complex puzzle of conflicting traits. Daenera regained her composure and spoke with certainty. “If he chooses to take pleasure in your company, that will be your decision. However, your primary task is for you to cause a scene that will be heard throughout the Red Keep. I want to embarrass and humiliate him.”

Selma’s eyes flickered with caution. “Men can become dangerous when they’re humiliated. They may lash out, leaving marks or worse.”

Daenera met Selma’s gaze and said with assurance. “Aemond may threaten you, he may corner you, but he will not harm you. He considered himself above such acts.”

“Many men do, princess. It doesn’t always stop them.”

The assurance Daenera had given wasn’t entirely false, but it wasn’t entirely true either, and a whore knew that well. Daenera also knew the fierce look that had once glickered in Aemond’s eyes, the moment he had contemplated violence, where he had picked up a rock and prepared to swing it, or more recently, in the sept when he had burned her hand. Instinctively she brushed a thumb over the healed skin. She could never be certain of his limits, nor assured by his restraint. “He may tighten his grip on you, but he would not take your life.”

“And what of the Queen?” Selma continued.

Daenera’s expression softened slightly as she considered the Queen’s potential reaction. “The Queen will likely want you to leave discreetly. She may even offer compensation to ensure your silence, along with a threat.” Daenera took Selma’s hand and pressed the heavy coin purse into her palm. “And if not, this should be sufficient to secure your discretion.”

A mischievous smile played across Selma’s lips as she closed her fingers around the coins. “Discretion is a whore’s most precious trait.”

With grace and precision, Aemond skilfully evaded Ser Criston Cole’s sword swipe, his silver hair swishing with each nimble movement. He dove and spun, his sword pointing at the Kingsguard as if daring him to strike again. The exhilaration of combat coursed through Aemond’s veins, his muscles primed and tingling with anticipation. Training made him feel alive, much like riding Vhagar, his heart pounding within his chest.

Ser Criston pressed forward, their swords colliding with the intent on winning. Aemond absorbed the impact of each blow, skillfully redirecting the force while yielding ground. The vibrations reverberated through his hands, arms, and shoulders, a familiar ache that no longer caused him to drop his weapon.

“I heard about the incident with the princess,” Ser Criston commented, his dark eyes intently focused on Aemond’s every move.

Aemond pressed on, annoyance gripping his lungs tightly at the mere mention of Daenera. Ser Criston met each swing of the sword with practiced ease.

“It was unbecoming of someone of her status to even consider something as… indecent as that. I suppose she takes after her mother in that regard,” Ser Criston sneered. His disdain for Rhaenyra and her children was no secret, even if he attempted to withhold the bitterness from his words. It seemed as though their very existence repulsed him to his core.

Silent determination etched across Aemond’s features as he deflected Ser Criston’s sword and delivered a powerful kick to the Kingsguard’s chest, causing him to stumble backward. Aemond continued his assault, landing blows upon Ser Criston’s padded form.

“Good,” Ser Criston complimented as Aemond pressed the tip of his sword against the Kingsguard’s chest, signaling the end of their practice round.

A smug smile curved Aemond’s lips as Ser Criston clapped him on the shoulder, both of them breathing heavily from their intense training session. They made their way towards the benches, seeking respite from the intense training.

“The princess has always thought herself better than everyone. It wouldn’t hurt to take her down a notch or two,” Ser Criston continued, grabbing a ladle to fill with water and lifting it to his lips. “ Once, she kicked me in the ribs. She’s always been insolent. Women shouldn’t act in such a manner.”

Irritation stiffened Aemonds movements as he began to undo the leather straps around the grip of his sword so that he could redo it again. “After you were attacked by Ser Harwin Strong.”

“Yes,” Ser Criston replied, his voice dripping with loathing. “That man had no honor. He was a meddlesome cunt.”

The vivid memory of Ser Harwin Strong overpowering Ser Criston, sending him crashing to the ground, flashed in Aemond’s mind. It had been a display of pure brute strength, each strike capable of killing a lesser man. Yet, Ser Criston had endured with a resilience bestowed by the gods, aided by the intervention of four Kingsguard members and his own stubbornness. Ser Harwin had earned his epithet, ‘Breakbones,’ for a good reason.

And Ser Criston possessed a thick skull.

Aemond also recalled the events that led to the fight.

“And it would seem his… offspring are much the same,” Ser Criston lowered his voice, recognizing the sensitivity of calling the princess a bastard.

Aemond felt a twinge of annoyance at the lack of respect the Kingsguard showed Daenera, despite him calling her much worse. She may be a bastard, but she was a royal bastard, and one not to be trifled with so easily.

“She appears to be a whore, much like her mother. It is fortunate that the court is now aware of her nature.”

“Ser Criston,” Aemond interjected, his tone stern. “I understand you hold them in low opinion, but do not forget yourself.”

“Of course, my apologies, my prince,” Ser Criston conceded, though his emotions often overwhelmed him. “Aegon should be careful, she’s sure to retaliate.”

“I am sure she will,” Aemond agreed, wrapping the leather strap tightly around the hilt of his sword, the leather groaning as it was pulled.

Underestimating Daenera and her capabilities would be foolish. Aemond made that mistake before and vowed never to repeat it. However, he couldn’t shake the belief that any damage she could inflict would be limited. He did not have a salacious letter and his reputation would not be easily damaged.

He had burned her hand, and in retaliation, she had poisoned his sword, causing his hands to burn and itch.

Now, he humiliated her publicly, and he knew she’d attempt to do the same. What he couldn’t figure out was how, or when.

Daenera had shown herself to be petty and resourceful, something was bound to happen, and while he felt apprehensive there was also a peculiar intrigue growing within him.

As the sky turned orange and a chill descended upon the air, Aemond and Ser Criston persisted with their practice in the tiltyard. When the session drew to a close, Aemond bid Ser Criston a goodnight and made his way into the Keep.

He followed the corridor that led to Maegor’s Holdfast, where his apartments awaited, fatigue hummed through his weary muscles.

Aches lingered in his limbs, while the tips of his fingers had gone numb from the repeated strikes his sword had endured. His hair clung to the nape of his neck and his undershirt seemed to stick to his skin. Crossing the threshold of his chambers, he found solace in the small sitting area positioned before the crackling fire where he took his meals. Adjacent to the hearth were his bedchamber, the canopy bed itself adorned with heavy curtains that was tied to the posts.

Books lay strewn around the floor beside the hearth, a testament to his voracious appetite for knowledge.

Kicking off his boots upon entry, Aemond unfastened his sword belt and laid it alongside them. With a satisfying stretch and a roll of his neck, he proceeded to undo his doublet, casually tossing it over the armrest of a nearby chair.

The hearth cast its warmth and radiance throughout the room. Typically dimly lit by candles, the heavy curtains by the windows limited the ingress of light, creating an atmosphere of seclusion seldom found elsewhere. Here, he could relish in solitude, free from the weight of expectations, surrounded only by his books.

Lifting the flagon of wine, Aemond poured himself a cup, the bitter liquid meeting his lips as he took a prolonged swig. As he turned his gaze, his eyes were drawn to the entrance of his bedchamber, his bed more specifically. In that moment he froze, brows drawing down in a confused frown.

There, a woman leisurely sprawled out across his bed. With her back turned to him, her dark, cascading hair adorned her bare shoulders and fell like a river of black silk down her back. The pale, smooth expanse of her skin stretched over plump yet delicate curves, the flames licking across it with wicked intent, an invitation to be touched, to be claimed.

Perplexity held Aemond captive as he stared, his heart thrumming within his chest as a fervent fire kindled in the deepest pit of his stomach, spreading warmth through his veins. It was as if his senses struggled to reconcile what lay before him with the familiar reality he had always known.

“Daenera?” He muttered the name, soft, gentle, confused.

Aemond’s eye darted over the woman’s enticing figure as she sat up, her back still partially turned to him. Her hand traced the contours of her hip, causing his breath to hitch. With deliberate slowness, she rotated her body to face him fully, her voluptuous breasts captivating his attention, her abdomen smooth and alluring, and a hint of curls nestled between her thighs.

Aemond blinked, his mind struggling to process what was before him and a fist seemed to tighten around his stomach.

As her face came into view, he scrutinized her features. It was her face that betrayed her, with its rounded shape, the subtle shadows that emphasized her cheekbones. Her lips possessed a sharpness he didn’t anticipate, her nose slightly more prominent. Yet, it was her eyes, deep gray and distinctly different from the ones that haunted him, that confirmed the truth.

A smile played upon her lips, a mischievous tilt of her head indicating amusement. She remained on her knees on his bed.

Aemond snapped out of his stupor, his confusion transforming into a surge of indignation that radiated through his body like icy tendrils

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” He sneered at the unfamiliar woman who was distinctly not Daenera. The deception festered in his stomach, a churning of rage and… bitter, awful disappointment .

“I’m here for you, of course, my prince ,” the woman purred, her voice shrouded in playful sensuality. It was a voice that didn’t belong to Daenera, and it’s very sound grated against Aemond’s core as a dull blade trying to cut wood.

“Get out,” Aemond breathed in anger and disbelief, an underlying reverberation of frustration making its mark on his tone.

“My prince?”

“Get out!” Aemond’s shout echoed through the room, his cup of wine abandoned on a shelf as he stormed towards the woman on the bed. It felt like a violation, and intrusion of his space. With rough force, he grabbed her arm, causing her to cry out in shock and pain. His voice trembled as he spoke, “Who put you up to this?! Aegon?”

“Please, you’re hurting me,” the woman yelped, attempting to pry his hand from her arm. Fear and confusion contorted her face, her gray eyes, so unlike the ones he desired, only added to the dissonance of the moment.

“Who sent you?!” Aemond yelled, shaking her vigorously, his grip tightening.

“Aegon! Aegon sent me,” she yelled back, her flustered cheek and downturned lips betraying her distress. “Aegon sent me. He thought you would enjoy my company, my prince.”

“You’re one of his whores,” Aemond concluded, seething with contempt. It was utterly characteristic of his brother to do something like this. It was never enough to ruin his own reputation, he also wished to ruin Aemonds. And Aemond had been foolish to believe Aegon would have ceased to bring whores into the Keep after the last time Aemond had caught him. It seemed his brother couldn’t help himself, wholly unable to resist his own vices.

It disgusted him, and now Aegon wanted to ensnare Aemond into his sordid affairs.

“Please,” the whore pleaded, attempting to quell the tension by placing her hand on his chest, the thin fabric barely separating her touch from his skin. Her distressed expression shifted into a mask of seduction, with a false innocence. “Let me please you.”

She pressed herself against his body and murmured, “I can be whatever you want. Whomever you want.”

Aemond’s lip curled in disgust as a wave of revulsion washed over him at her touch, her hand sliding up his chest and grazing the tips of his hair. The audacity of her presumption made his blood boil. He recoiled, his body instinctively rejecting the woman’s advances.

Her eyes, once filled with fiery desire, now flickered with a dull gray, lacking the unique depth of the eyes that haunted his dreams. Aemond knew all too well the truth behind those whores eyes, they were nothing more than a facade, lacking the spark of intellect and captivating mystery that had drawn him to Daenera in the first place.

He hated the whores eyes for not being Daenera, and he hated Daenera’s eyes for being the way they were.

“I can be Daenera if it pleases you,” she whispered sweetly.

Aemond steadied himself and met her gaze with unwavering coldness. The corners of his mouth curled into a disdainful sneer, his voice dripping with contempt. “ I will not be deceived by some cheap imitation. Aegon may find amusement in pretense, but I will not be so easily corrupted. You disgust me.”

Something snapped within Aemond, shattering the barriers that had held him back. In an instant, his demeanor had transformed from a controlled facade to a maelstrom of repulsion and fury. His eye blazed with an intensity that seemed to consume the very air around him. How dare she presume to know his desires, to imitate Daenera, the very thought twisted his features into a snarl of disgust.

Without hesitation, Aemond seized her, his grip firm and unyielding, and forcefully pulled her off the bed. In one swift motion, he propelled her towards the arch that marked the barrier between his bedchamber and sitting room. The woman collided with the stone column, her body staggering, her hands scrambling for purchase on the cold stone. She glanced back at him with fear and confusion etched upon her face.

Aemond was upon her in an instant, closing the distance between them. His hand found its place around her throat, pressing her back against the unforgiving stone, denying her a chance of escape. The woman’s eyes widened in shock, the same color of dirty water, so far from the elusive, unfathomable blue that haunted him.

A grim satisfaction filled Aemond as he gazed into those gray eyes, words spoken with disdain. “You are nothing more than a repugnant creature.”

The tension seemed palpable as Aemond held her captive, the air between them filled with fear and raw loathing. She had clearly been sent to his chambers due to her resemblance to the princess solely for the purpose of taunting him. She had wished to deceive him, to lure him into bed with the batting of her eyes, to taint and shame him.

His grip tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh, as he leaned in closer, his voice laced with venom. “You mistake me for my brother if you think I would lower myself by fucking a whore.”

“Aemond-,” she choked out.

“Do not call me that,” Aemond seethed, his face twisted with anger. “I am Prince Aemond Targaryen, and you will address me as such.”

“Please, my prince,” she stammered, her breaths coming out in panicked gasps.

Aemond gritted his teeth and forcibly disengaged himself from her, prying his hand from her neck to snatch up her scattered garments and thrusting them into her arms. The woman stumbled as he dragged her towards the door, unable to match his long strides while clutching her clothes and trying to cover herself, teetering on the verge of dropping them all together.

He swung the doors to his chambers open and flung her out into the hallway, with little thought on anything else that removing her from his apartments. The girl stumped and a sock fell from the bundle of clothes that she used to cover her exposed body.

It was only then he had realized his mistake as loud gasps echoed in the hall, and he froze.

Queen Alicent’s eyes were wide, darting between the naked girl, her face flushed and tear-streaked, and Aemond’s furious expression, his ears visibly crimson. The silence grew uncomfortable, punctuated only by the sniffs of the disheveled girl desperately attempting to shield her nudity. Her legs, shoulders, and entire backside were exposed, while her dark, tangled curls resembled more a bird's nest than what he had previously noticed. She looked like she had just rolled out of bed.

In the light of the hallway, the semblance between the whore and Daenera dissipated like the morning mist, and the differences became evident. The whore stood taller, broader, with faint lines etching across her face as a testimony to the years she had spent in her profession.

“Mother…” Aemond’s voice faltered as Queen Alicent raised a commanding hand, silencing him with a single gesture.

Standing behind the Queen was lady Talya, her lips pressed into a thin line, fully aware that this was not the opportune moment to interject. To Alicent’s left stood lady Merryweather, lady Caswell, and, to Aemond’s detriment, Princess Daenera herself, her eyes widened with shock and something else. The remaining ladies either wore expressions of surprise or maintained tight-lipped composure, but Daenera’s lips held an unmistakable quirk, as if she found the situation somewhat amusing.

Alicent directed her eyes towards the disheveled girl, naked and still recovering from her undignified expulsion from Aemond’s chambers. The Queen’s demeanor remained poised and composed, seemingly unfazed by the scandalous scene before her, though her clasped hands betrayed the tension simmering beneath the surface.

With regal grace she addressed the girl. “What is your name?”

“S-selma, Your Grace,” the girl answered, voice quivering as much as her body was. Selma attempted a curtsy, but dropped more of her clothes.

“Selma,” Alicent spoke with an air of authority, her tone belying the underlying anger she undoubtedly felt. “May I inquire as to what is transpiring here?”

“I… I was keeping the prince company, Your Grace,” Selma replied, her brows lifting in an attempt at honesty. She dared not meet Aemond’s incensed eye, the glare sharpening as she spoke.

“We… We were…” Selma hesitated, leaving the unspoken words to hang in the air, allowing the audience to fill in the blanks.

Aemond’s eyes snapped back to her, ablaze with accusation and bitter at the insinuation that something had transpired between them when it was wholly false. He clenched his jaw, hands curling into fists.

“We were in bed together, and I must have… I must have said something that offended the good prince… for he… he…” She trailed off, her hands tracing the cold skin of her arm, precisely where he had forcefully grabbed her. A bruise had formed, a visible mark of aggression. Then, her trembling hand moved to push a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing the redness and bruising around her throat and eye, a testament to an act of violence. The bruises were a deep purple, and stark against the pale of her skin.

The accusation of violence lingered heavily in the air. Aemond knew that his grip had not been strong enough to cause such bruising, and he had certainly not hit her. The accusation was a blatant lie, but why would she?

“I beg your forgiveness, my prince, if I said something-,” the whore whimpered, tentatively approaching him.

Aemond loomed over her, his face a mask of icy indifference, unyielding and unrepentant. She reached out for him, but the clenching of his jaw seemed to deter her.

Lady Merryweather gasped, her face flushing bright red as her eyes averted to the ceiling after having caught a glimpse of the whore’s buttock marked with red and purple handprints.

Aemond glared coldly at each and every one of them, daring them to say anything. His eye flickered to Daenera and grazed over the sly quirk of her lips, almost forming a smirk. At that moment, he understood.

That wretched fucking bastard.

“Please, my prince. Please forgive me!” Selma the whore pleaded, playing her role with skilled ease, understanding just how to make the performance believable. She knew precisely when to turn, when to raise her voice, when to appear pitiful and sympathetic. “I have done nothing wrong, you must believe me.”

“Hush now,” the Queen cooed, attempting to calm the sobbing whore. She shot her son a piercing glare, conveying her disappointment and disapproval. “Talya, would you kindly see to it that this girl is dressed and quietly escorted out of the Keep?”

The request was short but firm, and lady Talya nodded, gracefully moving towards Selma. She picked up the garments the whore had dropped and gestured for her to follow. Lady Talya knew exactly how to handle such delicate matters with discretion, armed with a pouch of coins and an unspoken threat. It was after all not the first time she had to deal with something like this. He supposed she never expected he would be involved.

The Queen then turned her attention to the other ladies, offering them a tight, apologetic smile. “Please forgive me, it appears there are matters I must attend to. I kindly request your discretion. It would not serve anyone well if it were to become a point of discussion.”

The ladies all bowed to the Queen, assuming the facade of innocent, virtuous girls who would never dream of spreading such scandalous gossip. Yet, they all knew that the whole castle would know by supper.

Aemond’s eye narrowed, the intensity of his glare cutting through the air like a dagger. Daenera’s mask of false innocence only fueled his anger and contempt. She was a wretched, spiteful cunt, who had caused all of this. And he had played right into her hands. The realization burned bitter at the back of his throat.

“I never thought Prince Aemond would…” Lady Merryweather whispered as she turned the corner with the other ladies, leaving Aemond behind with his mother. The whisper only confirmed that the incident was beginning to circulate. It wouldn’t be long before it had spread to every corner and crevice of the Red Keep.

Aemond and the Queen retreated into his chambers, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. As his mother faced him, her expression contorted with disapproval and concern, and Aemond knew he was about to face the consequences of what had transpired.

“Aemond,” his mother said, her tone stern. Her green skirts swirled around her as she moved, her hair pinned up in a net of gold string and pearls. “Explain.”

Aemond swallowed the acrid taste in his mouth, this tongue gliding over the back of his teeth. His voice was strained as he spoke. “It’s not as it seems.”

“So you did not create a spectacle by exposing a naked and distressed whore in the halls?” Alicent interjected furiously. “And you did not lay with her or put your hands on her?”

Aemond clenched his jaw, his body coiled like a tightly wound spring. “I was framed.”

“Framed,” Alicent repeated, tasting the word. She shook her head in confusion. “Why and by who?”

“Daenera,” Aemond answered, unable to hide the resentment and disdain in his voice. “It is retaliation for humiliating her.”

“The letter,” Alicent assumed. “I thought it was Aegon who humiliated her.”

“He did but I was the one who gave him the letter,” Aemond admitted. Of course, his mother had heard about the incident, he assumed it was the Lord Confessor who had brought her the news.

Alicent stepped back, her astonishment bleeding into disappointment. She had warned him about Daenera’s scheming nature, but he had failed to heed her advice. “And now she humiliates you.”

The muscles in his jaw flexed. “It appears so.”

“I warned you to exercise caution around her,” Alicent retorted sharply, pacing back and forth on his rug, unable to keep still. “I specifically requested that you keep an eye on her to prevent her from causing any trouble, and yet you choose to provoke trouble instead.”

“I thought hurting her reputation would send her fleeing back to Dragonstone,” Aemond said, his contempt seeping through his words. The idea of humiliation had worked in the past, so why shouldn’t it now? Rhaenyra had fled to Dragonstone when the rumors of her indiscretion nibbed at her heels. Why shouldn’t Daenera’s indiscretion cause the same reaction?

Alicent’s brown eyes softened, and she reached out to brush a strand of silver hair away from her son's face. Her eyes lingered on his eyepatch, and guilt and shame bloomed on her face as it always did when she looked at it. “You mustn't be so careless with your own honor by risking it to humiliate Daenera. It is clear that she is more poisonous than her mother, like Daemon. We cannot afford to act recklessly. We do not possess the same security that they do. We must be better than them, and I believe that justice will be served in the end.”

He understood her implication, acknowledging her belief that justice would eventually prevail for what he had endured. However, Aemond harbored doubt, for he had never witnessed justice being served for the loss of his eye. If justice were to be achieved, he knew he would have to take matters into his own hands.

He hated being reminded of it.

And he hated Daenera for humiliating him. He felt it burn within him, gnawing at his senses, eating away at him and festering in him.

“We must endure her presence and minimize the damage she may cause,” Alicent continued, regaining her regal composure. “Do not let her get under your skin.”

How could he not let her get under his skin? She was everything that infuriated him, everything that he resented, everything he was haunted by. Her mere presence was a nuisance.

The desire to ruin her coursed through his veins like poison.

#aemond targaryen #hotd #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #A Vow of Blood #my fanfiction

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firesidetextiles · 1 year

Photo

These are hand printed dragons on solid Kona quilting cotton with a gold metallic ink. I originally made these small prints as an embroidery design base, however, they can be used for other stitching projects like quilting or even as an art print. This picture was taken while I was packaging up print and thread bundles for this past fall's craft shows. The bundles include a fabric print and a matching curated color palette of six embroidery threads as a sampler to start you off on your project. A mystery version of this bundle is available on FiresideTextiles.com, just pick your print design and color and add on the thread bundle, then I pick out threads to match your print!

[ID: A closeup photo of three folded fabric prints packaged in clear bags. They each feature a gold carved dragon motif in the center, with left to right being on dark green fabric, dark eggplant purple, and then ruby red. To the left of the prints and overlapping the green dragon one are a row of six embroidery threads in a color palette to match the green print that have been wound up into little bundles. At the far left of the frame is a set of gold stork embroidery scissors. End.]

#embroidery #embroidery pattern #quilting #sewing #fabric #textile #handprinted #handcrafted

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tips-tiny-workshop · 3 months

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I have mori kei inspired items available now!

The brown cardigan is sold on its own and the two others are bundled with matching berets.

Closer looks at items below:

Brown embroidered mori kei cardigan.

Perfect for adding texture to your doll's wardrobe. This unique design adds warmth and a touch of Autumn to any outfit. The fabric is recycled from a human sized sweater. The embroidery is many French knots grouped together and uses white, red, orange, and yellow threads.

$25

Peach Mori Kei Cardigan and Beret Set

Perfect for putting your spring outfits together-- this set features a Mori kei or Cottagecore styled beret and cardigan. This gentle design adds elegance to any outfit.

Patterned on a DDSB and modeled on a M bust DD. The fabric is recycled from a human sized sweater.

$40

Perfect for putting your spring outfits together-- this set features a Mori kei or Cottagecore styled beret and cardigan.

The fabric is recycled from a human sized sweater.

$40

#tipsy scales shop #bjd clothes #doll sewing #bjd sewing #bjd hobby

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ltwilliammowett · 2 years

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The Epaulettes from 1795-1860

Epaulettes are the shoulder pieces of a uniform and serve as an additional identification of the rank of the officer wearing them.

Origin

They probably evolved from the dragoons, a buttoned bandolier of cloth or leather worn on the left shoulder, which appeared around 1680. They may also be related to the coloured strips of cloth that were bundled together and formed part of the new uniforms introduced around 1660/1670. They were worn on both shoulders and served as decoration, but were probably also intended to prevent the bandolier from slipping off. By 1700 at the latest, however, they immediately went out of fashion again.

A captain’s epaulette used by J. Stockham (died 1814), pattern of 1812 (x)

France was the first country to introduce these gold pieces for the army and navy in 1759. This was to make the elaborate silver and gold embroidery on the uniforms superfluous, as they were far too expensive. But if you look at the elaborately designed French naval uniforms, you will see that not much has changed, because the embroidery on the collars, cuffs, backs and ends of the coats has remained.

Structure and how epaulettes are worn

An epaulette essentially consists of four elements: The lining which is the border of the epaulette. Then the spine, the bar to which the body, the field of the epaulette is attached. And then the fringes, which can be very thin or wider. The Royal Navy during the 18th and 19th century preferred thicker fringes. This is where the affectionate name Schwabber comes from, because the epaulettes had a certain resemblance to a mop.

The parts of an epaulette, here on a pair of Commanders epaulettes, between 1812 and 1843 (x)

Two additional elements of the uniform are the button and the bar, which are used for fastening. To attach an epaulette, the spine is first pushed through the bar and fastened to the uniform with the button. Some also had a ribbon, which was then attached to an extra loop.

Rank insignia in the Navy and its development

The Royal Navy introduced its first simple epaulettes in 1795. However, not for all ranks: commanders initially wore one on the left shoulder, captains with less than three years' service one on the right, and captains with more than three years' service two. This changed in 1812, when lieutenants also wore one on the right shoulder, and from 1827 on both shoulders. Commanders wore one, commanders two, and captains with less than three years' service two, with a braided anchor on them.

Lieutenant's Uniform, Pattern 1812-25, this uniform with a plain epaulette was worn by Lieutenant William Hicks (x)

Captains with more than three years' service, on the other hand, wore two epaulettes with a crossed anchor and a crown above it. From 1843 onwards, they all wore two epaulettes, the lieutenants a single pair. Commanders now wore the anchor and a captain with less than three years' service only a crown. Only captains with more than three years of service wore the combination of anchor and crown, as before.

Pair of admiral’s epaulettes, belonging to Admiral Sir William Cornwallis 1744-1819, pattern of 1795 (x)

The admiral's epaulettes, on the other hand, did not change at all between 1795 and 1846. A rear admiral wore one star on his pair, a vice admiral two and an admiral three. The Admiral of the Fleet, on the other hand, wore three stars and an anchor with a crown above it.

Vice- Admiral Lord Nelson’s Trafalgar epaulette, before 1805, patern of 1795 (x)

1846 saw a general change in the Admirals' epaulettes which remained until 1891. The Rear Admiral now wore one star, then a crossed sabre and baton and a crown above. The Vice Admiral, two stars, crossed sabre and baton and a crown. The Admiral, three stars, crossed sabre and baton and crown and the Admiral of the Fleet, four stars crossed sabre and baton and crown.

Pair of epaulettes for an Admiral of the Fleet belonging to Sir Geoffrey Phipps Hornby, 1864. This pattern of epaulette for an Admiral of the Fleet was introduced into regulations in 1846 and was in use until 1891 (x)

But the lower ranks also underwent a change. Surgeons now wore a plain pair. The Lieutenant his with an anchor, the Commander anchor with star and the Captain anchor with crown. The Commodore, on the other hand, wore an anchor, star and crown.

From 1860 onwards, patches were introduced for petty officers and gunners, who wore the symbol of their profession. Gunner second class wore a gun, gunner first class a gun with a crown, and many more, which would go beyond the scope of this post. In 1864, a special epaulette was introduced for a lieutenant with more than 8 years of service, namely an anchor with a star.

Storage

Epaulettes, like the rest of the uniform, were something that had to be cared for, and to keep them in shape they were kept in boxes.

A Pair of French Navy epaulettes in original box, ca. 19th Century (x)

These boxes, usually made of metal, were only used for storage and to protect the epaulettes from abrasion and water.

#naval history #epaulettes #navy insignia #finally the complete post #18th -19th century #age of sail

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miidnighters · 2 months

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@fairytaletold tie, Hartley helps tie Vasile's tie

"Come here, sugar."

It had been a bit of preparation to get them ready for tonight. Hartley was wearing a sleep black gown with floral embroidery along her sides, hair bundled up to expose the swell of her breasts and long column of her throat in a way she thought Vasile might appreciate. For his part, she'd helped him find a suit, and gotten it tailored, and now, gentle hands reach for the tie designed to tie in with her own dress. Hartley didn't think he could look more handsome if he tried -

She doesn't comment on the way he hasn't yet managed to tie it, simply tying the knot for him - making sure not to slide it too tight, given he wasn't used to dressing like this. "You look incredibly handsome. I'm going to be the luckiest woman there." Hartley leans up, pressing a kiss to his cheek and preening at the lipstick mark that remained.

#fairytaletold #x. answer | hartley | ☾#I am abt to dm u on disco a link to the dress i am envisioning

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skvaderarts · 2 months

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Petrichor Chapter 67: Hesitantly

Chapter 67: Hesitantly

Note: Hey, everyone. I'm doing a lot better now. Thank you so much for your kindness and your wholesome messages on A03, Tumblr, and on Discord. Sorry for making you worry. That was… a scary time. You've all made it so much better. Phew. Thank you all. 💗

(-~-)

After being called upon by an assistant of the mistress of the citadel, they'd been led to the higher stratum of the structure, a cacophonous series of hallways, dramatically moon-lit chambers, various-sized rooms, and arched walkways that led through semi-indoor-outdoor spaces up and down flights of stairs through sky gardens and under the waterfall that was such an iconic part of the structure. After a ways, they had come to a small room of sorts. One that almost seemed to be a bedroom of sorts, but wasn't. More of a dressing room but without mirrors or closets. It was simply a dark room with a small skylight and two arched folding doors that led to a small balcony that overlooked the path they had taken to come into the room in the first place. And within were a few different figures in robes similar to their escorts, The group of them seemingly seeing to the night’s affairs. Nodding politely as they entered but not speaking.

As the door closed behind them and they entered the space in earnest, one of the assistants approached their guide and handed her what appeared to be a shimmering bundle of fabric. She turned to him and extended it out to him, pointing to an area where he could go to put it on. She then nodded politely and stepped back, finally breaking the silence.

“Wear this. Nothing else.”

V looked at her in slightly stunned and apprehensive silence for a moment before looking down at the bundle of fabric. It felt light. Thin. A glance over at Sirrus yielded no further clarity as the adjudicator simply shrugged gently, an awkward look of discomfort on his face that was as subtle as it was undeniable. She had meant precisely what she'd said. That was just how they did things here.

Opting to ask no further questions, the young summoner nodded subtly and surrendered himself to his apprehension, simply choosing to swallow his unease as he walked over to the indicated area to undress and dawn whatever garment they'd seen fit to lend him. The sooner that he got this over with, the better. At least one of the people in this room had already seen him naked…

As soon as he was behind the privacy of the partition they had provided him, he disrobed and lifted the garment up in front of him, curious to see what exactly it was supposed to be in the first place. And as it unrolled and he realized it was a singular piece, his curiosity was mildly piqued.

Ah, so it was a robe.

Black, silken, and shimmering under the dim starlight. The fabric was as dark as night, hanging just above the floor if he stood up perfectly straight, something that it probably wouldn't have done if not for his height. An ornate dark gray embroidery in the form of different moon phases and webs skirted the edge of each outer seam of the fabric, especially on the front and the collar with more scarce designs on the long, bell-shaped sleeves. It seemed to trace and depict a lunar cycle, but not one he recognized, though he couldn't claim to be an expert in that regard in the slightest. Perhaps this was the lunar cycle of this place? It did contain an eclipse in its design, after all. Or were those different heavenly bodies since some of them were different sizes? He… he didn't know.

But regardless, It was comfortable if not exceedingly cold. He hadn't noticed how chilly it had been until now, but now it was the only thing he could notice. There was no breeze, but the lack of any additional clothing actually chilled him greatly. Perhaps he should have asked why he’d needed to change clothes. He'd just assumed that there was a reason and gone from there, but now he was having second thoughts. At least it looked nice. And it closed with a built-in tie at the waist.

Now that he looked at it, it actually had a somewhat visually striking design. And it had a rather vintage feel to it. It was mildly to his liking. Not the sort of thing he would have picked for himself, but certainly the sort of thing he would be pleased with if he'd been gifted it.

And in a strange way, he almost felt like he was in a hospital gown awaiting surgery…

“What should I expect?” No one answered. Be it out of a lack of a desire to, instructions not to do so, or as a result of not realizing he was speaking to them, he couldn't be sure. But the uncomfortable self-awareness that came with the silence that settled over the room after he'd spoken was enough to render him silent for the time being.

Sirrus winced internally at the silence he received as an answer, crossing about half of the distance between him and V so that he could stand a few feet from him. Was this an inappropriate time to mention that he looked nice in the robe? Probably so.

“I wish I could tell you but…”

“You're as in the dark about this as I am, aren't you?” V said softly, a very apparent air of anxiety and unease creeping into his tone with every passing word that he spoke. He clasped his hands together in front of himself, pulling his shoulders inward as he allowed his eyes to fall down towards the floor at a slight angle, his head barely moving. He was uncomfortable. Deeply so. And Sirrus could see it in every fiber of his being. He radiated unease.

“Essentially,” Sirrus confessed, unsure as to what else he could really say. “I can only vouch for my own personal experience, and none of mine were anything like… this. They were… ”

Sirrus seemed to be struggling to figure out a way to articulate his thoughts, his mind running a thousand different places at once. He didn't want to say anything that would heighten his beloved companion's anxieties about what he was about to face, but he also refused to lie to him. That was something he never did if he could help it. V counted on his transparency, openness, and honesty. And he wasn't lying now. But he was acutely aware of the fact that his lack of ability to tell him basically anything about what he was about to experience was the least reassuring thing possible. And the only thing he wanted to be right now was comforting. It… pained him not to be. He wanted to step across the room and scoop V into his arms to physically shield him from everything else going on around him.

It felt like a failure on his part. He had stood where V stood and felt some semblance of what he now felt. He knew what it felt like to not have someone to speak with about something like that. The vulnerability one experienced when standing in a room full of people who they needed to trust but didn't know. To feel adrift in a space so unfamiliar and inhospitable. The mind was truly the worst horror there was, and lingering on possibilities when preparing to face the unknown was not a healthy route to take.

There was so much he wanted to say to V. So much that he wanted to do to ease his quiet suffering. But as things stood, he wasn't sure if his ideas would be of help to him or only serve as a hindrance. The young summoner needed to keep his mind clear. He didn't want to burden him or confuse him with anything by accident.

But at the same time, V needed an anchor. He hadn't said as much -or said much of anything for that matter- since they'd left the previous room and been brought here, but he'd noticed. Sirrus couldn't help but notice.

V looked like a scared, cornered kitten facing down a large predator. If it were possible, he'd fold his ears down like one, too. And he couldn't say that that analogy was far off, either. The task that loomed before him was as unknowable as a creature of prey stalking through the darkness. The only difference was that instead of retreating to fight another day he had to step into that darkness and face it where there would be no going back.

“Miserable but mostly unrelated to the task at hand?” V said with a tone so darkly expectant that it could only come from someone certain they were correct. And he was.

It actually took Sirrus a second to realize that V was finishing his statement for him. Or at least attempting to predict what he might say. His sudden silence probably came off as a lack of knowing what to say. As stunned silence. It was actually strangely touching to him in an unexpectedly sad way that even in his current situation, V was still trying to help him in little ways. Insignificant though they might be.

Sirrus nodded. That was a way of putting it. And he couldn't claim that it was incorrect by any meaningful measure. And for the first time since he'd entered the room, he noticed something in that moment of unbroken silence between them. Something that thing became simultaneously aware of in that instant. Their company had filtered out of the room, leaving just the two of them to speak in silence. No one had said a word. They'd simply left. They still had a little time to speak before they began. Aside from that, they were ready to proceed, at least physically.

“You’ve hit the nail on the head yet again,” Sirrus said, reaching over to place his hand gently on his friend's shoulder. V looked down at the floor for a moment, closing his eyes as he allowed his companion's gaze to fall onto him at close range. He just… couldn't look him in the eye right now. He wasn't sure why.

Looking up again, his eyes drifted almost lazily to the small round balcony only a short distance from them. The doors have been left open, perhaps to let in air. The adjudicator's eyes followed his gaze as v took a single step towards his new intended description, knowing that he didn't have to ask Sirrus to follow him. He simply understood. With a soft, knowing nod Sirrus removed his hand and opted to just follow him as he walked across the room and out onto the small space. Maybe fresh air would do them some good.

V wasn't a fan of heights, but there was something about this particular view that was so strange that it didn't even fully register to the part of his brain that would normally run in terror from such things. This place couldn't make up its mind as to whether or not it wanted to be dark or light out. Day and night were simply too much to ask for in a place like this. Maybe it was like some places in the world where you had one or the other for months at a time. Maybe it was always like this. He hoped to never know firsthand. He didn't want to be here any longer than he needed to be. The sense of wonderment he'd felt only earlier that day when he first set his eyes upon the place had evaporated, and only vague feelings of dread and homesickness remained.

He missed the view from Sirrus's cozy apartment. He missed the serene beauty of nature. The quiet of the early morning lake the morning he'd arrived with Sirrus. He missed the little street he lived on where nothing ever happened. Kyrie and Nero’s cozy little dining room with mismatched cushions on every chair. Magnolia's cozy little townhouse. Hell, V even missed Dante's office. Broken glass, loud music, and all. Even Nico’s questionable driving skills behind the wheel of the van.

He… wanted to be anywhere but this place. Anywhere away from here.

And he knew that there was nothing keeping him in this place but himself, but that was the point, wasn't it? He needed to be here. There was a point where “need” removed choice. And he was choosing to be here to avoid the eventuality where that line was crossed. Because he didn't want to wait till it was that bad. Not again. If they thought they could help him get to the bottom of this, and Sirrus had pulled the strings that he’d pulled to get him here, then he wasn't going to walk away without a fight. You needed to throw at least one punch before he could live with himself for walking out of the ring.

Sitting down on the flagstone ground beneath himself, the young descendant of Sparta reached up and brushed his hair out of his right eye, his gaze a thousand miles away: settled on something so far away that he couldn't see it. He wasn't sure that there was anything else out there, even if that had been implied. In that way, perhaps this place was no different from the rest of the world. Just a vast structure floating in a void for reasons beyond his comprehension or control. But this wasn't the rock floating in the nebulous void that he was used to. He wanted to return to that one. He could never get used to this place.

He ignored how cold the stone was to his bare feet. It was clean. Cleaner than any outdoor surface he'd ever touched. He was subconsciously grateful for the thin robe they'd given him. He wouldn't have frozen to death without it, but he imagined the backs of his legs and thighs would go to sleep from the cold. This was… something.

Sirrus joined him after a minute or so. He hadn't wanted to crowd him out. He needed time to think. Time he was rapidly losing. But with nowhere better to go, the red-haired man settled down beside him, still giving him the space he needed but still close enough to touch should V wish to do so for any reason.

He wondered if he should tell him. Tell him how lost he looked sitting there on that balcony feigning a sense of ease and acceptance toward the path laid out in front of him. Tell V that he wasn't going anywhere.

“I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I died once. Not so long ago, in fact.”

Sirrus's reaction was one of dignified, reserved horror. His face barely shifted at all but his breath stilled like he'd just had all the air kicked out of him. As he attempted to absorb the weight of what he'd just been permitted to know, so many questions arose from seemingly nowhere. V could practically see the sparkle of concerned perplexment in his eyes; the undeniable urge to ask him what had happened. He even parted his lips slightly. But he possessed just enough self-control not to cross that line, despite the fact that V didn't mind if he did. Sirrus was obviously fearful that he would push his companion further than he was willing to go. Sirrus had no way of knowing how far was too far, but intuition told him when he was approaching the edge.

“You haven't. No.” He spoke in hushed, breathless tones as though it just run down his spine. Perhaps it had. “I think I would remember a thing like that.”

V nodded a single time. He couldn't argue with that. It was a memorable revelation. “You weren't going to ask?”

Sirrus produced a gesture somewhere between a head shake and a shrug, raising his shoulder slightly while also tilting his head from side to side a handful of times, his palms rolling to face upward as he gave him a soft look.

“I was going to let you tell me what you thought I needed to know.” He admitted. He would be lying to say that he wasn't very morbidly curious, but he knew there were simply some questions you didn't ask someone, especially when they were being candid with you during a vulnerable moment. “You've never led me astray thus far, but I didn't want to push, mo chara daor.”

“What… does that mean? What you just said.” V said softly, giving him a peculiar look. By his recollection, that was the second time he'd heard that phrase today, but he didn't know what it meant. It rolled off the tongue beautifully when his friend said it, but he wasn't going to try that for even a second.

“My dearest friend. It's Irish Gaelic. A beautiful language I don't hear spoken enough anymore. I think I speak it sometimes out of fear that I might forget it. It's not my native tongue but… ” Sirrus took a moment to reminisce about a time long since passed, something distant in his silver eyes as he allowed his head to rest on his shoulder and his bent elbow on his slightly raised thigh. “I can stop saying that if you’d prefer.”

V looked at him in utter silence. It wasn't a cold silence, and there wasn't even a drop of anger left in him by this point to even direct towards anything, so it was neither of those things, but there was still a glimmer of something. And after about a minute he let out a soft sigh, blinking slowly before opening his eyes again, even if they were only open about halfway.

“Please… never do that,” V said with utter seriousness. There was an unmistakable softness to his tone, and that same somewhat sad glimmer remained in his eyes that had been there moments before, but there was just something so genuinely in his tone that it took Sirrus off guard. “Something in my heart flutters every time you share bits and pieces of something you love with me. Perhaps it's just the poet in me. I've always loved the romantic quality of language. The beauty of what we express with sounds and symbols on parchment. I never want something so beautiful to die, and words live as long as you use them. So keep using them. Enough beautiful things die before their time.”

“V… ” He honestly didn't know what to say to that. What words to use to surmise how touched he was by that sentiment? It was just… “I… Yes. You're absolutely right.”

In his time he'd seen that very thing happen over and over again. More rapidly in more modern times. He feared the day that the list of languages narrowed down to single digits and everything else faded to the folklore of textbooks and old documents in museums like the languages of yore already had. The passage of time was brutal. But I hope that this was one thing that would never come to pass.

“I'll tell you more about what I brought up before… later. I just wanted to say that… I'm glad that I met you, Sirrus.” V looked over at him with sincerity and fondness. There was no questioning for even a moment whether or not he meant the words he'd just spoken as he slowly stood up, clutching his robe to himself as the breeze picked up and whipped it around him, Sirrus standing with him half to see what he was doing and half in case he needed him. It might as well have been carved in crystal. He treasured their… whatever this was. Was this what friendship was like? He liked it. “I'd die again if I had to just to know you. I genuinely would.”

Sirrus blinked in surprise. Genuinely touched surprise, but surprise nonetheless. When had things become so dire? There was never a dull moment with V, was there? But he wouldn't complain. Or disagree. He was… what were even the right words to use to describe it?

“And I'm privileged to know you. To share space with you. To be your friend.”

No. That wasn't all he could say on the matter. All that he needed to say. All that he meant to say. And although he still couldn't say all of it now, it was something he did need to say. He stood just a bit closer, ignoring the slight sting of the cold air. He could only imagine how cold V must feel right now. He reached out and placed his hand on V’s upper arm. Not that he could tell much by its circumference. Sometimes he forgot how much of a string bean V was. But he didn't move to hold him in place or even really grip him. Just to reassure him that he was there.

“It's funny. Back on the boat when Gustave made his joke. I wasn't embarrassed because Gustav was incorrect. I was embarrassed because I hadn't realized until then how easy I was to read. How utterly... Sentimental I've become over the years. How obviously my affections towards those I care for might be to others.” Sirrus chuckled gently, a low rumble reverberating from within his chest. He shook his head as he half closed his eyes, almost amused by himself. He had to look rather silly, didn't he? With his red hair whipping around them both as they stood there like idiots in the freezing cold. It was normally just past the bottom of his shoulder blades lengthwise. Maybe he should cut it soon. “That was something I was always taught to hide. Shamed for. That for me to care for someone was to harm them because to know me was pain. I don't think that anymore. I haven't for a while now. You disapprove that every time we interact. But I've still been afraid to care about anyone, myself included. To trust. I think all of us just want to be known. I feel known with you.”

V didn't say anything. He just blinked rapidly, a certain pain in his eyes that was hard to name. He clearly hadn't expected Sirrus to say that. And rather it be from the stinging wind in his eyes or the wave of genuine warmth he felt flood him from Sirrus’s words, he felt a few stray tears roll down his face. But he wasn't sad, not in the way that would cause this. So he did the only thing he could do.

He stepped forward and threw his arms around his friend, just as happy to be near him as he was scared to go through with this plan. He pulled him into a tight hug, burying his face into his chest as he wrapped his arms around his upper back.

Sirrus let out a slow, soft breath, chuckling softly. He couldn't tell if V felt better, but he didn't feel worse, so he could live with that. He tucked his arms under V’s, hugging him along the length of his back and pulling him in closer, quietly hoping that he didn't break his back or something. Embracing him tightly. This certainly satiated his desire to shield him from his troubles for at least a little while. This was… this was nice. He liked this. They both did.

“The bird a nest, the spider a web. Man friendship.” V said in a muffled tone, his face still tucked into Sirrus's chest. He loosened his grip but was not quite ready to let go. He wanted to get this over with but also didn't want to move from this spot. It was a strange, hellish situation to be in. And although Sirrus couldn't pinpoint where that quote had come from, he had a hunch.

Just as the two of them finally realized that their arms were starting to get tired, there was a small knock at the door. A knock that neither of them was especially excited to hear, frankly. They knew it was coming eventually, but still.

“I think that's the door. It's time.” Sirrus said as they released one another, V fixing his robe. The sleeves had shifted and the front hadn't been tied quite as tightly as he'd thought. There was no need for Sirrus to see him undressed more than once in their lifetimes. “I'll walk you over and stay while you're there. I'm not going anywhere.”

V nodded somewhat hesitantly, traces of that same nervousness making their way back into him as he willed himself forward. This was something else could do. He had to. But at least he wouldn't be alone. He never would be so long as Sirrus was there And that brought him some small measure of peace.

“Let's get this over with. I just hope it doesn't hurt.” V said as Sirrus walked him towards the door and into the custody of their host. He'd had enough of that for one day, thank you. If he could get through the rest of the night without any further suffering, he would be extremely grateful.

(-~-)

I'm not crying, you're crying! Ugh, I love these two. If only I wasn't so terrible at writing romance I would write a romance fluff spin-off of these two just for shits and giggles. Lol, fanfiction of my fanfiction! Someone do something with these two losers! Maybe I will still try one of these days because I find them equally compelling as both friends and otherwise because they are JUST. SO. WHOLESOME. *Ugly dramatic crying.*

Ahem. So anyway… It feels good to be back! I hope you liked the chapter! Sorry for any spelling errors. Autocorrect has been pretty aggressive recently on Google Docs, and I did part of this on my phone while I was resting in bed, so I hope I caught everything. I'll be posting another chapter on Friday, March 1st, 2024! Look forward to it! I hope you have a wonderful week and I'll see you in the comments and on Discord if you're hanging out over there! Thank you for reading and I'll see you all soon! Thank you again for everything! Bye bye!

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willamesshop · 1 month

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#Super Mario Machine Embroidery Designs #Mario Embroidery #Mario Kart Embroidery #Princess Peach #Luigi #Bowser #digital download #embroidery pattern #embroidery design #machine embroidery #embroidery designs bundle #embroidery #instant download #baby newborn onesie #cute embroidery

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ofstarsandskies · 10 days

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"Hewwo hewwo~! I've got your goods right here, Miss Shark Lady~!" A certain pink-haired fashion designer pops out of seemingly nowhere, with several bundles of pristine folded clothes in his arms. Each is pink with colorful sharks filling the fabric space, with small embroidery on the shoulders. "C'mon, tell me what you think about it! Is it perfect for your shark fan club?"

@pyonpyonpyon || Sharkbait Ooh Ha Ha gets an upgrade~!

Brainstorming some ideas in the Julius Everything Specials storage room, she hears a familiar yet unexpected voice. "Oh, hi Ramuda! The wires didn't shock you, did they?" She set the passcode to OFF since Julius wasn't here, but you never know with Julius' schemes. "Whatcha got--?"

Pink sharks... Oh, were those their new official Sharkbait Ooh ha Ha merch?! They even have special custom symbols on the shoulders to tell who's who! "These are 2000% perfect! But just the fact you're supporting us is more than we deserve! When everyone comes for the club tonight, you'll see us both wearing these proudly!"

But since he came all this way, she'd give him a special parting gift: an official Sharkbait Ooh Ha Ha Peach Pie! "Here, take this as a sign that Sharkbait Ooh Ha Ha considers you our valuable friend! If you ever want more treats, please come by! I can get Victor to make your meals special; he never cooks for anyone but me!"

#pyonpyonpyon #springfestitales2024 #m;; The Original Key #[YOOOOO official club clothes bby--]#[The cult of sharknado is an unstoppable force!]

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whetstonefires · 1 month

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Hi, I like your mdzs meta (and am interested in the hopefully forthcoming yzy meta) but even that of fandoms I’m not in (your final fantasy meta about the differences in canonical vs fanonical sartorial choices due to coding was enlightening, and I didn’t even know it was dark.) For the ask game: 🦷🐇 🦴 P.S. if you haven’t found it the eldest sibling cinematic universe is all tagged naruto?

thank you! :DDD i do meta posts primarily because i Have Thought that wants to be heard, but it's delightful for it to actually be wanted lmao.

i have filtered my blog for 'naruto' through three different methods without finding the ask where i was asked to crosscast mdzs and naruto. it is a Hidden Value for some reason. if someone finds it, please send me the link through dm or something.

haha only white things! three white items! tooth-bunny-bone.

🦷 ⇢ share some personal wisdom or a life hack you swear on

So when you own a lot of stuff it is so so important to store it in the most organized way you can manage, because the [task burden] of finding the desired item needs to be low enough to keep you from giving up on finding your own things when you want them, because that makes them useless to you.

This is especially important for things like craft supplies and hardware. Put the same kinds of things together, in a closed, clearly labeled container, with some kind of internal partitioning by sub-category, as much as you possibly can.

Take as much of the burden of locating your possessions off Future You as you can; I know it feels like a tiresome outlay of effort in the present keeping you from dedicating the time to actual [activity], but once you make a habit of it it's very much a stitch-in-time-saves-nine that will make [activity] more accessible to you.

This doesn't mean you need to Buy Product, although some of the stuff that's sold for organizing can be very useful. I keep all my embroidery floss in a small wooden chest I bought at a tag sale, sorted by color family into little plastic baggies. So it's fairly trivial now to go in and see 'what reds do I have?' choose one.

Then I transfer the hanks I'm using for my current project into the transparent plastic box with a snap-on lid I got for one dollar from Michaels Crafts, where the embroidery needles live fulltime, and bundle just that into a basket or bag with the hoop and fabric, while the rest of the chest can go back in the closet until it's time to put the remainder away again. Maneuvering the box physically in and out of the closet becomes the hardest part of accessing the materials.

The ability to pick up and move a whole project at once is also very valuable for anyone without like, a whole designated Crafting Area in their space. And for people who do have that, but are always being impeded by their own clutter.

If you have a basket or tray or something you can stack all of a given project onto and whisk away to clear your worksurface at need, you'll be much more likely to actually commit to working on that project when you want to, without feeling burdened by the future opportunity cost of having to completely finish and/or abort progress on it if something else comes up.

Probably not everyone gets stuck on that, especially people who only work on one thing at a time, but I think there are enough people like me that giving yourself permission to use the 'sewing basket hack' is valuable. There are big downsides to burying yourself in stuff in the effort to keep it all near to hand and accessible, but there are also definite, meaningful costs to having to put everything away in its Own Place every time you're interrupted, especially if you have trouble with any part of executive function.

🐇 ⇢ do you prefer writing original characters, reader inserts, or a mix of both?

Egad I have never attempted a reader-insert in the contemporary style. Honestly, I can't stand them.

Writing in the second person is all well and good for textural reasons, but as a way to 1) compensate for the evidently dreadful imagination skills of the audience and 2) shield the writer from responsibility for their own writing choices, I consider the 'reader insert' to be an overall cowardly and limiting construct.

I would much rather see a fic that instructs me to understand myself as a four-foot-tall electric blue parrot than one that attempts to narrate a 'me' generic enough to be plausible to any potential reader; when the 'you' is a giant parrot with discernible preferences and goals it is, of course, an original character.

In fact, so is every reader insert, they're just usually terrible ones. Attempting to write an OC with no traits is so sad.

Anyway I'm fully capable of projecting myself onto a parrot if I want. Otoh I'm not shameless enough to publish old-fashioned self-insert fic, which is a different less craven stylistic approach to the same goal, which is only partly because I was trained on anti-OC backlash and mostly because my standards are such that the few attempts are either 1) plotless exercises in self-gratification which aren't worth finishing once the fun part of drafting the entertaining scene is done or 2) agonizingly honest. I don't feel like being quite that honest with the internet, ty.

I love character creation though so OCs good yes.

🦴 ⇢ is there a piece of media that inspires your writing?

Like. Besides the obvious, given this is a fanfic ask game afaik? Uhm. Diana Wynne Jones' body of work; the way she structured the narratives of her children's novels so the inherent unreliability of any narrator was maximized and played a vital role in mediating between the story and the reader.

I am not naturally good at playing keep-away with information, but I recognize it as a vital writing skill because context is so vital to the experience of media, so I pay close attention to how this sort of sleight of hand is accomplished. I also really appreciated Jones' relative lack of talking down to her child audience.

#ask #hoc est meum #glitterypenguintyphoon #ask game #organization #oc versus reader insert #dwj #people say nice things

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embroidartery · 1 year

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Hiya! I want to let you all know that I just launched an Etsy site under my new business name, Peach Needle! :)

Right now, I have a handful of my own embroidery transfers for sale that are inspired by my previous embroidery projects that I’ve shared with you all on Tumblr! Very soon, I will be selling a unique collection of embroidery floss bundles, and I’m also refining a couple more of my favorite embroidery patterns to sell as Stick and Stitch transfers!

I’m so excited to have found such a great medium to share some of my patterns with other embroiderers looking for inspiration. I love that with these transfers, you’ll be able to pick your own floss colors and stitches to create a very personalized embroidery piece. :)

If you decide to purchase and take a stab at one of my designs, I am warning you that they are all designed to pour your heart into - you should only use 1-3 cotton floss strands due to the intricate details for a relatively small embroidery pattern.

ALSO, I am giving out a free gift to my first 20 orders through Nov 30th!

I hope you’re all enjoying the fall season, and please check out my new Etsy shop when you get the chance! TTYL :)

Click here to visit my shop!

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kulay-ng-banaag · 1 year

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“Not all stories etched with ink and blood were on paper. I just think he gets to keep something.”

Physical Appearance (Tattoos) Headcanons for HWS Philippines

CW: war, violence, mentions of sex

(I'm sorry that sounds like clickbait... it's on the topic of feats that merit a tattoo).

UPDATE (03/09/23): Minor revisions to PH script tattoos

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Image 02 Description: Pantoron Manobo Pangotoeb (blue). Butbut Kalinga Whatok (red). Precolonial Visayan Batuk (yelllow). PH Scripts: Baybayin, Hanunó'o, Buhid, Kulitan, Tagbanwa (white).

Image 03 Description: Pantoron Manobo Pangotoeb. paloos (monitor lizard). ngipon-ngipon (teeth-like) + pisol (band). tirog (ladder-like). linayon (lines).

Image 04 Description: Precolonial Visayan Batuk. flower (lotus). flower (gumamela). flower (own design). "flowers" can also be interpreted as a "sun." reptile scales. can also be interpreted as "ocean weaves," "rivers," or "mountains."

Image 05 Description: Butbut Kalinga Whatok. inar-archan (ladder). chuyos (chest parallel lines). gayaman (centipede). whilig (mountain). pachok/chawwang (river). tinatalaaw (day & night). tinulipao (snakeskin). tabwhad (snake). inud-uchan (rain). *Labels with no given local terms are from designs modernized for tourists ("family," "traveler/compass/crab").

Image 06 Description: Extra Visual Notes. [encircled in blue] *Kalinga tatoo motifs also found in pottery. [encircled linayon] also known as binulibud (Kalinga). [yellow-highlighted chuyos] Similar pattern with chest tattoos of other N. Luzon groups. Also believed to imitate the outspread wings of a tulayan (eagle). [encircled in red] *animal motifs from folklore! [encircled paloos] Predominant animal motif among the tattooed Cordillera peoples. [encircled yellow] Manobo tattoo motifs also found in embroidery. [leg tattoos encircled in white] Visually similar to Kalinga tattoos. "inar-archan" can be ocean waves or "whilig." "tinatalaaw" can also be "pachok/chawwang" or "lusong" (rice mortar) or "sinwhuto/panyat" (rice bundles). [tattoos around forearm and behind the knee encircled in white] Visually similar to Manobo tattoos. triangles can also represent bladed weapons or animal teeth.

Image 07 description: Butbut Kalinga Whatok. khaman (headaxe). inud-uchan (rain). Hanunó'o.

Age of Eligibility for First Tattooing

Manobo: 10-12 years (pre-puberty) Kalinga: 15-20 years (“coming of age”) Visayan: ~20s (adulthood)

Order of Significance

Manobo: N/A; forearms, back, & chest for men (Only women could tattoo their abdomen and calves as well; interestingly among the 3 styles, tattooing on men's abdomens was sparse, if not left completely blank) Kalinga: Wrist —> Back of hand —> Arms —> Chest (+option: sides of torso/legs) —> Back —> Face Visayan: Ankles -> Legs -> Waist -> Chest -> Back -> Face

My idea of tattooing order for Piri would be as such:

Arms, from the wrist (Manobo)

Legs, from the ankles (Visayan)

Chest (Kalinga)

Back (Kalinga)

By tradition, the tattooist decided on the motif, but recipients could also pitch ideas. Piri's script tattoos were his suggestions.

A fully-tattooed arm would take 1 day to complete, while a Kalinga chest whatok was worth 3 days. The tattoo session could even be halted midway, and either the client expressed to resume on another day or simply ended the process altogether. Men would sometimes deliberately hold back on getting tattooed, but this was not without a buildup of peer pressure over time.

Piri got his forearm pangotoeb while young (for a personification) because he wanted to be like the cool, older folks. Poor baby boy would fail to immediately realize how much the process hurt, and he would frequently make up excuses to delay his sessions.

By the time Piri got his leg tattoos, he would gradually fill them up alongside his upper arms, depending on whether he was wandering around the Visayas region or at the Pantaron mountain range down in Mindanao. For sure, Piri received his Kalinga whiing (chest) and dakag* (back) after those parts had been inked.

Notice how I gave him tattoos from Luzon (Kalinga), Visayas, and Mindanao (Manobo)? Hehe.

What constituted getting a tattoo was not exclusive to warfare achievements or headhunting boons. Anything could be a reason for getting a tattoo, as long as the community itself acknowledged it as valid merit.

What exactly did Piri achieve to earn his tattoos? He changes the story every time you ask him.

Was his butt also inked? Yes. I won't show it for fear of unwittingly getting the boot from this platform.

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Buhid, Tagbanwa, and Kulitan never had a virama (the sign for canceling the inherent vowel). There had been attempts to introduce it in the latter two scripts, but it was never successfully mainstreamed. In writing syllables with canceled vowels, one must retain the original syllable in Tagbanwa and Kulit while you no longer had to write the syllable itself in Buhid. Viramas for Baybayin and Hanunó’o were introduced after the precolonial era, neither of the attempts accomplished by native Filipinos.

In taking these scriptwriting nuances into account, one should enunciate the script as it was being read to discern the word being referred to. Even though it was written as “wa-nga-ya”, a Buhid native would naturally understand it to be read as “way ngayan.” Although anyone could attempt to write in any language with these scripts, I wanted to stick to the intended native tongues to showcase how to properly interpret them.

After doing a guided tour in the National Museum of Anthropology, I opted out of using the "modernized" writing systems in exchange for the "historically utilized" method of not including viramas or writing out a character altogether to eliminate the vowel.

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TRANSLATIONS

Baybayin: Sumpa Kita (Tagalog) - “I Swear”

Depending on the tone, you could be proclaiming a promise or a curse. I love it. It was also the phrase that the name of the Philippine national flower, (sampaguita) originated from, which was also one of Indonesia's national flowers (melati putih). IndoPhil fans, start taking notes.

Kulitan: Tadtad (Kapampangan) - “To cut to small pieces (minced, diced, pinked, etc.)”

There was a saying: "Tadtaran decoman, ing catadtad a mitalandang, iyang maquiasaua queya." It could be roughly translated as: "They me cut me into a million pieces, but even one of those pieces is still good enough to marry 'the one.'" Morbid but romantic, and reflective of Piri’s love for Indo (he’d be that cheesy, okay?)

Tagbanwa: “Tablay” - “To cross hills and mountains”

It was a 4-verse song that narrated a variety of topics, ranging from household chores to community gatherings to expeditions to sentiments (positive or negative) for others. Penultimately the tablay served to express “what comes out from the heart.” That was so quintessential Piri.

Hanunó’o: “Harampanan” - “Discussion”

What was interesting was that the same term referred to both the conversations held in settling disputes and the moment of convening between the parents of a couple to consent to their marriage (or not). He might be a social butterfly, but he was constantly under pressure to fulfill the role of an intermediary.

Buhid: “Way Ngayan” - “No name”

I initially drew a different word and decided to change it as it didn’t fit for Piri to carry something he could never wield. Among the highland Tau-Buhid, it was common practice to answer “way ngayan” when outsiders of the community asked for their names. Instead, the outsiders would give a name to the Tau-Buhid being addressed to, and only then can the Tau-Buhid be allowed to speak to them. It’s funny how the Philippines was a name* christened by an outsider.

*The same goes for my headcanon name for precolonial Piri.

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The first name in the tattoo styles referred to the specific location of residence of the studied ethnolinguistic group. It was not a strict requirement to note it down at all times, but more often than not these groups identified themselves by their location.

Supposedly the Panay-Bukidnon/Suludnon preserved precolonial Visayan tattooing, but the one source I found online described it to be more of a freestyle practice. I was also unable to find images of the tattoos on the people themselves. Nonetheless, there was the Pintados Festival that paid homage to the titular tattooed warriors.

I wanted to point out the visual similarities because tattooists were also traveling practitioners to find clients for their work. It was a possible explanation for why tattooed people (if not the particular tattoo style) were observed across the Visayan islands as well as parts of southern Luzon. In the late 19th century, some Bagobo people shared that they were tattooed by an outsider practitioner. Whang-od herself used to be a traveling tattooist.

This was speculation on my part but I believed it was also possible that tattooists also took inspiration from other styles. Chest tattoos for men in both the Visayan tattoos and Manobo pangotoeb both had radial designs on the areola (which I did not draw for Piri’s chest tattoos simply because they clashed). Who knows, maybe a Manobo tattooist encountered the Visayans and wanted to create their version? I liked to think that the variations in motifs and pattern combinations could double as a tattooist's signature.

I allowed for a few liberties here and there in drawing some tattoo motifs for Piri because, at the end of the day, inspiration could come from anywhere. One could also say the variation lies in how artists created their visual interpretations of the sources of inspiration. Even the Kalinga tattoos made available for tourists are borrowed imagery from other groups! In the past, one Kalinga warrior had an eagle tattoo on his arm that was based on the image on an American coin.

Tattoos were meant to be unique to the individual. Their value on having to be earned was on the basis that they reflected not just the personal histories (if not necessarily achievements) of the wearer, but such histories must also be acknowledged by the community granting them.

That last bit was important because while anyone could pay to be tattooed (and it would still represent something about you), you would be considered a fake. Hiya (shame) was a thorn that penetrated deeper around these parts. Although only the Manobo did not have a stigma for not being tattooed, the social pressures still left a mark on Piri (literally!)

If one relied only on tattoos as a visual cue, one would be unable to distinguish which groups individuals belonged to from a distance. If every one of the most significant leaders were tattooed in the exact same patterns, it would be impossible to recognize who’s who until they formally introduced themselves (which no one would have the time for in the middle of combat!) The Visayans had a set of tattoos that could be used by all, which implied some designs were restricted only among the best of the best.

This was HWS Philippines. If he’s going to be the star, he needed to stand out from the crowd.

It would, however, be awkward for Piri when he spent time with certain other groups that carried a strong contempt for the ones he received his tattoos under. He would not be exempt from the consequences.

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Now here was one more reason why artists/designers should not be afraid to modify on the tattoo motifs (as long as one familiarized themselves with the foundations they worked with): The Butbut Kalinga believe it was taboo to copy older designs, all the more if the original recipient was deceased. So in letting a character don some Kalinga whatok, think twice about perfectly copying every last detail from reference image/s!

In the present day, tattoos for visiting tourists from Whang-Od had to make a selection from a prepared guide, all of them modified for a general audience v.s. designs exclusive to esteemed warriors of the past. I used the former for Piri’s Kalinga whatok.

This was where I addressed the elephant in the room.

My understanding of cultural appropriation was that the offense is in cherry-picking culturally significant symbols & practices and then using them out of their intended context by transforming them into pieces that fit the aesthetic criteria of the dominant - and often oppressive - group.

Save for that one taboo, I did not find any other explicitly recorded statement from either the Butbut Kalinga or the Pantoron Manobo forbidding outsiders from using their tattoos. (Mind you, this was all via resources I could access online - screw this pandemic!)

There was also the lingering question regarding the cultural preservation of PH tattooing practices. In the case of the Kalinga whatok, considering that we could not simply reintroduce headhunting in the present day for morality reasons, did that not mean the tattoos had essentially lost their cultural context? If that rendered them invaluable objects, would it not be self-defeating to the purpose of cultural preservation to just let the practice die out?

I sincerely believed it was just as patronizing to assume that even indigenous peoples could adapt and re-contextualize their traditions because it did not fit the (outsider) ideal of preserving their [I am knocking on wood here] "pristine, primitive forms."

Sometimes even good intentions/aspirations could still take away the platform from the ones it was built for.

(I know I just sounded like a hypocrite in saying that so I'm beating you all to it and calling myself out on it.)

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My biggest motivation for manifesting this headcanon at all was because I did not swim with the fanon of amnesiac Piri. 😭💦

I was at odds with what constituted as a collective (national) memory, all the more when not only was the Philippines as the nation we knew today was a far cry from the "nation" (bayan) that existed 1500+ years ago (and that was if you happened to go there, which I do because I also did not swim with chibi Piri by the time Magellan showed his ass up on our shores).

It sucked that we lost much of the perishable writings from that time, but written works were not the only means of cultural/historical preservation. I also disagreed with the implication that only written works counted as a valid archive.

The pen might be mightier than the sword, but efforts to improve literacy skills were a double-edged sword in itself. While it was important to teach people to be better communicators*, measuring intellectual capacity by literacy skills could get problematic. I condemned this assumption because I sincerely did not believe that precolonial Filipinos being unbothered to keep written records was a sign of their “backwardness.” What if they never felt the need to?

Because why bother writing it all down when you could say it out loud instead! We might not have books and written histories, but we got oral histories! Epics, ballads, hymns, riddles, folklores, you name it! People passed down traditions through storytelling, all the more for all the indigenous natives* residing in the nation that resisted imperialistic rule (not just colonial) for centuries! We were a nation of songbirds! And that was why "Piri chronically online on Twitter" was absolutely valid.

Although it was easy to justify the amnesia take because the colonizers massacred so many people, and without the people, you also lost the very guardians of those memories...in my most honest opinion that...registered poorly in my head.

What of the ones who survived? What of the people who lived to tell their tales?

When did we stop listening?

*More often than not, people grew up to be swayed to unwittingly support imperialistic/capitalist/fascist agendas because very subtle propaganda was discreetly inserted into the lesson plans in their formative education. Criticisms on colonial education deserved their own talk for another day.

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What constituted a memory was the affection, the emotion that came with certain experiences. It was why some memories persisted while others were easily forgotten. It was why even memory recollection (which indicated an active search) might not necessarily be true or not. Memory, both in itself and the processes surrounding it, did not follow a linear & and straightforward path (and that was already without taking the complexity of neurobiology into account).

While the merits for a tattoo were generally prescribed through specific or notable acts, I noticed that majority of them seem to share one common affection: Passion. The feeling of an intense, compelling desire for something (or someone).

Among the Manobo (today), most of them were compelled by aesthetic reasons in getting a tattoo. The desire to maintain an appearance that would equally leave an impression on others.

Headhunting/warfare was just the easily cited method, but the Kalinga appraised any act that denoted an individual’s bravery & valor. Bravery in fighting the frontlines, fueled by the compelling desire to defend one’s homeland.

Violence** born out of vengeance is also a thing, and vengeance was just passion manifesting negatively.

Precolonial Visayans had names for tattoos that marked an individual’s first-time experience in war…or love (sex, I guess). Two polar forces treated as equals. I think of how Aphrodite/Venus was also a goddess of war. A goddess of passion.

Headhunting could also have gendered notions that display the "mutual dependence" in the dichotomy of "male/female bloodshed." In a study of the Huaulu people (Seram, Indonesia*), they had a taboo where the men could not participate in headhunting if their wives were menstruating or giving birth. This reinforced the idea that women as "bleeding humans" were as powerfully influential as men who were "bleeders of humans."

On a similar note, there was a pervasive belief in certain other groups that headhunting blessed communities with fertile lands (alongside fertile women). Blood as life essence. Blood as a source of vitality.

Sometimes passion is comparable to being a force of vitality. The driving force of life and death.

Hades game Achilles was onto something when he wrote that Aphrodite "may be the mightiest of all [the Olympians]."

It got complicated, however, because headhunting and warfare were also a means of state violence**. The precolonial Visayans were engaged in and subjected to slave raids, born out of the need to harvest labor for trade motivations (fuck capitalism, am I right?). If all the battle experience from such activities counts as a merit for tattoos, what did that make of Piri?

I thought of how even blood was shed during the process of tattooing. In a way, Piri’s tattoos also functioned as a reminder of all the blood that was shed for him. A reminder of all the people who died for their passions.

Whether it was a price worth paying or not is a conflict he may never find a resolution for.

*They were comparable to the Buaya (Kalinga) in the shared gendered aspect in headhunting. While this implies a cultural backing to Beyer's Wave Migration Theory, the latter was contested by W.H. Scott. In the cited studies below that concentrated on Kalinga tattooing, there were no further details given regarding any connected symbolisms to headhunting.

**Just so we’re all clear, me conducting frank discussions on the topic of violence DID NOT equate to me condoning violence. Remember that Kalinga tattooing diminished because headhunting was outlawed for its nature as an act of violence.

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Fortunately, there was always the option to negotiate out of a fight (nail that persuasion check, Piri!!).

This was where tattoos as an indicator of one’s place in a community came into play: the more tattooed an individual, the more highly regarded they were. It was they who act as the primary mediator for any conflicts that arose.

It was a huge burden to bear for an entity that encompassed so many communities when he was not (exactly) a part of any of them. While his tattoos provided an opportunistic signal for Piri to be treated as someone due equal respect, it also made him vulnerable to open contempt. Righteously so when the community in question had been victims of the same state violence that advocated for a united nation.

Even prejudice could exist within the same group of people: between those who were content interacting with “lowlanders”/”outsiders” and those who adamantly remained isolated, with the latter even denying the “Filipino” identity. However, a people’s resistance in identifying as subjects of an oppressive government should not be cause to disregard their (co-)inhabitation of spaces. Mediation became a necessity to maintain harmonious relations.

It was a struggle that remains a constant throughout Piri’s history. Juggling the roles of the mediator between communities and the warrior who defended these communities.

The tattoos served as an eternal reminder of Piri’s passions to uphold all these narratives. A reminder of his purpose to maintain the fine threads between peace and war.

HA! I REALLY CAME BACK FULL CIRCLE TO THE FLAG SYMBOLISM!

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Speaking of flag symbolism, allow me to end this brainrot essay on a funny note.

Imagine telling HWS Philippines that the sun on his flag was inspired by his ASS TATTS.

☼ ☼ ☼

Sources

Abbacan-Tuguic, Lalin, and Lunes Marnag. “Whatok (Tattooe): The Aesthetic Expression of Traditional Kalinga Beauty.” International Journal of Advanced Research in Management and Social Sciences 5, no. 6 (2016): 725-939. https://garph.co.uk/IJARMSS-vol5-no6.html. Bergaño, Diego. Vocabulary of the Kapampangan language in Spanish and dictionary of the Spanish language in Kapampangan: The English Translation of the Kapampangan-Spanish Dictionary. Translated by Fr. Venancio Q. Samson. Angeles City, Philippines: Holy Angel University Press, 2007. Boxer Codex: A Modern Spanish Transcription and English Translation of 16th-Century Exploration Accounts of East and Southeast Asia and the Pacific. Edited by Isaac Donoso. Translated by Ma. Luisa Garcia, Carlos Quirino, and Mauro García. Quezon City, Philippines: Vibal Foundation, Inc., 2016. Bramhall, Donna. “Exploring Kalinga culture, tattoo artistry, tribal traditions,” Rappler, July 9, 2016. https://www.rappler.com/life-and-style/138427-kalinga-culture-tribal-traditions-tatoos/. Calano, Mark Joseph. “Archiving bodies: Kalinga batek and the im/possibility of an archive.” Thesis Eleven 112, no. 1 (2012): 98-112. https://doi.org/10.1177%2F0725513612450502. Clariza, Ma. Elena. “Sacred Texts and Symbols: An Indigenous Filipino Perspective on Reading.” The International Journal of Information, Diversity, & Inclusion 3, no. 2 (2019): 80-92. https://doi.org/10.33137/ijidi.v3i2.32593. Cultural Center of the Philippines. “Tagbanwa.” Encyclopedia of Philippine Art. Accessed December 6, 2021. https://epa.culturalcenter.gov.ph/1/2/2374/. De Las Peñas, Ma. Louise Antonette N., and Analayn Salvador-Amores. “Enigmatic Geometric Tattoos of the Butbut of Kalinga, Philippines.” The Mathematical Intelligencer 41, no. 1 (2019): 31-38. https://doi.org/10.1007/s00283-018-09864-6. Garlitos, Rhandee. “Great Elder.” Panyaan: Three Tales of the Tagbanua. Accessed Dec 7, 2021. https://www.canvas.ph/catalog/panyaan-three-tales-of-the-tagbanua. Hoskins, Janet. “Introduction: Headhunting as Practice and as Trope.” In Headhunting and the Social Imagination in Southeast Asia, edited by Janet Hoskins, 1-49. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1996. Krutak, Lars. “The Last Kalinga Tattoo Artist of the Philippines.” Lars Krutak: Tattoo Anthropologist (blog). WordPress. May 30, 2013. https://www.larskrutak.com/the-last-kalinga-tattoo-artist-of-the-philippines/. Miyamoto, Masaru. 1988. “The Hanunoo-Mangyan: Society, Religion and Law among a Mountain People of Mindoro Island, Philippines.” Senri Ethnological Studies, vol. 22. Osaka: National Museum of Ethnology. Ocampo, Ambeth R. “Who owns Whang-Od and her tattoos?,” Philippine Daily Inquirer, August 11, 2021. https://opinion.inquirer.net/142977/who-owns-whang-od-and-her-tattoos. —. “Heritage: More heat than light,” Philippine Daily Inquirer, August 13, 2021. https://opinion.inquirer.net/143039/heritage-more-heat-than-light. Pagador, Renan. “The Philippine Scripts.” Baybayin Archives (blog). Blogspot. August 26, 2020. http://rapcom-archives.blogspot.com/2020/08/. Ragragio, Andrea Malaya D., and Myfel D. Paluga. “An Ethnography of Pantaron Manobo Tattooing (Pangotoeb): Towards a Heuristic Schema in Understanding Manobo Indigenous Tattoos.” Southeast Asian Studies 8, no. 2 (2019): 259-294. https://doi.org/10.20495/seas.8.2_259. Rosales, Christian A. “Sorcery, Rights, and Cosmopolitics Among the Tau-Buhid Mangyan in Mts. Iglit-Baco National Park.” Aghamtao 27, no. 1 (2019): 110-159. Salvador-Amores, Analyn “Batek: Tradition Tattoos and Identities in Contemporary Kalinga, North Luzon Philippines.” Humanities Diliman 3, no. 1 (2002): 105-142. https://journals.upd.edu.ph/index.php/humanitiesdiliman/article/view/32. —. “Batok (Traditional Tattoos) in Diaspora: The Reinvention of a Globally Mediated Kalinga Identity.” South East Asia Research 19, no. 2 (2011): 293–318. http://www.jstor.org/stable/23750924.

—. “Burik: Tattoos of the Ibaloy Mummies of Benguet, North Luzon, Philippines.” In Ancient Ink: The Archaeology of Tattooing, edited by Lars Krutak and Aaron Deter-Wolf, 37-55. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2017. —. “Re-examining Igorot representation: issues of commodification and cultural appropriation.” South East Asia Research 28, no. 4 (2020): 380-396. https://doi.org/10.1080/0967828X.2020.1843369. Scott, William Henry. Barangay: Sixteenth-Century Philippine Culture and Society. Quezon City, Philippines: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1994. “Visayan Tattoo Design.” Akopito (blog). Weebly. February 18, 2014. http://akopito.weebly.com/blog-naacutekocirc/visayan-tattoo-design.

Final Note

While they were interconnected, the emphasis of my headcanon was on tattoos as (national) memory over tattoos as (national) identity. I know it's paradoxical of me to separate them but it did make you think twice about what built identity. What built character! It's a question I cannot answer through one headcanon or one comic even. ☼ BANAAG ☼ would be my attempt at a personal answer to that question.

#hws philippines #war cw #mentions of sex cw #hcs: physical appearance #cultural features #long post #cultural hetalia

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jasmariswonderland · 1 year

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❄️🛷The Harveston Sledathon With My Twst OCs🛷❄️

Hello everyone!

The Haveston Sledathon event just wrapped up in EN but even though I’m still working on applepom cards for these three, here are some headcanons about what Yuulan, Danica and Maximilian were up to during the event! Hope you enjoy! ✨

Maximilian initially wasn’t one of the people Epel thought about inviting and he had little interest in going anyway. At least not at first, but when Jade tells him he wanted go to visit Mount Moln, Maxim decides he wants to tag along since it would be a nice chance to be around his crush under the pretense of club activities. By this point however, its already been decided that Idia and Sebek will go as well so the sled team is full but Maxim manages to convince Epel that he should still go as an alternate in case Idia or Sebek can’t race. And for good measure, suggests that Danica should come as well so they have more than one alternate.

Despite his original motives, Maxim gets really into the scenery once they arrive and he, Jade and Idia agree they must explore Mount Moln once the race is over. At Epel’s house, he tries on his applepom outfit and really enjoys the design, especially the brooches. He finishes off his look with a pair of apple shaped earrings. Even though Maxim isn’t expected to race, Epel still has him pick out a patchwork plushie for his grandmother to make. Idia suggests maybe an alligator since he’s a huge reptile nerd and Maxim proceeds to give him a harsh lecture about how the cold blooded nature of reptiles.

Later Maxim joins the main four boys and Yuulan up on the mountain for sledding practice, mostly as moral support. When they run into the RSA dwarves, he gets pretty heated and wants to throw hands but Yuulan and Jade manage to cool him down. With Jade slyly telling him it would be far satisfying to beat them in the race rather than fighting at that moment. Maxim reluctantly agrees but may or may not have pelted a few extra snowballs their way.

At one point when everyone was touring the Kokko market earlier, Yuulan and Danica tried picking out apples that they felt were as red as his hair but he claims none of them can match the ruby red brilliance of his hair color. That is, until Jade picks one out that he thinks matches Maxim’s hair, one that he ends up keeping for later. Once the race is over, before everyone heads back to NRC, Jade and Maxim have their planned hike up Mount Moln. Idia decides not to join them as he wants to talk to Marja more about how she was the inspiration for Sled Over Heels. But Maxim is glad since it gives him some alone time with Jade where the explore the mountain and at one point split the apple he saved from the previous day.

Yuulan and Danica under the cut!

Yuulan absolutely loves her applepom outfit and is beside herself with how intricate the embroidery is on her hat and gloves. While at the Kokko market, she buys a bunch of cute handmade knitwear and a few new bundles of yarn. She also buys a pair of blank gloves to practice embroidery on and the yarn comes in handy later on when she decides to help Danica with a very special project.

Though she’s not a huge fan of cold weather, Danica agrees to join in on this trip to Harveston. Mainly because she’s visited before and is fond of the scenery and aesthetics if not the bitter cold. She also loves her applepom outfit which she finds both stylish and warm. She posts many pictures on Magicam of her outfit but is unpleasantly surprised when Neige comments on one, saying he’s also at the sledathon festival to support his dwarf friends. She ends up deleting her pictures so his comments won’t entice Vil’s jealousy and decides she must make a point of avoiding him if she can.

While at the wishing well, Danica wishes for the boys to win the race but she also notices someone else there as well, staring at her. A young lady about her age who confesses that she was staring at Danica because she remembered seeing her in the commercial she did for Ledelle Cosmetics. Her name is Florine and Danica takes an immediate liking to her, finding her adorable and very sweet. Danica and Florine run into each other again when the group is exploring the Kokko market and they strike up amiable conversation. Florine reveals she went to the same school as Epel and when the boys press her for any stories from their school days, she embarrasses Epel by recalling the time he tried to bring his pet bunny to school and it got loose in the classroom. Danica ends up taking a stroll around the market with Florine and Idia openly muses about how they look like two of the girls from Sled Over Heals.

They end up returning to Florine’s house to have tea and get to know each other better. Danica finds out that she and Florine are a lot alike and the more time she spends with her, the more she likes her. While chatting, Florine asks Danica what it was like to model with Neige Leblanche. She finds this odd but answers her questions civilly, not letting on that she actually dislikes him, but she is shocked when Florine then admits that she is an RSA student and Neige is her dorm leader. With her curiosity now piqued, Danica asks Florine more about her thoughts regarding Neige and Florine admits that she is in love with him. And that her wish at the wishing well was that she and Neige might meet during the sledathon festival and that he will one day realize her feelings and return them, shocking Danica further.

With the boys off practicing sledding, Danica ends up spending most of her day with Florine. During this time, Danica has time to think about what Florine told her, she knows Neige is still pursuing Lilianne but she will never return his feelings. With that in mind, Danica decides to do the unthinkable, she goes to Magicam and sends Neige a message, asking him to hang out with her at the Kokko market that evening. He immediately agrees. Danica then calls Yuulan and asks her to help her because its her plan to leave Neige and Florine alone at the market together where he will hopefully have time to see her in a new light. She then tells Florine that they’re going to meet Neige at the market and while she’s anxious at first, she is also secretly thrilled at the prospect and lets Danica help her change into a new, prettier applepom outfit and arrange her hair.

Their meeting ends up going well and Danica and Yuulan deliberately leave Neige and Florine alone several times during the evening. They make a snowman together and share the last slice of a large apple pie. Unfortunately, when Neige and Danica have a private moment, he asks her if he will talk to Lilianne for him because she’s still giving him the cold shoulder. This frustrates her but she neither agrees no disagrees. At the end of the evening, Neige leaves to meet up with the dwarves, promising to meet up with the girls at the race the next morning. The girls then meet up with the other NRC boys at the assembly hall and Florine and Danica dance together at the party. Later, Danica sings some of Our Happily Ever After for her and Florine muses about how the lyrics remind her of Neige.

Maximilian agrees to walk Florine home and once she’s gone for the night, Danica openly vents about how stupid she thinks Neige is for ignoring Florine’s feelings for him and how she wants them to get together for Lilianne’s sake. Idia once again muses about how this sounds like the plot for an anime and Jade suggests slipping Neige a love potion. But Yuulan has the idea of using some of the yarn she’s purchased to help Danica make an apple shaped cozy, a gift Florine can offer to Neige. They even stuff it with some cinnamon to give it a pleasant scent. At the race the next morning, Florine gives Neige the gift, he’s thankful but once again asks Danica about Lilianne. They end up striking a bargain, if the dwarves win the race, she will talk to Lilianne on Neige’s behalf but if the NRC boys win, she wont.

The three of them, along with Yuulan, Grim and the four other dwarves (I be damned if I remember their names) watch the race and sadly, the NRC team looses. Danica promises Neige that she will talk to Lilianne on his behalf but also tells him that he should also keep his heart open because while he’s chasing after her, he might end up missing the girl truly meant for him. She looks right at Florine as she says this.

Unfortunately for Danica, while they were hanging in the market the previous day, Neige took several pictures the four of them and posted them on Magicam, Danica included. Vil sees these and once Danica, Epel and Maximilian are back at Pomefiore, interrogates her about the time she spent with his rival. He makes his disapproval known and when he asks Epel if his team at least beat the RSA boys, Epel tells him the truth, furthering his ire at both of them. After a thorough scolding, Danica decides to go back on her promise to Neige but does text Lilianne. She asks her RSA friend to reach out to Florine and help her however she can, hoping that maybe they will meet again sometime in the future.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland oc #twst oc #oc: maximilian #oc: yuulan #oc: danica #twst harveston event #oc: florine #headcanons and things

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