you’re gonna have to put yourself into a mesopotamian mindset

JBB: An Artblog!

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Not today Justin

No title available
$LAYYYTER
Cosmic Funnies
art blog(derogatory)

#extradirty
Xuebing Du

shark vs the universe

JVL
No title available
styofa doing anything
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
AnasAbdin

izzy's playlists!
h
almost home
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

Andulka
seen from Japan
seen from Philippines

seen from France

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Dominican Republic

seen from Malaysia

seen from Germany
seen from Philippines
seen from India

seen from Mexico
seen from Netherlands
seen from Hungary
seen from United States

seen from Spain
@aurivore
you’re gonna have to put yourself into a mesopotamian mindset
gold
for @i-am-avacado
bites him
Vaccinates him,
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. ████, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of ████, and whatever walked there, walked alone.
an original character, written by merlin (it/its, 21+).
bēlīngu why are you playing with a clown when you COULD be playing with me :////
Amuse me, then.
“THE King of Heroes needs no introduction, mongrel. Nor shall He tolerate a mess about Him.” Scarlet oculi truncate to a lour as the erstwhile juggled baubles clatter a croon orchestrated by their folly’s grievous, straining misdirection; the even reproach about Gilgameš’ expression portraying so severe a loftiness that the insult, it may be led to conclude, was that the Berserker had trespassed some unspoken, primeval rule ordaining his complete and infallible performance to the object of the King’s satisfaction, the demonstration subsequently to be active in its effacement of err or want, and perpetual in the anticipation of judgment’s measure upon his bells — such so was the standard Gilgameš marshaled. Yet there is a minute levity apparent to the juncture, slicking the deep, brassy inflections of the King’s noble register. The proverbial blade pauses in hairs-breadths above the gullet of lenience, and one must imagine a beast of prey flicking its tail as it toys about with a mouse prisoned between its claws. “I have found that tossing blades tends to inspire greater care in the lax-fingered, but no matter. I pardon it. It is not unusual to be petrified by my radiance.”
THE farceur is allowed a response. Gilgameš’ gaze comes to indicate a steady yet fleeting interest, as if one moment would see his right engagement, if not humoured to satisfy one desire or the next, and the following characterized by the total obliteration of the circumstance and all its contents as he expunges every insult toward his time. “Loyalty is a fine quality to possess. But do not mistake yourself, harlequin. I am not the one receiving privilege. I am granting it. You may rejoice that I have chosen you to humor me.” A wry sense of badinage surmounts to the King’s grand countenance parallel to the priceless boon he vouchsafes the court jester to exult in, thinning appeasement whetted by quondam drollery, talon-teeth set upon external diversions as if a wineskin himself-aged — to slake a thirst a deluge could not gladden, nor could suffice the doves, nor the olive leaflets. “And I shall repeat myself, generous as I am: only the best in your bag of tricks will be given to me. I say there is no such thing as a poor jester, but a dull man — and dull men have had their share of boring me.”
GOLD-PLATED fingers snap and his splendid throne flashes into reality, its seat taken to indulge this moment for as long as he desired to entertain it. The sanguine upholstery billows about him in bloody rivers, and he is the lion of the Tigris and Euphrates. “'Brave acts'? You arouse my interest,” a cursory wave of the fine hand. “Go on, then. Regale me of your daunting trials.”
@dagonet-lefou | continued from the King's demand.
o priest of water, o noble of wind, you honor us with your presence. through the great, flowering form of mars, you are transformed into a droplet of madness... now, let the stars guide you to eternal slumber...
𝐖𝐆𝐀𝐇'𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐋 𝐅𝐇𝐓𝐀𝐀𝐀𝐆𝐍
. [ . . . ] 𝐃𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐓! ©
an independent multimuse for various media, written by merlin.
Promethean Rebirth by ChaosFissure
baps his face with a big ol' paw
“You entertain absurd notions.”
The beastly paw lands upon his visage, introducing the warm scent of drying clay and new loam blanketing the underbrush of cedar canopies. The demigod’s physiognomy is at once stoic and implacable.
“Is there something you seek from obscuring the king’s gaze? Something you wish to hide from?”
He provokes — he knows far better.
astra. astra would dare (until we get the boop counter, he gets a boop on the nose uvu)
Boops it back. Lovingly, might I add.
Blasphemy.
“A true King never desires shadows, puppets, and automatons as subjects, but rather he desires individuals, warriors, living, and strong beings; and in fact, his pride would be to feel himself to be a King of kings.”
— Julius Evola, Pagan Imperialism
@starborne sent:
and hand tugs hand, leading the boy down the halls of the chaldea to the garden with poorly suppressed excitement. the last several minutes filled with nothing but a babbling about butterflies and birds and their attraction to specific flora that magic could replicate if given the time and care ❛ it worked! this morning i checked and they came! ❜ hopefully they might still be there to show him
“Woah there!” The young king softly exclaims as his hand is taken by Astoret, footfalls easily coming to match her own. Her enthusiasm is quite the radiant thing, and Gilgamesh absorbs Astoret’s expressions of its many interests ( listening rapt to all starry eyed orations, partaking in each discourse, appraising every experiment ) with ready participation, its eyes which leaped upon the striking facets of the world a counterpart to his own; jaded for all that they possessed unrivaled brilliance — Astoret embodies all of the innocence he was denied, yet she seemed to be no mere child. It fascinated him.
“Will you be sharing where we’re headed, or is this another 'surprise' you’ve got in store for me?”
𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊. blankly. as though challenging the logic that an animal might be capable of speech ( he needs not yet know that it can ). as if to leave the very universe to counter, in that drawn out silence, how ridiculous it must be to expect such a thing
yet it is not as though the concept needs elaborate explanation: HE IS HERS. what part of him shall it not be given authority to claim? where he reigns upon gold, that cold and impersonal metal, it deems the warm perch of his lap a more adequate throne. a paw pushes against his cheek, velveteen against soft flesh, and offers naught but its slow purr as answer
GRANTED, this was Astraia — the sole identified member of the Destroyer class, named so for the effects it wrought upon Chaldea through its summoning alone. If it could change its form at will, then human speech seemed an obvious if not assured function. But that alone does not inform his expectations. He was raised in a land where the wind itself held sentience, where roamed the fish-man and the scorpion-man, where divine beasts made feast of the horizon. A talking animal was a piddling, tawdry thing, and any such being that the King of Heroes regarded could manage a task so menial.
HE then clicks his tongue. Those little rumbles of affection and response might have been welcomed if they weren’t utterly unasked for. And to touch his cheek unbidden? The nerve of this little menace ( yet amusement tugs at his lips ).
“Hoh, I understand,” and he plants her down on his lap, elegant and strong-boned fingers stroking the top of its head in gentle movements — he’s amusing himself as he smooths his palm upon her forehead and ears to expose the upper sclera of her eyes, skin pulled back. “You were so mesmerized by my beauty that you entirely forgot your manners. I suppose such things cannot be helped.” Stroke, stroke. What a silly little thing it looked like. “You are much more charming when you are honest, Destroyer. It nearly compels me to pardon your offenses.”
"Oh at this point I'm just keeping it to «spite» you."
It may be stuck in this particular form, but a shield is a shield is a shield–it was made to defend and protect before it was made to attack. Calesvol digs into its core, yanks on the magic inherent in its forging that had made it such a formidable shield in the lost king's hands and watches magic crackle into place around it.
The crash of metal meeting magic is loud in its ears, eyes nearly glowing with the level of magic it channels. It wonders briefly if any of the weapons had been damaged beyond use in the collision.
"I," it snaps, baring teeth in a snarl up at Gilgamesh. "Am the loyal shield of ―, and if you want to shatter me then you'll need to do better than that." Taking it clearly isn't an option, as far as the weapon's concerned. (It can, however, admit that it probably should have taken a chance to convince the other sword to teach it how to fight in a human form first before the pests had come out of the wood. This is less than ideal. More so, when it's stuck as a sword and unable to access any other more useful forms.)
The magic crackling around it shifts, changing shape from a protective dome to something more pointed as it split apart in a mimicking of Gilgamesh's own arsenal. Less extensive, it noted with a flicker of annoyance. Not enough magic for it to be nearly as impressive.
"Hold still for a minute."
“Spite me?”
THE child gives a laugh and it bursts from his chest like a concourse of thunderclaps, a hand clutching at his abdomen as rapidly cast materiel continues to crack as though lightning. “And here I thought I caused you nothing but disgust, yet you’re willing to risk your existence just to last the mere flicker of a moment in my mind! Should I be flattered?” The onslaught is, by his standards, still mere whispers of light rain, merciful, even, yet for the unfledged audience to the cavalcade it is a supersonic symphony howling CATACLYSM IN D MAJOR ( the “glory key” suited toward expressions of death, of matter loftiest, of triumphant warcries echoing in the bloodshod welters of armed combat, of violence heard before it is seen ) as the ear struggles without purchase to parse a singular note of reason amongst the bellow and the blare — the string concertos of lyres, violins, and violoncellos supplanted with the blade-edged expression of resolzas, rapiers, fauchards and bayonets, of metals sharp and storied singing warcry salvos as the air throats their inanimate bloodlust and merciless keening, blitzkrieg bereft of pause or torpor as swords descend from above apropos to an aerial assault maneuver primed to decimate ground-position opponents ( bombardments that would enfilade and chew through both biological and inorganic matter with impunity and without discrimination ). It would be far too easy, particularly if one lacked the mental acumen to perceive the utter speed at which these two combatants moved, to presume their waltz chaotic and deprived of cogency, but the intuned would identify causality amidst the large groundswells of upturned dust heaving as the earth was ravaged, the sheer exactitude by which the boy marshaled his armaments in riposte to Calesvols’s tactics showing both his intimacy with precision and the nuances of waging concentrated assault. It denounced excess without aim for efficiency in its numbers: for any blade that is deflected there is a cohort to take its place, primed at the ready as the child toys with discovering the vital points on both the sword-shield and the magics fruiting from its flesh-covered sheaves. Indeed, there is a score to the hellish scene, and Gilgamesh is the undisputed conductor of its anarchy.
“A shield,” he starts, voice a sunlight interlude between the tempests and furies, “How fitting.” Yet how less a subject acceptable for a worthy capture, his will to crush the sword where it stood consorting with the amusement he’d garnered through the deployment of tactics that demanded him to adopt dynamic strategies ( adjusting his aim, range, and speed as he played battle by ear ), finding patterns in his opponent's behavior, the ticks of a weapon — and for all that the child acknowledges how formidable the sword had thus been, its resignation toward what he perceives as complacence tempers his palette with a grey, insipid flavor, timbre mellifluous yet hoarfrost-cold. “For shields have no sense of self-preservation, and you demonstrate that finely. You were never made to protect yourself but that which lay behind you, and you have nothing.”
A bulwark does not move. It cannot advance nor thicken its walls save for the efforts of those it was designed to shelter. Gilgamesh knew well the bulwark; the construction of Unug’s ramparts was an undertaking he had begun early in his life, and it was perhaps the singular shred of memory that linked him to the self he would have inevitably become. But perhaps the greater fact — whether there was commensuration to be found between the spring and winter of his life — is that Gilgamesh would have made the protection of his people inevitable. Unug’s walls were extensions of his will, a great embankment that guarded the things he had deemed worthy; vast, strong arms of mudbrick and clay: something that was meant to outlast him.
“RIGHT now, you are no shield. You are even less than a wall: guarding nothing, holding nothing.” Gilgamesh responds without a single recognizable nuance to grant color to his voice, staring into those alizarin eyes thieved in ignorance. The formation of the Gate’s brilliant portals suddenly multiply — they bolt like drips of golden dewdrops which peal across the field in many groves, positioning themselves such so that they now haloed directly above and around Calesvol: a sphere of aureoles bathing the sword and its bifurcating magicks with blinding light. “It seems you’ve already broken yourself. A shame. But you can at least take pride in the fact that you’ve got that one thing over me.” Each rift cracks with variegated mana pulsing from the tips of swords as sharp and as keen as the day they were born. The demigod does not see anything protected as he looks down on the object from above: instead he sees something caged, a pest ensnared in chains of its own design.
HE raises his right hand, priming his weaponry to bring an end to this farce of a song. “Don’t worry — I have every intention of finishing the job.”