disappear, it needs no more

Portable nihilist Ion. v convenient. doubles as pocket calculator should the need arise. (after this post which is extremely real and true to me)

2405w, complete Fandom: Püha ja õudne lõhn | Sacred and Terrible Air - Robert Kurvitz, Disco Elysium (Video Game) Teen And Up Audiences, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Ambrosius Saint-Miro & Ion Rodionov, Ignus Nilsen & Ion Rodionov Characters: Ambrosius Saint-Miro, Ion Rodionov, Ignus Nilsen Additional Tags: Worldbuilding, Epistolary, End of the World, Character Study, Morally Ambiguous Character, Teacher & Student, Nihilism, Diary/Journal, The Pale (Disco Elysium), Entroponetics, Entropolism even Summary:

Words suspended in vapour, from Ion to Ambrosius and back again until the eternal shores of mankind’s final rest.

Yuletide treat for @vriskarlmarx author of my most beloved PJÕL gift over here 🌫 ⭐🦌 Ambrosius, Ambrosius, Ambrosius...

because the only description of him we get is that he is “small”, “little” and even “tiny”, ion rodionov has manifested in my brain as a fairly clocky trans man, who simply defies every perception check

Rodionov: sup guys, in two years you'll start a world revolution Mazov & Nilsen: yes we will Rodionov: but guess what it's gonna fail Mazov & Nilsen: *exchange glances* Mazov & Nilsen (passionately): HELL YES WE WILL

The fifth type of missing person according to the Romangorod Conference is when you’re so short that you get Mike Wazowzki’d out of the revolutionary leaders’ inner circle, actually

the thing about sacred and terrible air is that in the epilogue posted on the ZAUM blog Ambrosius is given possibly the funniest motivation for wanting to destroy the world. he hates math. his psychic math teacher has brought him along to a concert and he’s bored out of his mind and just wants to go home

and in the Pale as we know numbers eventually stop working.

Ion Rodionov took little Ambrosius aside like see my boy! everything in the world is math! and Ambrosius decided there that everything in the world including the world itself must cease

Simultaneous Intracranial EEG-fMRI Shows Inter-Modality Correlation in Time-Resolved Connectivity Within Normal Areas but Not Within Epileptic Regions.

IoN UCL PubMed: Simultaneous Intracranial EEG-fMRI Shows Inter-Modality Correlation in Time-Resolved Connectivity Within Normal Areas but Not Within Epileptic Regions. Brain Topogr. 2017 Feb 13;: Authors: Ridley B, Wirsich J, Bettus G, Rodionov R, Murta T, Chaudhary U, Carmichael D, Thornton R, Vulliemoz S, McEvoy A, Wendling F, Bartolomei F, Ranjeva JP, Lemieux L, Guye M Abstract For the first time in research in humans, we used simultaneous icEEG-fMRI to examine the link between connectivity in haemodynamic signals during the resting-state (rs) and connectivity derived from electrophysiological activity in terms of the inter-modal connectivity correlation (IMCC). We quantified IMCC in nine patients with drug-resistant epilepsy (i) within brain networks in 'healthy' non-involved cortical zones (NIZ) and (ii) within brain networks involved in generating seizures and interictal spikes (IZ1) or solely spikes (IZ2). Functional connectivity (h (2) ) estimates for 10 min of resting-state data were obtained between each pair of electrodes within each clinical zone for both icEEG and fMRI. A sliding window approach allowed us to quantify the variability over time of h (2) (vh (2)) as an indicator of connectivity dynamics. We observe significant positive IMCC for h (2) and vh (2), for multiple bands in the NIZ only, with the strongest effect in the lower icEEG frequencies. Similarly, intra-modal h (2) and vh (2) were found to be differently modified as a function of different epileptic processes: compared to NIZ, [Formula: see text] was higher in IZ1, but lower in IZ2, while [Formula: see text] showed the inverse pattern. This corroborates previous observations of inter-modal connectivity discrepancies in pathological cortices, while providing the first direct invasive and simultaneous comparison in humans. We also studied time-resolved FC variability multimodally for the first time, finding that IZ1 shows both elevated internal [Formula: see text] and less rich dynamical variability, suggesting that its chronic role in epileptogenesis may be linked to greater homogeneity in self-sustaining pathological oscillatory states. PMID: 28194612 [PubMed - as supplied by publisher] http://dlvr.it/NNTpqC

do you think elysium mazovian yaoi sculptor would be proud of me

ASS FOTO

today, uli is sitting on the Final Destination stage from Super Smash Bros. Brawl! he's enjoying the view.

also, i think the three major notes to the ignus nilsen waltz are #F, E, D - which i have tried to replicate in that swirly ion doodle. inexplicably, i can read and transcribe most forms of music, but i can't write it. so... someone who actually plays the piano could easily figure it out.

source: woman moment

guy named transmasc erasure:

entroponaut flow

you ever like a piece of music so much you predict the events of the next few centuries and the end of the world in-between adulating the artist who made it?

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Püha ja õudne lõhn | Sacred and Terrible Air - Robert Kurvitz Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ignus Nilsen & Ion Rodionov Characters: Ignus Nilsen, Ion Rodionov (PJÕL) Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Time Shenanigans, Character Study, Vignette Summary:

Mourning in the lungs of Graad.

Under the dark cover of spruce trees, at the far end of Graad, where the isola’s grip on reality loosens at last, Ion Rodionov curls up against the undergrowth and spits out a single, stifled cry. Once that embarrassment is over and done with, he coughs and composes himself in the face of the great time; he breathes, and the totality of the pale breathes with him, beckoning from beyond the edge of the forest.

(Nine years ago, in a small, clean flat in Mirova, as clouds gather over the imperial palace, Ion Rodionov curls up against dark green wall tiles and lets out a single, stifled cry.

It is then that Ignus Nilsen knocks as is his custom, thrice in a hurry, always on the move, always chased by shadows, and lets himself in. If he takes stock of his comrade’s unbecoming countenance, if he notices an inexplicable, stubborn tear behind his glasses, Nilsen does not say. He offers small talk instead: an old paper referenced by one of his students, while outdated in its view of caloric, still presents glimpses of audacious insight and he would have the pleasure of discussing its potential. The mathematician nods along with the conversation, taking in every quirk of his friend’s dear voice, but his gaze remains fixed outside the window, past Mirova’s jagged roofs, past the heavy clouds, to the fixed light beyond.)

History ebbs and flows through the dark woods. Three hurried raps against bark alert him to Nilsen’s presence. Four thousand kilometres of exile since they fled the capital and the man looks like he has not allowed himself a single night of sleep and would be wrecked by guilt if, by fortuitous chance, rest ever came easy to him again. Four thousand kilometres of exile and he has not uttered Mazov’s name once. None of them have. What is there to say. What has ever been there to say. This demise was foretold in the twilight of antiquity. Time caught up, at last.

Ignus Nilsen wears his grief like a heavy shroud. He keeps his left hand open, as if to hold another’s, and offers no other contact to the world. When Rodionov, then, sees him joining him in this small secluded clearing, safe from the hubbub of their armies, he is certain that his friend is driven by some practical matter, be it an urgent question of logistics or any other topic where his input might be valued.

As the case may be, Ion Rodionov is rarely wrong about such matters. But there might be a trace of a tear behind his glasses, visible to keen eyes, a strange connection to a distant memory, and behind their backs, as the pale roars, reality falls into a shared memory of loss as old as mankind, the mold of all grief. Nilsen opens his mouth; he exhales a foggy, silvery breath. With its last whisper, he says: “You knew.”

“I knew,” says Rodionov, who is rarely wrong about most matters.

“You have always known.” His friend’s voice is too tired to be accusatory.

“I have always mourned. He will always have been.” He pauses and stares at the ground, as if fearing that even this nameless mention would be too heavy to bear. As if the ground itself could crack. “You understand.”

Nilsen shakes his head.

Rodionov stands straight to meet his gaze. Can’t he? Oh, not ideologically, not the Evangelist of the Revolution, he cannot budge. He never will. But he has to know, now, as loss carves barren paths through his body, as memories echo across this emptiness, that a neat and orderly flow of time is a fabrication, and a feeble one at that.

“Totality, Ignus. Joy, unmoored.”

“You dare speak of joy to me?”

“Should I cower? Dear friend! You spoke of joy boldly and fondly. You will again! And those words will have drawn from the same spring! Tap into it, now and forever. It is as real as it will always have been. As we met for the first time, I already stood here, in this clearing. As I stand here now, I sit with you and him in your living room, when everything was possible, and your thoughts and his are as sweet as ripe peaches. This peace is real. Ideas eternal!”

“Don’t.”

“Ignus.”

“Ion… you… put a great trust in your words.” These days, anybody else would meet his blade for such impertinence. Not the mathematician, whose words are guileless, as they both know, and who (again, as they both know) knows full well, to the second decimal place, how much he can get away with.

“I put great stock in truth.” “Surely not enough?”

“Beg pardon?” Nilsen closes his eyes beyond the dark lenses of his glasses. “This peace you advocate. How tender a prospect, comrade. How is it, then, that your head tilts as you speak, how is it that your gaze flees backwards, toward the border and the pale beyond? Do you seek comfort? Confirmation? You propose a truth that is not even good enough for you, Ion Rodionov?”

What it is, in fact, is out of grasp, ever so slightly. Even for him. There is such beauty in the unfolding of the end, such comfort in the eternity of their existence in that living room, where sweetest thoughts were shared. An eternity granted by its end. Yearning before it began. Laid at the feet of such magnificence, the sting of human loss should be infinitesimal, yet his memory remains sharp enough to take the air out of his lungs.

“The truth stands regardless of you and me. Conviction... is hard to come by, these days, and now and then fails to measure up.”

“Shoddy work. Find better stock.” Nilsen shrugs under the weight of his white cape. His shoulders are heavy, all comfort of the past left far behind. “And so shall I. Or what is left of us?”

The answer to that question is better left unsaid. They sit in silence for a while; deers grunt in the distance. Around them, the forest lives and whispers, at the far end of Graad, for as long as the world will last.

work has fucked my wrist but i did not rest until i got a few doodles of this weird prophetic dipshit into the universe.

many thanks to @revacholianpizzaagenda for her top tier rodionov interpretation peace and love thank you

How big the hourglass, how deep the sand, I shouldn't hope to know, but here I stand (Rodionov & Mazov & Nilsen 3sentence)

(3sentence ficathon)

Ion Rodionov casts aside the comfort of his visions, which have remained unchanged throughout the years, sweet embraces filled with the rigorous inevitability of mankind's failure (this world's remaining days are less than three digits squared), and comes back, dizzy and feverish, to the aching confines of his body.

His comrades are looking out of the window, standing side by side, hands interlinked, and upon seeing them like this, looming against Mirova's pale grey skies as if their trust in this world could buy it time (it won't), Rodionov feels a kind of love.

In seven years Mazov will be dead and disgraced, Nilsen a decade later; tonight, a moment which shall remain forever resplendent in the glory of the pale, Rodionov joins them for dinner, shivering, wrapping himself in their warm talks, in the tenderness of their belief, and he wishes he could shield them from even one grain of sand.

I like to think Wirral 1E was all the rage in Mazov and Nilsen's time. Or an AD&D equivalent. Steban would bring it up and Nilsen would be like "holy shit the cool commie kids still play wirral" and then he'd look at the current edition rulebook and think "what the fuck is this" but occasionally he sees one of his own homebrew rules that made it into the game proper and pats himself on the back.

You know what???? The autographed dodecahedron acquired by Ion Rodionov in the epilogue of Sacred and Terrible Air would agree with you. Because it certainly looks like a die one might use in games, doesn’t it…

Those motherfuckers were probably tabletop players right from the start.