#richard's fashion lore
Note
By all means *eyes emoji*
Hi 👋
I took this ask as an invitation to figuratively dive into Richard's coat closet, and tried to compile every coat he wore in the last 30 years.
And oh boy, this man surely loves a good coat. He's the one member of this band who consecutively wore a coat on almost every tour and really takes a liking in the dramaturgical effect of wearing long (often times dark in color) coats and later reveiling additional outfits underneath, especially in later years. It fits his somewhat dramatic stage presence and he started quite early with these kind of stage outfits!
I subdevided this overview in two sub-topics to give this post somewhat of a structure, because this will be long.
1.) Richard's coats on stage (organized by year and tour)
1.1) Firstly, the plain black coat from the Herzeleid tour which he wore in 1995/1996. It's from what I could find the first time he wore a coat on stage while playing for Rammstein.
1.2) Addtionally, he wore the shiny red and silver coat during the Herzeleid tour as well as partly on the Sehnsucht tour in 1997. Same as the black coat before, he forwent any additional outfit underneath.
1.3) Also on the Sehnsucht tour, Richard wore the somewhat futuristic (reminded me a little bit of Star Treck costumes) black and silver coat which is clearly visible in Live aus Berlin. It suited the whole style of this era quite nicely and fit into the vibe of Till's cyborg/futuristic jacket as well.
1.4) For his outfit during the Reise Reise tour in 2004/2005, Richard settled for a black military-style coat. The button rows seem to be reminiscent of french military uniforms from the 17th and 18th century (as well as the button lines and the embroidery on the collar of the underjacket) and his pants were designed in a similar style. The lining of the coat is bright red, a theme which would occur numerous times over the years.
1.5) During the LIFAD tour, Richard wore a grey-mottled coat made out of a somewhat leathery material, adorned with silver buttons and a red armband - again he incorporated a red element in this coat, just like with the one before. On a sidenote: He once mentioned that Michael Jackson was an inspiration for this armband because Richard liked the cool look of it - his leg-belts (visible in the right picture) also kind of resemble the harness Michael wore on stage and in some videos during his Bad era.
1.6) An absolute personal favourite of mine: The studded coat Richard chose for the 2013 part of the Made in Germany tour, oftentimes paired with the torn black and red top underneath. This one also got red lining, as well as a fine red line near the cuffs of the coat.
1.7) In 2016 for the Festival tour, Richard wore coat in a more cosy and snuggly style, which marked a break in the clean cut coat-aesthetic up to this point. It was more in the style of a cardigan with a zipper instead of buttons. The armband made a reappearance as the signature red element (mirrored by a red band on his pants), and red lines along the seams added this colourful accent.
1.8) For the 2019 tour leg of the Stadium tour, Richard mixed things up by wearing a two piece combo made out of a leathery material, with a studded cap on the right shoulder and red elements in form of the usual arm band and a red folding in the front. The lower part of this outfit was removable, so the upper part remained as a jacket.
1.9) In 2022, he wore an all black coat with a belt and flaps along the shoulders, as well as snap fasteners as buttons; it overall resembled the typical look of a trenchcoat and seemed less rigid then the previous ensemble.
1.10) A true fandom favourite appeared on the scene in 2022 when he presented the infamous chicken coat. This one was already known from the "Freeze my mind" music video (from 2021) from Richard's side project and other band Emigrate. Different than in the music video, where a vest completed the look, Richard again after years went on stage without any outfit under it. This coat was used by him also during this year's tour leg.
1.11) Another personal favourite of mine is the black coat with red lining which he wore during this year's tour. Affectionatly dubbed "the vampire coat", this coat appears to be quite clean cut and simple, but has a very nice and dramatic effect on him (choosing gifs this time to underline this sentiment).
2.) Richard's coats off stage
Here are some of the coats Richard wore off stage during band fotoshoots and outings. Not counting normal jackets or parcas here.
2.1) The fur-lined coat during the Rosenrot fotoshooting:
2.2) The reoccuring black coat with fluffy fur elements, worn by him while being presented with awards in 2005 in Berlin as well as during the Echo award show in 2009:
2.3) He wore another black coat which looked pretty similar to the one before but is still slightly different during a signing in Paris 2004:
2.4) And a brown/beige kind of trenchcoat was his style of choice for the Fashion rock night in 2009:
2.5) During the outdoor shooting for the LIFAD album, Richard wore another black coat:
2.6) And lastly, the fancy embroidered coat Richard chose for promotion pictures for (I think) his first album with his band Emigrate:
Not sure if I was thouroughly enough and found every coat he ever wore, but I think the presented ones here really express his love for this piece of clothing in general 😊 I'm looking forward to either seeing a new coat on Richard next year or a return of his vampire coat 🦇 (Still hoping to see the studded coat someday again).
(Used picture sources: Rammwiki and the Rammsteinworld gallery - wonderful rabbit holes to get lost in.)
#rammstein#richard kruspe#richard's fashion lore#half his penthouse is filled with coats by this point i guess#this took me about 3 days to compile and i had so much fun no joke#thank you for this ask 💜#ask#richard's coats#emigrate
57 notes
·
View notes
Note
will someone explain to me what the deal is with asoiaf lore? i'll see someone talking about something and it will come from martin responding to a fan letter from the 90s? and this is canon?? like who found and compilates all of the stuff he has said besides released books and interviews i guess. i've never been a fan of a series like this, is this common?
this has me genuinely in tears sorry 😭😭😭
okay serious now. i genuinely don't know if this is normal or expected in fantasy book series, at least i don't think it's that common in modern fantasy where the fashion has gone other ways from the expansive sword & sorcery type from the 20th century. i could not tell you if other fantasy authors are as involved as grrm is because i haven't been involved with any other fandom like this either (maybe lotr fans can say something different), but considering the years between publications (let this one be the last 🤞), the massive fanbase and fame of the source material, i think it's normal that his interviews, comments, and fanmail has been archived in the internet.
strictly speaking, everything outside asoiaf (books 1-5), fire and blood, and the dunk & egg books is not considered canon. BUT if the info comes from people like elio and linda like twoiaf book, or like the calendars, cookbooks, official art etc it's considered semi-canonical, just like anything grrm says /outside/ of the books. famous example, it's like when jk rowling said dumbledore was gay /after/ the books were done. it's semi canonical bc it comes from the author themselves, it doesn't affect the main body of work so it can be taken or discarded.
the thing is, martin has done A LOT of interviews and answered A LOT of fanmail and worked closely in answering doubts from the westeros dot org site for their rpg games set in westeros (girl, the dream) during the more than 30 years since the publication of agot. all this is considered semi canon and this archive is called "so spake martin" (SSM), which i think was started by elio & linda in the 90s and it's still collecting info. if you go to the awoiaf wiki, esp in the main series characters you'll see this citation (from tyrion's page):
most will be things like "martin has said tyrion has similarities to richard iii" (i mean duh) but other will be really neat like saying tyrion has been trained in arms, which while not something new (he does fight more or less ably during the blackwater battle) it's interesting to point out when it's a detail that may be lost in the series. it goes from character trivia to how casterly rock is different from the show. most fans take what he says seriously but i know there are people that only consider what's in the book and that's it, which is fine. in any case, most of these is used to enrich theories or character analysis, it's why you will see trivia from a fanmail from 1996 or whatever. i myself haven't read SSM completely one by one but i do like to peruse the wiki often, even if it's not complete.
i've seen a few blogs on here who also "collect" grrm's words like nobodysuspectsthebutterfly's "so spake martin" tag (mostly analysis but really interesting read if u don't want to go thru the westeros org page) or georgescitadel that has specific info about characters or themes in asoiaf.
#ask#Anonymous#im currently reading og fantasy like the fafhrd and grey mouser books and all that. not lotr......i could not get into it#so i cannot say if it's different in other fanbases#if anyone has other things to add abt the subject you are most than welcome#hope i answered some of anons doubts
88 notes
·
View notes
Text
"just design more mainstream batman rogues"
no ♡ look at my Control Freak, boy !
(you know the deal. lore under the cut !!)
Grandson of the infamous fashion designer Neil Richards, Kyle Richards is a theater bluff and overall nerd whose family fortune funded his passion for the arts from a very young age.
Though his personal projects never came to fruition, Richards was still able to develop a career as a theater critic, overtly admired and quietly loathed for his biting reviews and harsh truths.
As time went on, however, Richards would become disillusioned with the commercial theatre industry, seeing many of his favorite shows retired, rebooted, and remiss.
Eventually, this endless pattern of artistic degradation would drive him to become Control Freak, a villain who, in the style of "Phantom of the Opera", sabotaged shows and held audiences at his mercy.
Despite being a formidable foe, the Titans rarely regard Control Freak as an actual threat, and have yet to add him to their "List of Bad Guys".
#Control Freak#Neil Richards#DC#Teen Titans#Teen Titans 2003#Teen Titans Go#generic art tag#eyestrain#scopohobia
66 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Appeal of Doctor Doom
My new friend asked an innocent enough question about the particulars of one Victor von Doom and about my appreciation for the character. This is what I had to say in the chat:
I have a fascination with benign dictators, in the vein of Vlad Dracula. It would be nice if such an arrangement worked and would be even better if the next dictator wasn't terrible but the facts are against.
Call this a personality thing. I am so very ISTJ.
Doctor Doom is among the smartest people on Marvel's Earth. His country (he rules a Balkan state, you know) is free from want and everyone has dignified work and the place is even a safe haven for GRT caravans, Doom himself being a gypsy. But there is also no free determinism. That's the trade off. Doom rules with a literal iron fist.
He's conquered the world on more than one occasion and solved fundamental problems overnight. Mind, he gets bored without challenge and lets control slip from his fingers but he's nonetheless great at world rulership.
But let's stop pretending about his good qualities and look at his flaws.
First, psychologically and philosophically, he is more sorcerer than scientist. He's about the lore, not the process of getting answers. Heaven forbid Doom change his perspective on anything.
His motivations are (and here I equate him in DC with no one more so than Lex Luthor) ultimately deeply selfish and self-agrandizing.
Like in the original Secret Wars, when he got ultimate power, before he did thing one for the rest of the universe he fixed his own face.
He spirals out. There's a great recent series where he's going to solo patch a black hole developing on the moon (comics, right?) That accursed Richards calls him up during the countdown to thank him and wish him success. Doom can't comprehend such a gesture and convinces himself that Richards knows something he doesn't, so he makes impulsive adjustments to his outputs and blows himself into an alternate universe. That's Doom all over.
He's so close to something grand and good but is too lacking of character to be that.
I also just love how OP he is. He's in the top five of everything (brains, magic, tech, ass-beating, a-fine-country-you-have-there-ness) but it's EVERYTHING so when you put it into one package you get a guy who can trounce the Fantastic Four on a monthly basis and laugh at them from behind diplomatic immunity.
Doom gains and loses godhead like it was fast fashion.
So bottom line, a rich and multifaceted antagonist defeated again and again by his own flaws and inability to shed those flaws. That's good fiction.
End chat. I would add to this first that I love his fraught friendship with Namor the Submariner. Those two deserve each other.
I also am still floored by Doom's willpower. He can disregard the Purple Man at a distance of two feet.
Now, bear with me while I try to pin the ISTJ personality on Peter Parker (I would accept arguments that Peter's more of a ENFJ or that the Spider-man persona is more of a ESTJ and then we'd have to straighten out which persona is the base personality. And then there's ambis who are going to loudly try and debate me over the entire legitimacy of the Myers-Briggs when I'm just trying to have a fun discussion about fictional characters from the funny books. I digress.) I think Spidey and Doom share a lot of territory, only Spider-man is humble, selfless, long-suffering, forgiving of the smallness of his charges and detractors, and deeply responsible. Spider-man is who Doom would be if Doom could grow as a person.
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Deaths In 2023
January
1: Fred White (67, American drummer, Earth Wind & Fire)
3: Alan Rankine (64, Scottish musician/producer, The Associates)
6: Gianluca Vialli (58, Italian football player/manager)
10: Jeff Beck (78, English guitarist, The Yardbirds/The Jeff Beck Group/Beck Bogart & Appice)
11: Yukihiro Takahashi (70, Japanese singer/drummer, Yellow Magic Orchestra)
12: Robbie Bachman (69, Canadian drummer, Bachman Turner Overdrive)
Lisa-Marie Presley (54, American singer/songwriter, daughter of Elvis, mother of Riley Keough)
16: Gina Lollobrigida (95, Italian actress)
18: David Crosby (81, American singer/songwriter, The Byrds, Crosby Stills Nash & Young)
27: Sylvia Sims (89, English actress, ‘Ice Cold In Alex’)
28: Barrett Strong (81, American singer/songwriter, co-wrote ‘I Heard It Through The Grapevine’/‘Papa Was A Rollin’ Stone’
Tom Verlaine (73, American musician/songwriter/producer, Television)
Lisa Loring (64, American actress, ‘The Addams Family’)
February
2: Calton Coffie (68, Jamaican singer, Inner Circle)
3: Paco Rabanne (88, Spanish fashion designer)
8: Burt Bacharach (94, American songwriter, co-wrote ‘Walk On By’/‘Anyone Who Had A Heart’/‘A House Is Not A Home’/‘Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head’)
10: Hugh Hudson (86, film director, ‘Chariots Of Fire’)
12: David Jolicoeur a.k.a. Trugoy The Dove (54, American rapper, De La Soul)
15: Raquel Welch (82, American actress)
16: Chuck Jackson (85, American soul singer, ‘Any Day Now’/‘I Keep Forgettin’’)
18: Barbara Bosson (83, American actress, ‘Hill Street Blues’)
19: Richard Belzer (78, American actor, ‘Homicide: Life On The Street’/’Law And Order: Special Victims Unit’)
Dickie Davies (94, British television personality, ‘World Of Sport’)
23: John Motson (77, English football commentator, ‘Match Of The Day’)
March
2: Steve Mackey (56, English bassist/producer, Pulp)
Wayne Shorter (89, American jazz saxophonist, Weather Report)
3: Carlos Garnett (84, Panamanian jazz saxophonist)
Tom Sizemore (61, American actor, ‘Saving Private Ryan’)
5: Gary Rossington (71, American guitarist, Lynyrd Skynyrd)
8: Topol (87, Israeli actor, ‘Fiddler On The Roof’/’Flash Gordon’)
10: Junior English (71, Jamaican reggae singer)
12: Dick Fosbury (76, American high jumper)
13: Jim Gordon (77, American drummer, Traffic/Derek & The Dominoes)
14: Bobby Caldwell (71, American singer/songwriter)
15: Greg Perry (singer/songwriter/producer)
16: Fuzzy Haskins (81, American singer, Parliament/Funkadelic)
17: Lance Reddick (60, American actor, ‘The Wire’/’Oz’/’John Wick’ films)
23: Keith Reid (76, English songwriter, Procol Harum)
Peter Shelley (80, English singer/songwriter/producer, ‘Gee Baby’/’Love Me Love My Dog’)
28: Paul O’Grady a.k.a. Lily Savage (67, English comedian)
Ryuichi Sakamoto (71, Japanese musician/composer, Yellow Magic Orchestra, composed theme to ‘Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence’)
29: Charles Sherrell a.k.a. Sweet Charles (80, American bass player/singer, The JBs, ‘Yes, It’s You’)
April
5: Booker T. Newberry III (67, American singer, Sweet Thunder, ‘Love Town’)
6: Paul Cattermole (46, English singer, S Club 7)
8: Michael Lerner (81, American actor, ‘Barton Fink’)
12: Jah Shaka (75, Jamaican sound system operator)
13: Dame Mary Quant (93, English fashion designer)
14: Mark Sheehan (46, Irish guitarist, The Script)
16: Ahmad Jamal (92, jazz pianist)
17: Ivan Conti (76, jazz drummer, Azymuth)
22: Barry Humphries a.k.a. Dame Edna Everage (89, Australian comedian/actor)
Len Goodman (78, English TV personality)
25: Harry Belafonte (95, American musician/actor/civil rights leader)
27: Wee Willie Harris (90, English rock & roll singer)
Jerry Springer (79, English-born, American TV host)
28: Tim Bachman (71, Canadian guitarist, Bachman-Turner Overdrive)
May
1: Gordon Lightfoot (84, Canadian singer/songwriter, ‘If You Could Read My Mind’)
3: Linda Lewis (72, English singer/songwriter, ‘Rock-A-Doodle-Doo’)
18: Jim Brown (87, American football player/actor, ‘The Dirty Dozen’)
19: Pete Brown (82, poet/singer/lyricist, ‘Sunshine Of Your Love’/’White Room’/’I Feel Free’)
Andy Rourke (59, English bass player, The Smiths)
24: Bill Lee (94, American jazz musician/composer, Spike’s dad, scored ‘She’s Gotta Have It’/‘School Daze’/’Do The Right Thing’
Tina Turner (84, American-born, Swiss singer/actress, ‘River Deep Mountain High’/’Nutbush City Limits’/’What’s Love Got To Do With It?’)
26: Reuben Wilson (88, American jazz organist, ‘Got To Get Your Own’)
June
1: Cynthia Weil (82, songwriter, ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’’/’Here You Come Again’)
6: Tony McPhee (79, English guitarist, The Groundhogs)
12: Treat Williams (71, American actor, ‘Hair’/’Prince Of The City’)
14: John Hollins (76, English football player, Chelsea/Arsenal/England)
15: Glenda Jackson (87, English MP/actress, ‘Women In Love’/’Sunday Bloody Sunday’)
27: Julian Sands (65, English actor, ‘A Room With A View’)
29: Alan Arkin (89, American actor, ‘Catch 22’/’Little Miss Sunshine’)
30: Lord Creator (87, Trinidad-born, Jamaican singer/songwriter, ‘Kingston Town’)
July
3: Vicki Anderson a.k.a. Myra Barnes (83, American soul singer, Carleen’s mum)
Mo Foster (78, English songwriter/musician/producer)
5: George Tickner (76, American guitarist, Journey)
16: Jane Birkin (76, French/English actress/singer, ‘Je t’aime … moi non plus’, banned by the BBC in 1969)
21: Tony Bennett (96, American singer, ‘I Left My Heart In San Francisco’)
22: Vince Hill (89, English singer, ‘Edelweiss’)
24: Trevor Francis (69, English football player, Birmingham City/England)
26: Randy Meisner (77, musician/songwriter, Poco/The Eagles, ‘Take It To The Limit’)
Sinead O’Connor (56, Irish singer, ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’/songwriter, ‘Mandinka’)
30: Paul Reubens a.k.a. Pee-Wee Herman (70, American actor/comedian)
31: Angus Cloud (25, American actor, ‘Euphoria’)
August
4: John Gosling (75, English keyboard player, The Kinks)
7: DJ Casper (58, DJ/artist/songwriter, ‘Cha Cha Slide’)
William Friedkin (87, American film director, ‘The French Connection’/’The Exorcist’)
9: Robbie Robertson (80, Canadian musician/songwriter/singer, The Band)
Sixto Rodriguez (81, American singer/songwriter, subject of 2012 documentary ‘Searching For Sugar Man’
13: Clarence Avant (92, owner of Sussex Records/Tabu Records, film producer, ‘Jason’s Lyric’)
Magoo (50, American rapper, Timbaland & Magoo)
16: Jerry Moss (88, music executive, the ‘M’ in A&M Records)
17: Bobby Eli (77, guitarist, MFSB/songwriter, ‘Love Won’t Let Me Wait’)
Gary Young (70, American drummer, Pavement)
19: Ron Cephas Jones (66, American actor, ‘This Is Us’)
24: Bernie Marsden (72, English guitarist, Whitesnake/songwriter, ‘Here I Go Again’/’Fool For Your Loving’)
29: Jamie Crick (57, English radio broadcaster, Jazz FM)
31: Gayle Hunnicutt (80, American actress, ‘Dallas’)
September
1: Jimmy Buffett (76, American singer/songwriter, ‘Margaritaville’)
4: Gary Wright (80, American singer/songwriter, ‘Dream Weaver’/’Love Is Alive’)
Steve Harwell (56, American singer/rapper, Smash Mouth)
8: Mike Yarwood (82, English comedian/impressionist)
13: Roger Whittaker (87, Kenyan-born English singer/songwriter, ‘Durham Town’)
16: Sir Horace Ove (86, Trinidadian-born, English film director, ‘Pressure’)
Irish Grinstead (43, American R&B singer, 702)
25: David McCallum (90, Scottish actor, ‘The Man From U.N.C.L.E.’/’N.C.I.S.’/musician)
28: Michael Gambon (82, English actor, ‘Harry Potter’ movies)
30: Russell Batiste Jr. (57, American drummer, The Meters)
October
2: Francis Lee (79, English football player, Manchester City/England)
8: Burt Young (83, American actor, ‘Rocky’)
11: Rudolph Isley (84, American singer, The Isley Brothers/songwriter, ‘That Lady’)
12: Michael Cooper (71, Jamaican musician, Inner Circle/Third World)
14: Piper Laurie (91, American actress, ‘Carrie’/’The Hustler’)
19: DJ Mark The 45 King (62, DJ/musician/producer, ‘The 900 Number’)
20: Haydn Gwynne (66, English actress, ‘Drop The Dead Donkey’)
21: Sir Bobby Charlton (86, English footballer, Manchester United/England)
24: Richard Roundtree (81, American actor, ‘Shaft’)
28: Matthew Perry (54, American-Canadian actor, ‘Friends’)
November
12: Anna Scher (78, founder of the Anna Scher Children’s Theatre)
19: Joss Ackland CBE (95, English actor, ‘White Mischief’)
22: Jean Knight (80, American soul singer, ‘Mr. Big Stuff’)
25: Terry Venables (80, English footballer, Chelsea/Tottenham Hotspur/England manager)
26: Geordie Walker (64, English guitarist, Killing Joke)
29: Sticky Vicky (80, Spanish dancer and illusionist)
30: Shane MacGowan (65, English-born Irish singer, The Pogues/songwriter, ‘Fairytale Of New York’)
December
1: Brigit Forsyth (83, Scottish actress, ‘Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads?’)
5: Denny Laine (79, English musician, The Moody Blues/Wings, songwriter, ‘Mull Of Kintyre’)
7: Benjamin Zephaniah (65, English poet/writer/actor, ‘Peaky Blinders’)
8: Ryan O’Neal (82, American actor, ‘Love Story’/’Barry Lyndon’/’Paper Moon’)
Nidra Beard (71, American singer, Dynasty)
11: Andre Braugher (61, American actor, ‘Homicide: Life On The Street’/’Brooklyn Nine-Nine’/’Glory’)
Richard Kerr (78, English singer/songwriter, ‘Mandy’)
15: Bob Johnson (79, singer/songwriter/musician, Steeleye Span)
16: Colin Burgess (77, Australian drummer, AC/DC)
17: Amp Fiddler (65, singer/songwriter/producer)
2 notes
·
View notes
Note
I would like to create my own fae characters but I have no idea where to begin finding research material that I trust. Do you have any recommendations for where to learn about fae?
ohhh well first of all, congrats on wanting to write your own fae!! also im far from an 'expert' on fae but i can provide some stuff to get you started.
when studying fae myths its good to keep in mind that a lot of fae lore is inherently contradictory because of regional variation and the fact that the fae themselves are often just very contradictory creatures. so dont be surprised if you read one article that claims one thing, and then read a book that claims the exact opposite.
you also will want to take in account where the specific fae legends or lore you are reading are coming from. the original location of a piece of folklore can give a lot of context as to how it became folklore in the first place, and its importance to the people living there.
because while when we think of typical fae, we might think of them being a monolithic fantasy creature of the british isles, they can be wildly different between cultures just in that area. not to mention all the other fantasy beings that very much resemble fae or elves in their demeanor, appearance, or abilities from cultures all over the world. ill just focus on interpretations about fae from the UK and surrounding areas in my recommendations tho. it will ultimately up to you what kind of interpretations you use for your idea of fae.
here are some good books to read, mostly nonfiction. some are taking the perspective of examining the fae purely as folkloric and mythological beings, while others may discuss them as actual spiritual beings that exist, either sincerely or as a sort of 'mockumentary' fashion (think that red dragon book we all read as kids)
Spirits, Fairies, Leprechauns, and Goblins: An Encyclopedia by Carol Rose
The O'Brien Book of Irish Fairy Tales & Legends
Finding Faeries: Discovering Sprites, Pixies, Redcaps, and Other Fantastical Creatures in an Urban Environment by Alexandra Rowland (this one is cute)
The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales By Bruno Bettelheim (take with grain of salt, the author uses Freudian analysis to explain the importance of fairy tales to the human psyche, likely before freud's ideas fell out of favor with the psychology community. still an interesting and informative read.)
Meeting the Other Crowd: The Fairy Stories of Hidden Ireland by Eddie Lenihan and Carolyn Eve Green
The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns & Fairies: A Study in Folk-lore & Psychical Research by Robert Kirk
Celtic Tales: Fairy Tales and Stories of Enchantment from Ireland, Scotland, Brittany and Wales -- illustrated by Kate Forrester.
Brian Froud's World of Faerie written and illustrated by Brian Froud (art book, very beautiful)
Fairies: A Dangerous History by Richard Sugg
Seeing Fairies: From the Lost Archives of the Fairy Investigation Society, Authentic Reports of Fairies in Modern Times by Marjorie T. Johnson
The Good People: New Fairylore Essays - an assortment of essays on fairy mythology by folklorists and academics
ive either read these or they are on my to read list.
at the end of the day, you should do your research - but make your fae what *you* want them to be. dont let anyone tell you that you have to make your fae look, act, or be a certain way in order to be 'lore' friendly. as the lore is so varied and diverse, you could likely find a story of a fae thats alot like what you had in mind. have fun with it! i swear you wont make the fae mad, if anything they like it when people tell stories about them :)
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Level up together: Discover the culture, the community, and the gaming platforms.
The game world is blowing after lonely nights I spent fighting with fictional enemies. Now it's a vibrant gaming community that is driven by devout communities and varied backgrounds. Let's go into this vibrant area to see how they connect and play.
Game culture is a special social phenomenon. It crosses geographical boundaries, bringing together the players who share the same interests in a particular game or genre. This culture gives a feeling of belonging and identity to the players, who in turn develop their own language, memes, and fashion style that is exclusive to the game. How about cool cosplay costumes for the most favorite characters?
Well even though it is considered unhealthy by parents ^^
The community is the pulse of the gaming culture. Forums, subreddits dedicated to the game, platforms such as Discord, and Youtube are places where players can connect, exchange strategies, discuss lore, and just chat. These communities provide places for chatting, fierce competition through the e-sports tournaments, as well as creating collaborative content like how-to videos and fan artworks. Finally, it has gotten to the point where the word "streamer" or "gamer" is a job!
As a result, you will know the emergence of gaming community that is clearly presented by celebrities like Faker. And without a doubt, it is such people who make the gaming community not just a meaningful but a highly exclusive one as well.
The evolution of various gaming platforms has enriched the gaming environment. Current titles do not only focus on the quality but also give importance to it rather than calling them "empty and eye-sore" games. We see the booming of exclusive titles and virtual communities of complex nature, from niche to dramatic gameplays (I am obsessed with watching game reviews, you won't believe it). Each media promotes its own specific subculture and ways of associating.
The gaming community is as colorful as the games, so you may adjust it to your own liking. PUBG allows players to develop faction in a team shooter, explore virtual game worlds, or simply play together. Through these activities, the participants learn how to cooperate, communicate and solve problems, which often generates a sense of team spirit and common accomplishment (I do agree, though sometimes it works better, one time I attended such a kind of event, it was great!).
Although in some cases online gaming communities are sources of these tendencies, online gaming can also be a magnet for cyberbullying and harassment.
The gaming sphere offers much more than recreation: through it, people establish links, manifest their skills and find a sense of togetherness. Through participation in it, listening to the community, and promoting activism we can enjoy ourselves within the gaming world.
[Supportive Online Gaming Communities as Models of Inclusive Communities of Practice and Informal Learning within Game Culture Across Game Genres], Richard, M., & Hoadley, C.: https://www.researchgate.net/figure/Game-genre-overview_tbl1_298082352
0 notes
Text
2.Tools - Analysing Diablo IV through the lens of medium specificity and gesamtkunstwerk
Since 1827 when the word “Gesamtkunstwerk” was first used by Karl Friendrich Trahndorff, the idea of the purest work of art that would embody as many art forms as possible has shifted. Starting with the theatre which Richard Wagner considered to be the ideal medium (Wagner, 1849) that combines music, acting, decor, writing, and continuing with the innovation of films, which brought new areas such as editing and visual effects, the evolution of different medias keeps adding more and more, old and new, art districts to create a more complex final result. Nowadays, one of the most flourishing mediums that illustrate the concept of Gesamtkunstwerk is video-games. In addition to the films, the video-game brings a new side of the experience, the direct interaction of the player with what the game has to offer, creating an immersive environment. As Ivan Hewett said in his article “For young classical composers, the peak of ambition is no longer the symphony – it’s the video game” published in The Telegraph: “If Wagner were alive today, he might well be a video game composer.”
Fig.1 Diablo IV Cover
As one of the recent games released in 2023, Diablo IV by Blizzard Entertainment is a perfect example to analyse from Gesamtkunstwerk perspective. The game is an online, open world, third person, RPG (Role Playing Game) set in the hyperrealistic horror genre. Being part of the Diablo series, Diablo IV takes place in Sanctuary (the realm of humans) fifty years after its predecessor Diablo III: Reaper of Souls, and portrays the story of the long rivalry between the angel Inarius and the demon Lilith, father and mother of the Sanctuary. As mentioned above, just from its nature (being a video-game), Diablo IV is a Gesamtkunstwerk, which combines a truly captivating story written by Rafal Praszczalek, outstanding cinematics that occur during the campaign (the main story/quest of the game) made by the development team, incredible soundtrack composed by Ted Reedy & Leo Kaliski that offers a truly immersive experience and a satisfying gameplay.
Millions of people play video-games without appreciating or even being aware of the huge amount of work and time that is invested by an army of artists, programers and technicians, from so many backgrounds, in order to create the game. For Diablo VI only, 9,166 people were credited, which set a new record as MobyGames stated in their Twitter post. Out of those, 2,464 people were involved in the audio, 902 graphic artists, 397 quality assurance team, 394 programmers and engineers and 193 designers (MobyGames, 2023). At the macro level, analysing the amount of people and art districts that are involved in the production is overwhelming, this is why, moving further in the analysis I will only discuss at a smaller scale, the area of character art, an area in which I have specialised in the last few years.
Fig.2 Character Customization
In the game, the element with which the player has to emphasise the most in order for the immersive effect of the Gesamtkunstwerk to take place is the characters and especially the character of the player. To start exploring the world of Sanctuary and the story, the player has to choose from five different classes: Barbarian, Sorcerer, Druid, Rogue, Necromancer. The key part of the experience is the character customization, which helps the player emphasise and transpose themselves into the character (fig.2). The character development is a long process which combines a variety of teams including: 3D modellers, texture artists, fashion artists, props artists, riggers, technicians and voice actors. Only with strong teamwork and collaboration will the final product (the character) be brought to life. To add even more depth to the characters, the writers create lore and background stories that give them complexity and believability.
It is interesting to see the transition of “character art” from paintings and sculptures, to 3D digital models. The process of real life sculpting and 3D sculpting is not that different. Both use tools to sculpt a mass, whether there are physical tools like point chisel, tooth chisel or flat chisel or digital brushes, they all have the same purpose. Similarities can also be found in the process as well. The clay sculpture and the 3D model need to be “baked” in order to get painted/textured afterwards. In my eyes both types of artists have an insane amount of skill in order to create all these realistic sculptures from traditional sculpts like David and Pieta by Michelangelo to all the digital creatures and characters that appear in our favourite films and games. Nowadays we got so used to seeing all these fantasy worlds and creatures that I believe it desensitised our perception of them. Now entire films like Avatar (2009) are based on fully digitalised worlds with SF creatures and still people can emphasise with them and immerse themselves in those totally digitised universes.
However, we cannot deny the medium-specific elements (Greenberg, 1940) and differences that appear between the traditional and digital sculpting of characters. It could be argued that digital sculptors have an “easier life” regarding sculpting, due to the infinite material, all the different software functions such as “undo” when u make a mistake or the symmetry which can save dozens of hours of work. In addition, the digital sculptors can enjoy the comfort of their room or desk setup while working. However, the traditional sculptors may find the idea of not being to touch the model and feel the materials be uninspiring and cutting some of that creative “madness” and connection between the artist and the artwork.
Fig.3 Horseman Fig.4 Jamir Blanco art
As a character artist myself, I always try to get inspiration from both areas. There are some extraordinary digital sculptors like Marco Plouffe (fig.3) and Jamir Blanco (fig.4) who create hyperrealistic sculptures and who inspired me to follow this path. Even so, I believe that in order to get to that level where you use technology as a tool to manifest your creative ideas and not the other way around, you need to have a deep knowledge of the basics in order to have a strong base to work on and add all the “eye catching special effects”. This is where the traditional sculptors have exceeded because they do not have the tricks to hide any mistakes or uncertainties. Thus, when I research anatomy, proportions and different stances, I always try to find references from traditional sculptors.
To conclude, there is a huge amount of work, time and resources put together by an army of artists in order to bring to life the games that we play. Hundreds of art departments from different areas collaborate in order to have the best result possible, which I believe to be the essence of Gesamtkunstwerk: “total work of art” (Trahndorffin, 1827). Despite the evolution of the digital world and the transition from traditional to digital sculpting, each area has its own elements of medium-specificity, advantages and disadvantages that inspire artists no matter their area of practice and bring joy to the viewer or player.
Bibliography:
Fig.1: Sinclair, B. (2022) Diablo 4 devs describe mismanagement, crunch, GamesIndustry.biz. Available at: https://www.gamesindustry.biz/diablo-4-devs-describe-mismanagement-crunch (Accessed: December 27, 2023).
Fig.2: McWhertor, M. (2022) Diablo 4’s character creator does just enough, Polygon. Available at: https://www.polygon.com/23498216/diablo-4-character-creator-impressions-blizzard (Accessed: December 27, 2023).
Fig.3: Artstation.com. Available at: https://marcologue.artstation.com/projects/Gevee1 (Accessed: December 27, 2023).
Fig.4: Artstation.com. Available at: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/Alkz5N (Accessed: December 27, 2023).
Hewett, I. (2022) “For young classical composers, the peak of ambition is no longer the symphony – it’s the video game,” Sunday telegraph, 17 July. Available at: https://www.telegraph.co.uk/music/what-to-listen-to/young-classical-composers-peak-ambition-no-longer-symphony/ (Accessed: December 27, 2023).
Wagner, R. (1849) Das kunstwerk Der zukunft.
Greenberg, C. (no date) Towards a Newer Laocoön, Tfreeman.net. Available at: https://tfreeman.net/resources/Phil-330/Greenberg.pdf (Accessed: January 4, 2024).
Suleman, F. (2023) Over 9,000 people came together to make Diablo 4, exputer.com. eXputer. Available at: https://exputer.com/news/games/diablo-4-credits-community/ (Accessed: December 27, 2023).
Wagner, R. (no date) Gesamtkunstwerk, The Art Story. Available at: https://www.theartstory.org/definition/gesamtkunstwerk/ (Accessed: December 27, 2023).
Lev manovich (no date) Manovich.net. Available at: http://manovich.net/index.php/projects/post-media-aesthetics (Accessed: December 27, 2023).
Wikipedia contributors (2023a) Diablo IV, Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. Available at: https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Diablo_IV&oldid=1189890981.
Northup, T. (2023) Diablo 4 review, IGN. Available at: https://www.ign.com/articles/diablo-4-review (Accessed: December 27, 2023).
0 notes
Note
His new outfits after letting go of his trauma and what other people think of him
Also, he plays bass and skateboards because why not aye? He needs some lore :)
Not the gc2b sticker in the second picture implying a transmasc Richard lmao king. If Stephen manas ever dressed like this I would die. No but him exploring fashion more and androgyny bc he's starting to accept parts of himself he couldn't before. Also like in my heart of hearts Richard plays like ten instruments becuase it was something to do on the farm so he learned so so much music. Also also cringe fail Richard eating pavement on the skateboard but still trying
0 notes
Text
Roguebook will be available on Stadia
Roguebook roguelike deckbuilder game is coming to Stadia, the Linux based game streaming service. All thanks to the work of developer Abrakam Entertainment. Which you can play soon on the platform.
Soon, the adventure will have no boundaries. Due to the success of the critically-acclaimed roguelike deckbuilder Roguebook. Which will be available on Stadia Pro and the Stadia Store, July 1st, 2022. Thwart the evil book’s traps on your phones, tablets, or computers!
Developed by Abrakam Entertainment, the developers of Faeria, The game is also co-designed by Richard Garfield, the creator of Magic: The Gathering. Roguebook takes place in the enchanted world of Faeria. In the game, players choose 2 heroes amongst the 5 available and form a team. Due to take on the legends of the Roguebook. The a cursed book whose existence threatens all living creatures.
Roguebook: Gameplay Trailer
youtube
You are trapped in the Book of Lore of Faeria. While each page holds a new challenge. Lead your two heroes to victory in this roguelike deckbuilder game. While you put together the best synergies between cards, relics, and abilities. So you can take on the Roguebook.
Features:
Upgrade your deck: you can boost the effects of cards by adding gems. You can also transmute your cards to create completely new effects!
Collect as many cards as possible: unlike other games of this type where refining your deck is one of the most common strategies, Roguebook encourages players to build as big a deck as possible to unlock unique skills for your heroes. These skills can be crucial to the success of your quest!
Explore the world in your own way: the chapters of Roguebook story are non-linear. Reveal areas of the map with the ingenious ink system and explore as much of the map as possible to unearth all its treasures!
Every run counts: in true roguelike fashion, you must start from the beginning after a defeat. But you become more powerful with each run thanks to the new cards, skills and permanent upgrades you have unlocked!
Roguebook roguelike deckbuilder out on the Stadia Linux game streaming platform. If you're eager to play now, the game has a 40% discount on Steam but regular price on Humble Store.
#roguebook#roguelike deckbuilder#linux#gaming news#stadia#abrakam entertainment#ubuntu#mac#windows#pc
0 notes
Text
Mystery at the Salt-Irons
Hey everyone! E here with a new chapter! kept you waiting huh? Haha sorry it's been a busy few weeks. Nothing serious but I had to keep starting and stopping this chapter so it threw me off but it's here, it's ready and I hope you enjoy it!
I have some special guests in this story, some ocs made by my friends because you know what I can so I will and honestly, they were really great oc ideas guys. so keep an eye out for @hains-mae and Biz_fantasist OC(I don’t know if she has a tumblr but it’s late so I’ll edit it later)
That's it for me! I hope you are all stay safe, keep your loved ones safe, wash your hands, wear your masks, push to give everyone the vaccine cuz this is getting ridiculous. I hope you have a great week, thank you for reading. I deeply appreciate and feel free to share it with your friends, give me feedback. Reblog and comments all that fun stuff! Thanks and I'll see you soon!
Here’s the chapter over at Ao3
https://archiveofourown.org/works/30599756/chapters/85394095
Here’s the story from the beginning if you’re curious what this is about
https://archiveofourown.org/works/30599756/chapters/75486005
and here’s a list of all my work both original and the various fandoms I write for
https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrE42/works
Summary: Finnrick is called to solve a mysterious case as per his job as the city's only Private Investigator wizard but as he sinks deeper into the case, the more it seems that something is happening behind the scenes. Of course with an old friend in town and dark magic surrounding the case, Finnrick is as busy as ever. Ain't no rest for the wicked.
-----
The Salt-Iron Flats weren’t anything special on the surface: An unassuming apartment complex on the north side of Newton Haven, the only thing most people remembered about the place was how the price tag hurt their souls.
Of course, unlike the general housing market, the Salt-Irons (affectionately referred to by the locals) actually had a very reasonable reason for fetching such a high rate: The salt and cold iron baked into every single brick that formed the building.
If you weren’t in the magical know, you’d think it utterly insane that you’d be forced to pay such a large amount of cash because some weirdo decided to make a new age artistic statement with bricks. Of course, if you are aware of the greater community at large, you’d knew you were paying the insanely large sum because someone decided to make the Salt-Irons the single most protective location in the city.
Most mortals have forgotten their history, their lore and collective knowledge passed down throughout the generations: Why their ancestors used to place lines of salt in front of the door and windows, why the elders always suggested to the braver, recklessly youthful family members to carry iron whenever they ventured through the wild.
Outer beings were repelled by salt and iron. No one really had an idea why fae, angels and demons weren’t fond of salt or iron and there's been plenty of arguing about the subject but all in all the fact remained they did not do well when faced with either.
That was the main reason Finnrick didn’t find himself in the north side of town often.
Well that and the zealous Gate Keepers. Those guys were freaks but between them and the Salt-Irons being the only supernatural community up here, Finn never got a case from the area.
Until today.
The Salt-Irons were great at protecting you from any outside threats that wished you ill will: It didn’t protect you from anything you decided to bring in with you.
It was five in the morning when Finnrick got the call. The M.R.R.D representative didn’t have much to offer beyond the address and floor but he thanked her all the same.
Finnrick yawned tiredly, stretching the tension out of his neck while he sipped his coffee. He let out a sigh of relief as the sun slowly rose into the sky.
The Salt-Irons was a twelve story tall building painted a ghastly pale green that made Finnrick sick just looking at it.
“People are paying how much to live in that shade? I’d ask for discount if I were them.” Finnrick laughing to himself, making his way into the apartment complex.
Luckily the interior was much nicer than the outside: Everything was well kept and cleaned. Not a single speck of dust in sight and the wooden stairs didn’t creak when Finnrick placed his foot on them.
Which was good given Finnrick needed to go up seven flights of stairs.
Finnrick wheezed a little, wiping the sweat from his brow when he reached the seventh floor. He glanced down the hall one way then the other as he began to search for room 707 which basic deductive reasoning suggested should be around the corner.
Finnrick crushed the empty foam cup and tucked it into his coat pocket as he made his way to 707. It was a simple wooden door and immaculately spotless just like the rest of the place. He rose his hand and gently rapped on the door.
No response.
He frowned, checking if he was still alone in the empty hallway and rose his hand towards the door frame.
His eyes glowed with a blue energy as he whispered softly “Revelis”
The door gleamed with a bluish hue for a moment before fading away without a trace.
No protective spells laced over the frame so the only thing Finn had to worry about now if it was locked.
He tried the knob, unsurprised when it swung open silently.
“It’s not breaking and entering if someone’s expecting you” Finnrick justified to himself as he pushed the door in.
He nearly staggered backwards: The air tasted thick and foul like something had been left rotting inside. His skin prickled with anxiety, a chill running down his spine with each step he took further in.
Finnrick took deep, calming breathes while doing his best to ignore the bitter taste that seem to cling the air within.
He noticed the trail of footsteps, perfectly preserved in what appeared to be black dust leading deeper into the living room.
“Hey da! You here?” Finnrick called out, carefully stepping closer “You and ma still married?”
There was a deep grunt of acknowledgment before a voice responded “Sorry son, we’re divorced now. She got custody of you.”
“Well fuck. I guess I’m going to be eating kale and poorly cooked spinach for the rest of my life.”
Garrus Valka was not in fact Finnrick’s father, adoptive or otherwise. He was actually one of the highest ranked officers of the Magical Rapid Response Department: An elf clocking in at 200 years old with richly tanned skin. His bluish gray hair was slicked back in his preferred style. Garrus’s had his back turned to the detective but Finn knew his sliverish gray eyes were deep in concentration as he took down notes about the surroundings. His beautifully inhuman features were marred with a scar on the right side of his face: burnt skin on his cheek, healed by time and various surgeries. An old war wound though Finn never got the full story.
He was dressed in typical M.R.R.D fashion: Dark blue windbreaker, jeans and a blue shirt with the words “Powered by coffee and spite” splashed across the front. His Winchester rifle was slung across his back, ready for any action that may befall the elf.
“Drift.” Garrus greeted teasingly while offering a hand.
Finnrick gave it a playful shake “Da. So is mom here or she trying to smite pigeons again?”
“THEY TRIED TO STEAL MY HOTDOG!” Garrus’s partner Eden screamed from another room “I SHALL BRING MY GOD’S WRATH UPON THEM!”
“You know when they mean justice.” Finnrick called out “I don’t think they mean against winged rats.”
Eden chuckled darkly “You know not their sins.”
“Okay.” Finnrick nodded despite the fact she couldn’t see him “If you say so. What happened Da? Aside powerful necromancy.”
“Powerful necromancy” Garrus replied cheekily “and missing persons.”
Finnrick rose an eyebrow “Persons? More than one?”
“Two: A father and son. Richard Charles and his son Richard Jr. Recluses it seems. Neighbors hardly saw them. Mostly kept to themselves.”
Finnrick pursed his lips thoughtfully “Any magical abilities?”
“They’re not on records if that’s what you mean.” Garrus answered “Never signed up in the academy, not registered with The Council. If they were practitioners they didn’t tell anyone.”
“So what was the spell? I just smell the remnants of spookiness.”
“Hadn’t noticed the rest of the room huh?”
Finnrick frowned before finally getting a good look at the rest of the room: Every inch of the apartment was blanketed with the same black dust that he found in the entrance way. Inches and inches of the substance and that wasn’t the strangest part.
Everything was bent at different and odd angles: chair with crooked legs, the wall clock warped and twisted, the fridge leaning like someone folded it in half. Floorboard reached for the sky and walls split inward.
There was a common misconception about magic. Most people thought spell casters, especially wizards, could command reality to their wills. That magic was capable of impossible feats and it was as simple as snapping your fingers.
The truth was all magic, ranging from divinity to free range nature, was performed on a micro scale. Practitioners did not alter reality but rather shortcut it. Throwing fireballs was as simple as rapidly heating the air until it combusted. Turning invisible was less about vanishing completely as it was bending the light around you to not be seen. Magic was rooted in reality and imagination. If you had the magical strength to perform the magic, the magic often followed your lead.
Of course there were spells that required much more than magical hand and willpower. Powerful magic, like summoning outer beings or raising an army of zombies, required both time and materials. Magic was like any other energy: you needed enough of it to perform what you wanted. The human body could only generate so much magic without dying and resting was necessary to replace any expended in the use of spells. Materials were guidelines for the spell. Feathers for anything with flight, ash for fireballs etc etc.
The other thing needed was to gather energy and store it for the spell’s use. There were different ways to achieve this: Wands, talismans, potions were basically magic soups. The most efficient way to gather energy was the wizards preferred way: Circles.
Finnrick eyed the room closely this time, murmuring under his breath about angles and trajectory. Garrus paid him no mind, well familiar with the private investigators methods.
“If this went like that” he gestured to the wall clock “and that went here.”
Finnrick glanced about, carefully walking about as if worried he was going to step on a landmine.
“Here.” Finnrick found himself staring at a spot in the middle of the room “Ventus.”
He gestured with a hand and light breeze filled the room. It brushed away some of the dust covering floor, revealing the outline of a half melted metal ring.
“What is it?” Garrus turned curiously
“Spell circle. The source of the explosion. I’m willing to bet it’s custom made. Copper, steel. Maybe some bits of tin couldn’t stand the surge.”
“No iron or sliver?”
Finnrick shook his head “That’s for containing or repelling monsters. Necromancy is more about drawing in the evil entities. Or sucking out life.”
Garrus sighed tiredly “Don’t touch?”
“Only if you want to live to see retirement. Might have some pent up magic ready to blow outwards.”
“Understood. I’ll call in our guys. I’ll let you know if something comes up.”
Finn nodded gratefully while pulling out a vial and motioning to the elf “Mind if I do?”
“Be my guest, you might find something we’d miss.”
Finnrick smiled gratefully before scooping up some of the dust and sealing it within the vial.
“Take care Garrus, stop fighting birds Ma!”
“Flying rats!”
-----
The cafe was lively despite being early but that was no surprise given it was Mother’s. Mother’s was the single best food establishment in all Newton Haven and if anyone disagreed, they were allowed to have their opinions.
They were also allowed to be wrong.
Finnrick paused in the doorway, breathing in the scent of well cooked eggs and sweet lemonade. The pop and sizzle of heated grease brought a sense of comfort to the hard working private investigator.
“Finny Drift!” Maddie Copperstone called from behind the counter “How’s my favorite customer holding up?”
Maddie was 40 years young with tastefully curled dark brown hair. Human, little on the short side but fierce. She wore a simple red blouse and jeans, both stained with flour that the apron around her waist did not prevent.
Finnrick bounced over cheerfully, reaching over the counter to give the matron the biggest hug he could muster “I’m good Maddie. Working a case.”
Maddie’s brown eyes searched his face carefully “You always working Finny. You resting as much?”
“Scout’s honor.”
Maddie let out a disbelieving chuckle “You weren’t ever a Scout.”
“Honorary scout after I stopped that bear from eating them.”
“Thought it was a giant raccoon.”
“Yes but people don’t take giant raccoon seriously. He here?”
Maddie clicked her tongue disappointingly but motioned to the booth at the far end of the establishment “Rest.”
Finnrick rose his hand in surrender “After.”
“Never you mean!” Maddie shouted after him.
Amos Frye hadn’t changed much since last he was roaming around Finnrick’s neck of the woods: Handsome with soft gray eyes that reminded Finn of gathering storm clouds. His long black hair was tied in a messy bun held up by a golden pin, a braided strand hung loosely near his face. His beard was much shorter than what Finnrick remembered though he noted the unkempt split ends indicated that Amos hadn’t trimmed it in a few weeks. His iconic dark red sleeveless jerkin and black jean combination would look ridiculous on a lesser man but had allowed the monster hunter to show off his muscular frame. His brown skin was a bit more pale than usual so no doubt Amos had been operating at night lately.
“Finnrick, you cheeky bastard! I am so glad you came!” Amos beamed happily, his various bangles and bracelets clinking together in equally joyous celebration as the two shook hands.
“Amos! Happy to see you.” Finn beamed brightly as he slid into the booth across his old friend “Why though? Family trouble?”
Amos’s joyfully gleam turned dark for a moment.
“No. Have you…?”
Finnrick shook his head quickly “Not a word. Sorry, I hadn’t meant to…”
Amos waved the apology away “No worries cuz. I understand why you’d think that. Coming across the pond isn’t a spur of the moment thing and Os has always been the black sheep of the family. I suppose no news is good news.”
“Right.” Finnrick cleared his throat awkwardly “So what’s the trouble? I doubt you’d call me up for a nip and chat.”
“Rightly so.” Amos confirmed, reaching into the bag at his side and pulling out a folder “Hunting business as usual cuz.”
That made sense: Amos was the latest of a long family whose specialized business was monster hunting. The Fryes had been striking at things that went bump in the night for centuries ever since the first Frye defended the folk of some underground society.
Amos was an average wizard if Finnrick was being generous. That was not a slight against his old friend, it was a matter of fact: Amos spent most of his time honing the physical aspects of his profession which was obvious given the size of his arms. Any spells he knew were purely for defensive or preventive measures so he often communicated with Finnrick for higher quality and complex spellwork.
Finnrick took the folder from Amos and began pouring over its contents.
Most were quickly scrawled notes Amos had noticed about his quarry: Long sliver hairs, canine in nature. Large paw prints found in the areas it had been sighted, far too big to any natural wolf. Wulfvur and werewolf were hastily written and as quickly crossed out. A pattern of hanging out in wild areas, often forests and swamps.
There were pictures too: flashes of sliver, blurs of fangs and muzzles darting in and out of camera frame. It was always a distance away, sprinting deeper into the wildness. It was hard to tell from the photos but Finn guessed it might’ve been 10 feet tall at the very least.
“Why we hunting wolves now?” Finnrick asked curiously.
Amos flagged down the waitress “Contract given to my pa. It was hanging around the marsh lands of the jolly old isles. Someone wanted it gone.”
Something wasn’t clicking with Finn “and you followed it here? From England?”
“Nah cuz” Amos gave a cheeky grin “I tackled it through a portal and found I illegally crossed into America.”
“Ah.” Finnrick nodded in understanding “Fae.”
“Fae?” Amos frowned thoughtfully “I thought that too but I never heard of any snarling wolfie breaking into homes and snatching out wee younglings in them old folktales.”
“Fae are weird.” Finnrick shrugged “Their whole shtick is not making any sense. I had to expel a cat the size of a bus once. Double decker tall.”
Amos whistled in appreciation as he scratched his bread “So fae. Slippy fellow as you can tell. Whatcha recommend?”
“What’s the contract?”
“Banishment. It’s looking like wolfie ended up in the wrong part of town.”
“I think you mean next town over. Fixed a pattern yet?”
“Not yet but I wasn’t looking for one.” Amos admitted “Thought I was tracking some mutant. Fae changes a lot. Magical circles?”
“Easiest way to catch it.” Finnrick agreed “Sliver for sure. Iron would hurt it and based on your files, it hasn’t done anything than thin the local wildlife population. No need to anger mister big bad wolf.”
“Good call. I got some talent to handle a few circles but tracking is not really my speed.”
“I’m on a case but if you swing by the M.R.R.D, maybe they’ll loan you a wizard.”
Amos let out a disappointed sigh “I need to take care this sometime this year Finny. Bloody bureaucracy probably set me back a month at least.”
“There’s always Jaime but she’s pretty busy at work.”
“Jaime huh?” Amos smiled mischievously “I haven’t talked to your sister in a long time.”
“I will curse you.” Finnrick playfully threatened “And not no simple hex either. I’ll make you bald.”
Amos gasped dramatically, clutching at his hair protectively “You wouldn’t dare mate.”
“Shinier than the sun.”
“Okay, okay” Amos conceded “I’m kidding. She’s with Casey anyway. Good couple. Cute couple. He still hopelessly selfless and she still trying to fast track her way to power?”
“Yep.”
“You gonna fix that?”
Finnrick shook his head “It’s their lives. Their choices.”
“Idiots.” Amos chuckled “the lot of them.”
“All you need is love?”
“Spoken true the gospel of my land.”
-----
A few hours later with a brainstorm session completed and a promise to help out the next day, Finnrick left Amos to his work and continued with his own.
It was noon now and as the sun rose high in the sky, Finnrick found himself at the Grimyard.
The Grimyard was the premiere spot for all things magical in Newton Haven: Rows and rows of shops specifically catering to the magic community. The streets were paved with century old cobblestone and the buildings here were various hues of faded brick and mortar. It was easy to get lost in the Grimyard if it was your first time as the Grimyard did not spread out, it stacked downward. Layers upon layers of the Grimyard were actually underground to allow those with issues against the sun to sell their goods and services at all times of the day. Don’t let the dark fool you, anyone with worthy talent or product was here in the Grimyard.
Normally Finnrick would wander around a bit, checking out the various businesses and protective wards around the mile long patch of land but he was on the clock and the sooner he began to figure out what was going on, the sooner he could stop it.
Luckily for him, his destination was right here on the top floor of the marketplace. Specifically furthest back corner.
Knightly Ore was ran by the Knight family. Originally they only sold rare metals and ores which were necessary components for some of the more complicated magicks. At some point the owners expanded into selling more alchemical materials and eventually brewing potions, salves and such for a fee.
Despite decent business, it was the most rundown building in this part of the Grimyard: Broken window shudders with the paint faded down to the original shade when the business first opened decades ago. The humble black door was crooked and creaked whenever it moved
Finnrick knew the owners fairly well but here wasn’t here for them. He was here to see their son.
He pushed past the building, ducking into the alley that led to the lot directly behind the shop.
“Halt!” A voice called out “Who seeks the Brewmaster of the Grimyard?”
“It is I, Finnrick the detective. I got money and I need work done”
The Brewmaster was Theodore Knight, an incredibly talented alchemist who didn’t have the same opportunities Finnrick did: He was pretty tall for his age (14 or 15, Finnrick lost track once or twice) but clearly a teenager given his short lavender hair had a few strands dyed red. His eyes were an unnatural pale blue, paler than the blue of the sky. He wore the usual attire Finn often found him in: A sleeveless dark blue hoodie with a fist sized red gem clasped in front just under his neck and a lighter shade blue t-shirt. He wore black finger-less gloves gripping his brown messenger bag slung around his shoulder. A matching brown pouch hung around the waist of his gray cargo shorts and his brown boots were kept clean despite his place of business was in an alley behind his parents shop.
Theo jumped out from a hidden shadowy corner of the lot “Finn, whatcha got for me now?”
Finnrick reached into his pocket, showing the eager teen the vial that held blacken dust within.
“That’s it?” Theo scoffed, rolling his eyes “I was expecting something…...cooler.”
He took the vial and raised it to the sun. Theo gave it a rough shake and watched it carefully for any properties the strange substance would display.
Theo frowned, clearly unsatisfied by what he saw “You brought me ash? Plain ash? It’s your money but even I think it’s a waste.”
“It’s ash?”
Theo shot the detective a look that screamed how obvious it should’ve been “Yes, ash. Thicker than what I’ve seen but ash all the same.”
Finnrick bit his cheek thoughtfully.
“Look Finn, you know my rates. I dunno what you want me to do but standard fees apply.”
“I’ll paying double.”
The Brewmaster’s eyes narrowed suspiciously “Double for ash? What’s so special about it?”
“Oh nothing." Finnrick pretended to look disinterested “Aside it was taken directly from a crime scene: Necromancy and cast via a half melted spell circle.”
It took Theo a minute to allow the implications of what Finnrick said to sink in. His eyes shifted from suspicion to wild excitement.
“Really?!” Theo clutched the vial like it was his first born child “Necromancy really doesn’t like many alchemy processes. It’s not going to be easy for me.”
“I know right?” Finnrick grinned impishly “It’s almost like I’m going to have to pay double for it.”
“Yeah, you’re gonna have to….” Theo pouted unhappily “Ha freaking ha. Okay smart guy, pay up.”
Finnrick handed over 50 gold. Theo took it eagerly, his eyes lightening up with glee.
Theo paused for a moment, his face turning oddly serious for a teenager.
“It might take me awhile depending on what you want.”
“I want to know what’s in it. Necromancy requires specific ingredients. After that it’ll be easier to track the seller.”
“And the buyer!” Theo blurted out excitedly “Smart.”
Finnrick ruffled his hair playfully “I wish I thought of it. You keep this up and you’re going to run me out of business.”
“I’ll text you when I have something.”
“Pleasure as always Theo.”
“It’s Brewmaster.”
-----
It was 2 in the afternoon when Finnrick made his way back to the Salt-Iron. He stood outside the complex, tossing the remains of his pizza into his waiting maw and crumpling the can of soda he was drinking before tucking into his coat pocket.
“What’s this?” Finnrick asked, utterly confused by the crushed foam cup he pulled from within “Oh right my coffee. I’ve been really at today.”
Finnrick wiped his hands clean and made his way inside the Salt-Iron once more, mulling over the details of the case as he ascended up the stairway.
Blacken ash cast by a spell circle. Both father and son missing with no indication where they went too. Recluses and rarely seen. Necromancy within a threshold.
It was hard to tell how deeply the father and son were involved in spell. Someone who had access to the apartment was behind it no doubt. Spell circles were the most consistent way to cast magic but they took time to build, set and channel energy. You didn’t build a spell circle without knowing exactly what you plan to do with it.
The nature of the magic was also a mystery: Dark magic had various applications and not a single one was good. Finnrick hadn’t much experience with that branch of magic but there was nothing logical about the aftereffects: Ash spread throughout the apartment, clinging to everything like a second skin. There was no signs of an outward blast given that nothing bent in the same direction. Everything in that room decided to twist in whatever wayit felt like. If the spell was supposed to draw in something then chair legs and wall tiles would’ve been pulled directly towards the circle.
“Curiouser and curiouser Alice” Finnrick spoke to no one in particular.
He was on the fifth floor when he noticed something odd.
Finnrick raised an eyebrow as the skies outside the window darken, black and stormy.
A thunderstorm it seems.
Finnrick peered out the window, glancing upwards to see what was going on.
Dark clouds swirled directly overhead. Rain began to lightly drizzle as the skies boomed. Thunder and a moment later lightning trailing across the gathering storm.
A thunderstorm that formed directly above this building.
Without warning.
“Well that’s not ominous.”
Finnrick made the mistake of leaning closer to the window, peering around to see if he could see where exactly the storm was coming from when it happened.
“Watch out below!”
Finnrick noticed three things in that moment: First, was of course, someone shouting to watch out below. Second was the distant sound of claws scratching something wooden, the walls perhaps. Lastly was the thudding of something falling down quickly and towards him.
Finnrick rose his hand, pivoting on his heels in time to see something crash into him.
It wasn’t much of a contest: Both Finnrick and whatever slammed into him broke through the fifth story window and went sprawling into a freefall.
46 notes
·
View notes
Note
Richard in low rise bell bottom jeans
Hello 👋🏼
What a beautiful mental image 😌 would fit into Richard's 2000s look with his thin eyebrows and spiky hair just fine 😇
I kind of have the feeling Richard enjoys wearing bell bottom pants from time to time - there are some stage outfits containing pants with a (slight) bell bottom to them, especially the Reise Reise pants:
And low rise, well ... doesn't get much lower than this:
So actually we have everything we need, just need to throw some jeans aesthetic in it. This however could turn into a Cowboy-Style really quick, not sure if I'd be ready for this 😄 (Well ok, he already has a cowboy hat like we saw in the Reise Reise making of 🤔)
#rammstein#richard kruspe#Richard's fashion lore#old ask i just found 😇#ask#the reise reise outift. absolute beloved
43 notes
·
View notes
Photo
The City of Brass
“The Story of the City of Brass” from the أَلْفُ لَيْلَةٍ وَلَيْلَةٌ, ʾAlf Laylah wa-Laylah (Arabian Nights), translated by Richard Francis Burton.
In Solomonic Lore, the Djinn are imprisoned by Sol-Om-On in a Brass Vessel, The Grail, filled with the Iron Blood of the Saints, which is then thrown into the Great Sea.
Brass, like Bronze, is an Alloy (Marriage) of Copper (which is of Venus) and Zinc (which is of Jupiter).
It is used by the Magus to fashion, weave and grow a Structure of such Beauty, blossoming and unfolding throughout All Time, that the Djinn and Goetia, the Daemons and Gentry, the Fey and Sidhe, are said to much desire to tarry therein, at least for a while.
In some circles it is whispered that the City of Brass is another name for the City of Babel.
226 notes
·
View notes
Photo
THE CURSED (2021)
Starring Boyd Holbrook, Kelly Reilly, Alistair Petrie, Roxane Duran, Áine Rose Daly, Nigel Betts, Stuart Bowman, Simon Kunz, Amelia Crouch, Max Mackintosh, Tommy Rodger, Millie Kiss, Tom Sweet, Romy Ellis, Parker Ellis, Gary Oliver, Richard Cunningham, Pascale Becouze, Sean Mahon, Mish Boyko, Paul Bandey, Alun Raglan, Oisín Stack and Florie Blight.
Screenplay by Sean Ellis.
Directed by Sean Ellis.
Distributed by LD Entertainment. 113 minutes. Rated R.
It’s not easy to do something new with the old tropes of horror, but still they keep trying.
Take The Cursed – a horror looking back on a small 19th century French village being terrorized by a series of violent killings. They add in lots of little touches to give spice to the situation – gypsies, curses, human scarecrows, evil sterling silver dentures and a flash forward to the trenches of World War I – but essentially this is just an old-fashioned werewolf film.
Which is not a bad thing in itself. There is a reason that the werewolf stories have fascinated for so many generations.
The Cursed does some variations on the theme of werewolves. Simply take the monsters themselves. It’s not a deal where the people start growing hair and howling at the moon – in fact, these creatures are mostly hairless. They are not slaves of the full moon – in fact that part of werewolf lore seems to have been jettisoned.
It seems that the creatures don’t so much get transformed from the humans so much as literally engulf the people. Honestly, we are never shown anyone turning back to human except twice, and to say they are simply changed back is putting it very politely. And the transformation starts when someone tries on those cursed silver teeth, which seem to fuse with the person to change them into the slobbering murderous beast.
However, the basics are still there – the insensate evil lurking in the dark, the violent attacks, the village politics, the repressed era and the skewed family dynamics. The Cursed does a good job in making something traditional feel fresh.
The evil is unleashed when an aristocratic landowner, Seamus Laurent (Alistair Petrie), has his employees massacre a band of gypsies who lay claim (a legitimate claim, it turns out) to a section of his land. This horrific act leads Laurent to be cursed, a curse which is embedded in a cast of pure silver fangs. Years pass with no changes, but when a young boy finds the fangs, he starts the violent spiral of death and transformation. Suddenly not only are Laurent and his wife (Kelly Reilly) and kids (Amelia Crouch and Max Mackintosh) at risk, but so is the whole community. (For a film that is supposed to take place in France, the entire cast is very Anglo and mostly speaks in a British-accented English.)
Boyd Holbrook plays John McBride, an early pathologist who is tasked with finding the creatures which are causing the deaths.
The Cursed is occasionally disturbingly violent, but it is also a very skilled fright film. It may not become your favorite werewolf film (for me, that is still An American Werewolf in London), but it will likely become a bit of a cult choice for fans of the genre.
Jay S. Jacobs
Copyright ©2022 PopEntertainment.com. All rights reserved. Posted: February 18, 2022.
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
*squints* okay now that no one important is paying attention to my posts
to infinity rewrite /post canon if i ever. do that
- as much as i love the Infinity crew all being from different series it doesnt work with what i want to write so im throwing it out. All original crew. mostly just expies of the 'canon' crew but still. this is important because
- they get back from mount doom by way of Proasheck and Sabriel, and that cant happen if proashecks part of the Infinity crew. If I remember my Mushbury lore right, that universes Zoeya has a multiversal travel drive of some fashion and thats how Jones and Richards get back to the Infinity
-they meet the mechs at some point and richards has to drag jones away from getting into a fistfight with D'ville and or joining the mechs
- At some point, Jones backstory is explored. I already have that down on when, how, and what.
-Richards story gets explored at some point to. Spoilers shes probably not human. and jones probably shouldve paid more attention on Klendathu
- for this to work their deaths besides the one time richards dies in the reactor are non canon. its bad injuries bc. my canon now.
-jones is still awful with remembering safety
-they deserve lazer weapons okay. im giving nano a blaster
-changelings changelings changelings changelings-
-jones CAN play violin. ik its only shown once in canon and he does it badly but hear me out, hes left handed and also did it bad on purpose then. at one point he should get his hands on one again and actually play decently.
-richards is a woman of many hidden talents. shes a good artist for instance.
- jones is chaotic neutral good and Richards, chaotic lawful good. yes these are real dnd alignments leave me alone
- "good" in Jones case means he cares about people close to him and the universe at large, but overall is actually fairly unconcerned with if hes doing the right thing.
- "lawful" in richards case means, by the letter it's legal! anything else,,, eeeehhhh.
- please ask me things im going nuts
- LV-426. :)
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
An Open Letter to Richard Z. Kruspe on the Occasion of His 54th Birthday
When I was born, ten weeks prematurely and weighing a scant two-and-a-half pounds, the doctors told my parents not to bother naming me, as I would likely die very quickly, and even if I were to survive, I would likely be blind and helpless and profoundly retarded, unaware of, and unable to engage with, the world around me. Best to leave me be and let nature take its course. A few days of benign neglect, and it would all be over. If they were fortunate, there would be other, better children.
Fortunately for me, my parents gave the double-fingered salute to that bit of medical advice and took me home to do the best they could with very little money and no one to guide them through the strange and terrible country of life with a disabled child. I survived because my very country grandmother chucked out the baby formula that I wasn't digesting and fed me the cow's milk the doctors so solemnly swore would kill me.
There was so many milestones I missed, and of which my parents were deprived. I didn't sit up by myself until I was two. I never walked, never ran, though there are a few faded photos of me gamely pulling myself upright on chairs and the edges of coffee tables, trying to do what my brain said I ought, but my body too weak and miswired too obey. No play with other children, who were stronger and more rambunctious and would have bowled me over in all innocence. And as I grew older, no first dates or driving tests or prom dresses. No thought of an independent life.
What there was was endless rounds of physical and occupational therapy. Hours and hours on a brown vinyl mat, trying to lift my leg or raise my ass off the ground or make my hand write the words in my head. Hours and hours putting change into a slot or trying to tie shoelaces or forcing my hands into uncomfortable plastic splints for a chance at a fraction of more bodily control. While my school friends were out playing in the sun, I was inside beneath fluorescent lights, learning to button my shirt and comb my hair and brush my teeth. To hold a pencil. No time for joy, for peace, for figuring out who I was beyond this collection of aches and pains and deficiencies, just the endless tedium of learning to "be normal" and less of an imposition on the world around me.
And I did go to school. Despite the doctors' dire predictions, I was neither blind nor idiot. I was perfectly aware of the world around me, and smart. So much so that when I was nine, the school ordered an intelligence test. The score was so high that they thought it an error and made me take it again in front of witnesses. When the same score came back the second time, they wanted to move me two years ahead, but my mother, afraid it would both isolate me further and give me airs, refused. So, I stayed, face in the mat and hands in splints, learning advanced history and English, yet forced to put blocks into holes and put colored rings on a stick.
And so I lived this strange paradox for my entire childhood, the genius child that my mother crowed about to all her friends and anyone who would listen, and terrible burden who still had the coordination of a toddler, and who had ruined her dreams of ribbons and curls. When I was nine, she was convinced I could be made "normal"--or closer to it--any road, with a surgery. And so, the surgeons detached the muscles and ligaments in my legs from the bones and stretched them in an effort to relieve the spasticity. The surgeons were doing a kindness to relieve pain; by then, the muscles were so tight that when I was stood on my feet and held up, my feet rolled onto the instep and my knees pointed at each other. It was a measure of dignity.
To my mother, it was supposed to be a miracle, the cure that gave her the daughter she deserved.
I woke up screaming. The muscles and ligaments were unhappy with their new positions and weren't afraid to register their protest about this new state of affairs. They tried to administer morphine, but the levels needed to control the pain were dangerously high for a child, and so I was left to ride it out. I screamed and screamed and screamed. For thirteen hours.
My mother. who was so sure she had found her miracle, was taken into another room by an exhausted surgeon who had done the best he could, and told that at most, I might be able to walk across the room on a walker and take myself to the toilet. She screamed, too, then, at this man who had been on his feet for nine hours, trying to undo the mistakes of the hands that had formed me from the dust of the ground, and who would try to make me laugh every day when he came to check my progress. She called him a liar and a bastard and a son of a bitch, and family lore has it that she would have hit him had my father not intervened.
They tried to tell her. Kindly and patiently and incessantly, but she would not listen. God had told her I would be cured, and dammit, I would be. The day they cut my casts off and sent me home, they told her not to push me too hard, that my muscles needed time to adjust and build endurance. She said she understood, but when we got home, she ordered me to walk uphill to the house. I tried, I truly did, but it wasn't long before I hit muscle fatigue and started to cry. I want to stop, wanted my wheelchair.
And my mother, this woman who had once told the doctors who would have let me die to go fuck themselves, picked up a stick and started to beat me. "Be normal! Be normal!" Screaming and sobbing and flailing with this stick, and me screaming and begging and trying to stay upright. I don't know how long she would've kept going, but eventually, my stepfather appeared, wrested the stick away and threatened to beat her with it, and carried me into the house.
Here I must give my mother a sliver of credit even if I will carry the memory of that beating for the rest of my days. She was right, after a fashion. I did do more than walk across the room with a walker and take myself to the toilet. For a while, I even graduated to forearm crutches and quad canes, which might not sound like much, but when you were expected to do nothing, that's like climbing Everest in your underpants. My wheelchair gathered dust for years, but soon I had to choose between the demands of my education and the demands of my body. The latter simply lacked the energy to fuel both my mind and my muscles to the best of my their abilities, and since school was the only area of life in which I had ever excelled, there was no choice at all. Back into the chair I went. By the time I graduated high school, I could no longer use crutches, and by my third year at uni, even the walker was too much. These days, I cannot move myself without help, and arthritis has set in. I made my choice, and now I pay its price.
I tell you all of this to illustrate that whatever the fool doctors might have said as they clucked and tutted over my incubator, I was keenly aware of the world. Of everything I was missing while my mother insisted I just bootstrap myself out of my disability and be normal. Of her seething resentment of all that I was not. Of her wish that I was someone else.
There were two bands that got me through, kept me sane and kept me moving when all I wanted to do was just lie down and not get up. The first was Metallica, whom I discovered at thirteen, and who told me it was all right to be angry about my circumstances, to kick and scream and argue with God and call him a rotten bastard--as long as I kept living, kept getting up in the morning and trying to inch down the road. I didn't have to swallow my anger for fear of upsetting God and hurting my mother's chances of getting into heaven(my mother believes that I am a test she must pass in order to get into heaven; therefore, my suffering is irrelevant and should never be questioned, lest it anger Him. Don't ask; I don't get it.)
If Metallica was the band that gave me permission to be angry as long as I kept trying, it was Rammstein that told me it was okay to want more from life than an endless regimen of therapy and prayer and gratitude to a God that had, or so it seemed to me, sent me into the world with a ramshackle body and precious little armor or defense against the assholery of my fellow human beings and yet still expected me to praise His holy name allelu. To want joy and friends and human contact. To have a libido and ogle whatever flipped my switches. To, in short, be human, and more than just a symbol of all my mother's broken hopes.
I discovered the band through a book, believe it not. I found a copy of Tom Reynolds' <i>Touch Me, I'm Sick</i> in a Barnes and Noble I had gone into to browse and hide from a cataclysmic thunderstorm, and in it, he began to talk about a band called Rammstein and a song called "Heirate Mich." The more I read, the more gloriously improbable it all seemed, and the harder I laughed. By the time I got to the line, "As the music pounds like a collapsing factory...", there were tears streaming down my face, and I was having trouble breathing. The saleslady must've worried I was having a stroke.
And so it was that I found the key to everything that would come after. From the book to my creaking dial-up Internet(don't laugh, it was what I could afford as a broke-ass cripple on the government dole) to the CD shop, where I blew my food budget on Rammstein CDs and lived on Hamburger Helper for weeks. This is a terrible dietary choice, by the way, but at least I had Rammstein music in my ears all day, every day. A few weeks later, I put another dent in my food budget buying all the DVDs. Ah, the vigor and stupidity of youth. If I tried that foolery now, I'd be semiconscious on the floor in a day and a half. Back then, I had a more stalwart constitution.
I knew by the second song I heard that Rammstein was going to be special to me. My German, which consisted of a year of study in high school and a disastrous two years in college, was pretty poor, but thanks to snooping around Internet forums and squinting at grainy videos, I knew much of your catalogue dealt with taboo subjects. I didn't care. For all its dark subject matter, the music made me want to dance. It made me feel something other than apathy and a persistent wish for this whole mess to be over and my soul to be recycled into a body that didn't make me want to scream until I was too tired to do anything but sleep.
And I did dance. Constantly. Seldom in public because dancing in a wheelchair often looks like the Devil is trying to stick his finger up your ass, but often at home, just shimmying away until the chair developed some alarming creaks and the bolts needed adjustment. Rammstein made me happy. It made me curious. It made me want to see just how much was out there.
And, if I am honest, it made me want to see those silver MC Hammer pants for myself. The combination of those pants and the diaper rash cream in your hair was a striking look for you, if I may say so, though perhaps not so grand as the black spikes and the lion pants you wore with such swaggering panache on the Reise, Reise tour. Alas, this was not to be, as I suppose you had wearied of slathering ass cream for infants in your hair. I can't blame you, though I suppose it must've been a sad day, indeed, for the ointment companies. Still, those Hammer pants and their Reynolds Wrap, space-age splendor will always hold a special place in my heart.
Stymied in my hope to witness for myself the wonders of those Hammer pants--and those lion pants as well, as it turned out, oh, unhappy hour, long may they reign in the storage closet--I nonetheless wanted to see a Rammstein show. Not much chance of that, the morose American fans assured me. The band hadn't come here since they foolishly took the American commitment to freedom of expression at face value and Till and Flake landed in the Puritan pokey for playing Loose the Dachshund into the Badger Burrow in front of delighted fans. Besides, the band's management had scant interest in repeating that little experiment.
Even so, I held out hope. I hung out on message boards and kept me ear to the ground. You can imagine my delight when the MSG show was announced. I wasn't so foolish as to think I could attend, mind you; New York might as well have been the moon for someone who cannot safely fly, but it was fun to indulge in a bit of wistful what-if? What if I could find a way to get there that wouldn't give me a lethal clot? What if I could score tickets? What if I could afford a hotel in Manhattan where the rats and roaches wouldn't kill me in my sleep or carry me off to be devoured in the sewer system? These were all very big ifs for someone who lived in the boonies and was only supposed to spend money on medical expenses and basic bills. Besides, MSG was going to sell out before I could gimp my way to the phone.
Knowing all of this, I took to my blog to whine and moan and feel sorry for myself. It wasn't fair, I whinged to the ether. I had wanted to see Rammstein for so long, but it just wasn't possible. It was too expensive and too far and too haaaaard. And woe is me.
And then...
And then...
And then a bossy German lady dropped a punk alarm in my inbox.
I don't remember now how or why she came to my blog. Maybe she was drawn by an unconventional perspective on life and fandom and moving through the world, or maybe she just wanted to snortle at my friend and I's discussions of your sartorial splendor and the ridiculous dramas going on in the Rammstein fandom at the time. Either way, she'd been been watching my sulking and stropping for a few days, until she'd reached her limit and this woman, who had never said an unkind word to me in years, called me a coward. Just straight up said that I could either find my spine, stop pissing and moaning, and try my hardest to see Rammstein in New York, or I could keep being a coward and making excuses. But make my choice and stop sniveling because she was tired of hearing about it.
At first, I was stunned. Of all the things I had ever been called, a coward was not one of them. Then I was mad. How DARE she call me a coward when she had no idea how much pain I was in most of the time or how difficult it was to move around a world that had never been designed for me and been but grudgingly retrofitted by handymen who thought that grab bars fixed everything!
So I stewed and pouted for a few hours, but the longer I thought about it, the more I realized she was right. I hadn't tried very hard to research my options. I hadn't checked hotels or called the venue or gotten my finances in order. I had claimed Rammstein was so important and meaningful to me, but I hadn't shown it. I had assumed defeat before I'd even started the charge up the the hill and wallowed in self-pity. Sure, maybe I was right and I wouldn't be able to go, but I'd never know if I didn't square up and try.
Before I proceed, a word about the tried-and-true deutscher Fuss zum Arsch(not another aside in a letter full of them, I hear you cry as your eyes begin to glaze. I know, Mr. Kruspe, believe me, but if you speak to the world through your guitar strings, I speak through my keystrokes, and so I beg your patience. We're almost there.). If a German you have gotten to know puts their foot up your ass and calls you on your bullshit, they are not doing it to be a prick, and it's not done with the intent to create hard feelings or demolish your self-esteem. It's harsh, man, is it harsh when you're used to American doublespeak and soft-pedaling, but they're doing it because they see something in you and are trying to stop you from making a dumbass or a jackwagon of yourself. They're doing it because they want to keep being your friend.
So.
Punk alarm duly dropped and head dislodged from ass, I started making phone calls. To the banks do get my money in order. To bean counters to make sure I would have access to it. To Amtrak to discuss their booking options. I went to disability websites and forums to discuss precautions to take in case my health or my equipment gave out on the road. The best hospital for the broke-ass should I get mown down by a taxi while trying to cross the road. Emergency numbers and insurance forms and blah blah blah. A raft of bureaucracy and safeguards and double-checking, all for a concert I might not get tickets for.
But I did, because for once, my disability worked in my favor. MSG sold out in twenty-five minutes, but that venue, bless its heart, doesn't put disabled seating up for general sale. You have to call the disabled patron assistance line, and they don't release unsold disabled seats for general sale until three days before a show. So I called the magic line, and a very amiable fellow talked me through the process. Two weeks later, the tickets were in my mailbox.
I am not ashamed to tell you that when I opened the envelope and held the tickets in my hand, I screamed like a debutante that sat on an upturned spoon. It was really happening.
And yes, my German friend gave me a giant "I told you so!" But she was right, and she'd earned it. Besides, she was happy for me, too.
So I did it. I got on a train(where I soon learned that accessible or not, I couldn't use the toilet because the train swayed too much for me to keep my balance), and I went without eating, drinking, or urinating for twenty-two hours(I do not recommend this to anyone, by the by. It hurt, and it was dangerous)to get to New York. And when I got there, I stood in Penn Station and simply stared because I was somewhere I never thought I'd be. It was simultaneously everything I thought it would be and nothing like I'd expected.
There were still obstacles, of course. There always are when you have two hands and four wheels and see the world through asses and elbows. Clutching my luggage while my trusty and ever-present companion pushed me over the cracked sidewalk with one hand and dragged the rest of the luggage behind him. Finding out that the "accessible" hotel room was, in fact, not all that accessible and wrenching my knee every time I used the toilet. Being accosted by my first sidewalk screamer within ten minutes of being in the city. Meeting my first hustler.
Freezing my ass off outside the venue for four hours before the show and called not fan enough by other fans because I didn't do it for fourteen, because hey, if you were really a fan, you'd risk pneumonia to see the show, even if it would kill you. Being shunted and shuffled to four different doors by event staff because no one could agree on where the disabled fans were supposed to enter. Being let into the building to warm up by an MSG employee, only to be booted out by event staff three minutes later. Whee! Aren't the logistics of being disabled fun?
But Mr. Kruspe, it was all worth it. I've never felt an energy like that before. Whatever snitty elitism some of the fans might have been nursing outside, inside MSG, we were all fans, all people who had waited and wished for this for a very long time. The primal roar from the crowd when the band began to break through the wall raised the hairs on my nape, and you'd better believe that I joined them with all of my energy.
From the first note, I forgot my pain. It was still there, mind, waiting for me, black-toothed and patient as the grave, but I was beyond it, in a state of suspended euphoria. No pain, just joy. I watched everything as best I could despite my near-sightedmess and my rather distant seat. I soaked it all in--the music and the unapologetic bombast, and the pageantry of the fire. It was all so starkly, darkly beautiful, and according to my companion, who has all the sentimentality of pavement, when he looked over at me during "Ich Will", I was "radiant." He, who had known me for thirteen years by then, said he'd never seen me like that before, and that he would never forget it.
It was not without price. These things never are. There was another train journey and another twenty-two hours without access to a toilet, and by the time I got home, I was so strung out from lack of food, water, and sleep(because trufax, it is hard to sleep when your bladder is trying to pop out of your skin from the pressure)that I cried like a toddler on the drive home. And then I went home, peed forever, drank, ate, and collapsed for seventeen hours.
But it was worth it. It was so worth it that on the band's next go-round, I took a cross-country roadtrip to Vegas, during which I peed much more often, thank God, but I also fought ants and roaches in a hotel room in Texas and stayed in a room so gross I slept in my clothes and threw them out when I got home. But it, too, was worth it, just as it was worth it to get in the car and drive to Florida and Atlanta on the next tour after that.
I told you ALL of these things, Mr. Kruspe, to tell you this. I saw your interview in that documentary about depression in 2010. I heard you say you felt worthless unless you were creating.
I don't know what you're worth to anyone else, but to me, you are priceless, and always will be. Without you, there would be no Rammstein, and for me, there would have been no reason to try, to spread my wings and take a run at that hill. Without you, I might have given up, might have let my mother win, and maybe now, I'd be sitting in some care home, stewing in my own yellowing stink and getting a bath once a week and a monthly outing and rotting from the inside out. Without you, I might never have taken the chance, never pushed myself.
But you were, and are, and because of that, I did. Because of that, I saw New York, and moved, however briefly, among that anonymous throng. Because of that, I met the sidewalk doomsayer and the exasperated hustler. Because of that, I tried New York Pizza(and yes, I saw a rat, but he minded his business, and I minded mine). Because of you, I heard a Cajun patois in Louisiana and watched out the window of the car as the Texas plains unwound around us. Because of you, I saw the night sky on the outskirts of Vegas and was escorted back to the Strip after the show by two Native dudes who walked far out of their way and called me little sister. These are gifts I got from you because you were, and are, and they have sustained me ever since. They sustain me now that my world has been reduced to the four walls of my house as I ride out the pandemic in a country that believes people like me are an acceptable sacrifice.
I know this won't change things for you, won't quiet that awful voice in your head. Depression doesn't work like that, and even if it did, I am just a stranger you will never meet. But maybe it will give you something to hang on to, something to think about on the bad days. Christ knows you kept my head above the water when all I wanted to do was let it go under.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Kruspe. May it bring you joy and all that you need.
Guera
16 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
iamadeliciousporkcutletbowl
♡ here for somethin wholesome ♡
valnorok
valnorok
barid-bel-medar
Writing is Life
dilfprayers
older men need love too.
franticapologies
ajboloser