sheepfilms
will byers stan first human second
Monterey Bay Aquarium
One Nice Bug Per Day
shark vs the universe
d e v o n
occasionally subtle
roma★
we're not kids anymore.
hello vonnie
almost home
todays bird
Peter Solarz
@theartofmadeline
Origami Around
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
JVL
h
#extradirty
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
seen from Netherlands
seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
@lord-byrons-ghost
Rules of the Palazzo
It has come to my attention that I should outline my desires for conversation and topics to be avoided in more detail, as well as any little pieces of etiquette that should make conversing easier. (OOC: Please read before you interact, so everyone has an enjoyable time.)
Mmmh, I'm bored and I have no one to bother…
I think I'll go out into the world again in search of adventures!
My little friend - let me engage to entertain you in some manner! It has been an unfortunately long time since we have spoken - such is the way of poets, we are deuced lazy fellows half the year, and in floods of energy the other half - and I wish to hear of your travels!
Tell me of whom you have encountered, what dangers you have seen - and what inspiration you have gained.
I have hot chocolate, and need a companion to drink it with.
George! My dear friend!
*Emilia immediately ran to him and hugged him tightly*
I missed you so much... Very much! I thought you'd gone somewhere...
*She added and released him from her embrace. She looked at him with a smile, happy to see him again*
I'd love to have hot chocolate with you and tell you all about my travels. So... I recently met revolutionaries – Saint-Just, Desmoulins, and Marat. They instilled in me an interest in the Revolution. I wrote a few poems on the subject...
I also met Henriette Robespierre. She's a little older than me, but I liked her. She even showed me the works of Rousseau!
*She spoke with obvious excitement*
Did you meet them here on Afterlife?
*Byron laughs as Emilia embraces him, and ruffles her hair*
The only place I have gone, my dear poetess, is between my bed and my desk - inspiration mixed with blank despair - which is a potent elixir - has quite consumed me these past few... how long has it been? - who cares about time when dead, damn the concept. But my thoughts have turned their steps towards you - and other acquaintance - oft.
Now! Chocolate!
*Byron hands Emilia a cup of hot chocolate, and sprawls on a sofa with his own*
The Revolutionists, eh? - they are fascinating chaps, although I must say they damn well terrified me as an infant - I was one years old when Desmoulins called the people To Arms - and old enough to remember when said journalist was executed.
These poetics 'pon the subject sound most engaging, as does Miss Robespierre! - is she not as formidable as her elder brother? - I should be delighted to hear your Revolutionist scribblings, if I am allowed to.
As for my acquaintance with them - I know Desmoulins in passing, for we occasionally argue on literary and Classical matters, and the charming Fabre D'Eglantine has graced me with his presence also - in truth, I am too frightened of Robespierre, Saint-Just and Marat - poor nobleman as I am - and their tendency to demand noble heads removed.
Oh... I hope your period of melancholy has passed and things will only get better from now on... It often happens to us poets. I retreated into myself a bit and started thinking...
*she sighed quietly, but perked up a bit when she heard the question about Miss Robespierre*
Henriette? Terrible?
*The girl laughed warmly*
No, she wouldn't hurt a fly. Although I'll admit, I was a little afraid at first too... I've heard a bit about her brother. I haven't had the chance to meet him, though maybe that's a good thing...
*She shrugged and reached for a mug of hot chocolate.*
Or maybe I should? Maybe on closer inspection, he'd be nice, like Ettie?
And as for my poems, I'd love to show them to you! Since we last saw each other, my notebook has filled up quite a bit...
*She pulled out her notebook and handed it to Byron. He might have been drawn to a long and emotional poem about the execution of Desmoulins and his wife. This event deeply moved her. She thought it was unjust and cruel...*
Poor Camille and Lucile. I can't imagine what it's like to be condemned to death by your own friend... And you, George? How do you think?
My melancholy has immediately lifted at the sight of you, dear! - company, that is good company, always cheers the spirits. I shall venture out amongst my fellow mortals more oft, I hope - although Allah knows when the fit shall strike again - it is so deuced unpredictable.
Miss Henriette sounds charming! May I ask the lady's age, and how she entertains herself? Perhaps I shall make her acquaintance...
*Byron takes the notebook, and flicks through, expression darkening slightly at the description of Desmoulins' execution*
I recall hearing about this in the papers - I was six years of age at the time, and kept a clipping of Desmoulins' final letter to his wife under a loose floorboard - it was immensely moving to my childish self, and I wept often, when my nighttime thoughts turned to the subject. A life of uncertainty - yes, it is familiar to me, to doubt one's friends - although I was never quite man enough to die for an ideal - Greece was the closest I came. I should speak with Desmoulins again, I had quite neglected the poor fellow.
Mmmh, I'm bored and I have no one to bother…
I think I'll go out into the world again in search of adventures!
My little friend - let me engage to entertain you in some manner! It has been an unfortunately long time since we have spoken - such is the way of poets, we are deuced lazy fellows half the year, and in floods of energy the other half - and I wish to hear of your travels!
Tell me of whom you have encountered, what dangers you have seen - and what inspiration you have gained.
I have hot chocolate, and need a companion to drink it with.
George! My dear friend!
*Emilia immediately ran to him and hugged him tightly*
I missed you so much... Very much! I thought you'd gone somewhere...
*She added and released him from her embrace. She looked at him with a smile, happy to see him again*
I'd love to have hot chocolate with you and tell you all about my travels. So... I recently met revolutionaries – Saint-Just, Desmoulins, and Marat. They instilled in me an interest in the Revolution. I wrote a few poems on the subject...
I also met Henriette Robespierre. She's a little older than me, but I liked her. She even showed me the works of Rousseau!
*She spoke with obvious excitement*
Did you meet them here on Afterlife?
*Byron laughs as Emilia embraces him, and ruffles her hair*
The only place I have gone, my dear poetess, is between my bed and my desk - inspiration mixed with blank despair - which is a potent elixir - has quite consumed me these past few... how long has it been? - who cares about time when dead, damn the concept. But my thoughts have turned their steps towards you - and other acquaintance - oft.
Now! Chocolate!
*Byron hands Emilia a cup of hot chocolate, and sprawls on a sofa with his own*
The Revolutionists, eh? - they are fascinating chaps, although I must say they damn well terrified me as an infant - I was one years old when Desmoulins called the people To Arms - and old enough to remember when said journalist was executed.
These poetics 'pon the subject sound most engaging, as does Miss Robespierre! - is she not as formidable as her elder brother? - I should be delighted to hear your Revolutionist scribblings, if I am allowed to.
As for my acquaintance with them - I know Desmoulins in passing, for we occasionally argue on literary and Classical matters, and the charming Fabre D'Eglantine has graced me with his presence also - in truth, I am too frightened of Robespierre, Saint-Just and Marat - poor nobleman as I am - and their tendency to demand noble heads removed.
Mmmh, I'm bored and I have no one to bother…
I think I'll go out into the world again in search of adventures!
My little friend - let me engage to entertain you in some manner! It has been an unfortunately long time since we have spoken - such is the way of poets, we are deuced lazy fellows half the year, and in floods of energy the other half - and I wish to hear of your travels!
Tell me of whom you have encountered, what dangers you have seen - and what inspiration you have gained.
I have hot chocolate, and need a companion to drink it with.
uhhhhh it seems there's now another writer
have you heard of kafka?
I cannot say I have heard of this Kafka - pray introduce me, dear anonyme! He/She sounds like a curious specimen of humanity.
What sort of scribbler is the fellow - poet? Playwright? Novelist? Journalist? Philosopher? - I must know the tone of the writing to know the writer!
lord byron would be chronically online + adored by 2016 stan twitter. mary shelley would have a large cult following on tumblr. polidori would have some niche private blog for his depressing writings. claire would be the reigning queen of pinterest. i don't think percy shelley uses the internet. ever.
rip byron you would've loved grindr
This is all entirely accurate - I lament that the social media of my life was so limited in its outlook - damned English press didn't allow for much interaction with admirers - and writing replies to letters from ladies took far too long - that I was left to remain infamous in a rather glamorised manner.
Have to say, dear Polly-Dolly as an erotica producer - that is, a literary whore - is a capital notion! He has the Italianate lusty darkness of eye and curl - and a suitably pouting and pink lip - that any viewer cannot help but feel a trifle aroused.
As for grindr... I'd be a fool to deny that "All they that love not tobacco and boys are fools" - as the great Marlowe said. AHEM! I have nothing to say about the platform - positive or otherwise - my publisher will flay me if I comment.
I think Lord Byron is my favorite historical figure ever. He wrote Don Juan, his daughter invented computers, he was a raging bisexual, he had a twink sugar baby he spent 70k modern usd on in 6 months, he wore haircurlers to bed, he kept sleeping with his cousins, he was an antivaxxer, he's a vegetarian with an eating disorder, he had a pet bear in college as a protest, he hated historical artifact looters, he made his dog's tombston bigger than his own, he had to sleep in his gondala after fights with one of his mistresses, he helped write Frankenstein and the Vampyre, he's the inspiration for all OP male leads, he had a crazy fanbase, he wouldnt stop adopting stray animals.
anywayz I can't slutshame him because frankly he earned all his bitches fair and square
Dear me, what a list of events - I sound damnably interesting through the eyes of another - quite the thing to cheer a fellow up on a rain-sodden day of apathy - although I cannot say I quite comprehend which of my many amours is the one I spent so lavishly on. - Lukas, perhaps? - the dear child stole half the jewels at any rate - not that I can chide him for it.
As for the tombstone - I would gladly make a tombstone for all my dogs, with poems on, and one for the peacock too, and leave myself to be buried in a nameless urn in Greece. The dear creatures are far better companions than any fellow man, and deserve a world of lavishment.
Nevertheless, I am immensely pleased to be such a favourite of yours, dear creature! I shall continue to amuse you as far as I am able.
Too many rich people buying medieval castles and then renovating the interior to look like a completely normal 21st century house. Sorry but if you're going to live in a castle you need to commit to the bit. If I lived in a castle I would restore it just enough to be barely liveable and pretend I was a poor but prideful nobleman in his crumbling estate, still clinging to the last vestiges of his family's fading name.
I agree with all save the fading name! - my deuced family are somewhat infamous - due to myself, my father and my dear great uncle - so there is nothing faded about the insanity that is the House of Byron. - Newstead is a little crumbled, I admit - damned ceiling kept falling in - but that is precisely the Gothic charm of the place - one might even call it Romantic - and so I shall not have it slandered.
The jumped up tailors who take castles and give them gas lighting and bay windows can go hang, I agree - they have no souls, let alone eyes.
What if I piss on your grave :3
I would really rather you didn't, dear anonyme! How very deuced inconsiderate, to suggest such to a man whose politics is an utter detestation of all governments - unlike Castlereagh, the poisonous blighter.
However - if you really must be so impolite - be aware you shall also be pissing on my daughter Ada, my mother, and my Great-Uncle - for we are packed into the family vault like sardines - the one balanced precariously atop the other in a charade of death not unlike the game of "Jenga".
Citoyen d'Eglantine - or may I roll your Christian name around my mouth like a bead of honey, Fabre? - have you any inclination to aid an irritable and desolate man in the draining of every article in his wine cellar?
For - in spite of the spring skies - in spite of the new leaves - in spite of the season of love blossoming in every heart - I cannot shake this damned sense of mourning. There is no pleasure to be found in my scribblings, in the sweet mouths of my lovers - although they intoxicate me quite in other seasons - nor in the meanderings through the watery decaying grandeur of Venezia. My soul seems clapt to a long forgotten coffin, and lacks the energy to rise from the endless grave.
*Byron smiles very slightly, and puts a hand on Fabre's shoulder - whether to appear more earnest or to steady himself is hard to tell.*
I can think of few people I would rather take solace with than with another poetical fellow - I am certain you understand how the mind is weighed with unquenchable grief, or flies to intoxicating heights of love - and it seems a damned sight easier to ask a Revolutionist for company than the composers - that idolise my Byronisms and moods for a poetic truth, rather than a man's suffering.
In brief: I desire your company for drinking vast quantities of wine, and for distracting myself - a task I am patently useless at - from the tempests of the mind. - given I had the idiotic idea to die in April, and that ruins the month quite - I have been entirely comatose for the past week.
What say you?
- @lord-byrons-ghost
Ah, Byron! You needn’t ask twice. You had me at "desolate man"—for what am I, if not the patron saint of desolate men and half-finished verses? Yes, yes, yes—by all the torn pages of every ill-fated poem I ever scrawled and the ink I wasted trying to make meaning out of empty stages—I understand.
[ Gently—without fanfare—Fabre reaches out and rubs a slow circle into Byron’s shoulder, his palm warm and idly affectionate, ]
But your grief, ah! It speaks with such refinement. Such melodious torment. I was nearly moved to tears until I remembered how expensive good handkerchiefs have become. April! Cursed month! The skies deceive with their blue, the blossoms dare to bloom as if we’ve not buried ourselves beneath them. This damned season where everything insists on living—when the trees won’t stop budding and everyone else looks unbearably alive—I, too, died in April—April 5th, to be precise. That was the day I dropped like a marionette with snapped strings! I remember it now as one remembers a play performed under duress: the lines screamed, the curtain falling too fast. The crowd cheered too soon. I was still breathing. I imagine you understand how a little detail like that can claw at the ribs for centuries.
Nobody will ever understand men like us. That is the bottom line. Too many nights I've found myself wishing to lay my head on the cold earth, to find a final rest beneath it. It is a peculiar thing, is it not? To wish for oblivion when you are not truly finished with life—waiting for something to awaken you. Perhaps it is the poet’s curse. To feel too deeply, to live too fully, and yet, to suffer the consequences of such passion with every passing day.
[ Fabre’s hand slips up from Byron’s shoulder and pinches his cheek, lightly and fondly, as if grounding the younger man in something foolishly mortal. ]
And now here you are, inviting me to drain your cellar dry, to join you in a righteous and eloquent descent into grief-drenched stupor—and how could I, in good conscience, refuse? I will drink to the rot behind the tulips. I will drink to Venice, that lovely corpse of a city—so like both of us, don’t you think? Too elegant to be alive, too stubborn to be buried properly.
You want distraction? I’ll bring you distraction enough to make Orpheus forget Eurydice! We'll trade verses like old war wounds. I’ll recite my the worst of my work until you scream for mercy. You’ll quote your best until I sigh like a widow. We’ll wade into grief like it’s the Adriatic, unbothered by drowning! And if your moods must shift from tempest to sunbeam ten times a night, I promise to follow with a wineglass in each hand. Let the composers idolise your moods—I shall honour your mourning with good wine and better company.
Let us drink until April forgets our names. If you have any absinthe remaining in that cellar of yours, guard it well. And If you insist on mourning yourself through April again next year, at least let me compose the elegy. It would be a damn shame if you left it to amateurs.
My dear fellow, I thought you would comprehend the intensity of suffering that plagues my soul as well as any other soul can - the torture of a bright, new world, when your own consciousness is cut off - and the sense of garish pleasure that all other creatures feel whilst you suffer - is near unbearable.
I grieve for your own death as greatly as I grieve mine - to lose a fellow of such mettle - in both poetics and in politics - was a detriment indeed to this world. I recall vividly the accounts written in the English papers - vile and uncaring as they were - and cut out parts of them to keep under a floorboard, as they so touched my soul that I found myself weeping in sympathy. Such a sudden loss of life is indeed the greatest source of heart-sickness - aside from love - and it shows courage to continue in the face of it.
A desire for oblivion has touched my soul far too often - in the winter of 1815, when faced with the horrors of marriage and looming scandal, life seemed barely worth continuing - and yet my spirits longed for some great event, some avalanche, to wake me into the giddy heights of poetic wonder again.
*Byron smiles slightly at Fabre pinching his cheek, and raises a hand to momentarily trap Fabre's fingers in place, that more comfort might be drawn from the touch.*
Your toasts to dying flowers and the decayed grandeur of Venezia are ones I enjoy immensely - I will gladly raise a glass to Death, and trade poetics on this - or any other - subject until rosy-fingered dawn steals across the sky, and Dionysius steals away consciousness on wings of intoxicating pleasure. May the seas of emotion cover our souls and minds until all sense of shore or sky is lost.
What year is it where you are?
My dear anonyme, if I knew, I would inform you with all speed - but - as I am a trifle exanimis - that is to say, dead - it could be the Lord's Year of 1237 - or perhaps 1989 - or even simply 1824. There seem a great many fellows of all ages about - the Revolutionists and their bickering - the Marshals and their galloping - the Composers and their sighing - and the general crowd of citizens that write amusing articles about us all, or create beautiful artwork.
However - and this I can be sure of - although wine does muddle the senses - is that I and my household lodge in some shade of the Palazzo Mocenigo, and therefore appear - thankfully - at the ages we were between 1816-1819 - the delights of Venezia soothe the aches of a soul torn from life, and the shimmering canals entrance the poetic mind beyond the mundane and over-used.
So - my dear - I think it best to say that whilst the year is uncertain, my age most certainly is not.
Are you ever struck with the realization that Lord Byron's name is George.
That name plagues me daily - how can a fellow correctly make love, if all endearments inevitably lead back to such a name? - and reminds me also of bog-covered Albion. - I wish I could change the damned thing - signing letters N.B is all well and good, but I cannot uphold the use of my surnames forever! - too deuced formal to be whispered by soft lips.
CASTLEREAH
Dear God, anonyme, why??? - why would you remind me of the horror that is such a prudish and tepid specimen of the English gentleman? - I feel quite nauseous at the thought of him... I need a hock and soda to recover.
I am certain you are aware of my thoughts on the fellow - especially his death - but my ditty can be reproduced below! It is the most fitting memorial for such a bore of a man - and a coward to boot - who did naught of use for drear Albion in her worthy fight against the tyranny of Buonaparte.
Posterity will ne'er survey
a Nobler grave than this:
Here lie the bones of Castlereagh:
Stop, traveller, and p----- !
how many wellingtons would you find to be too many wellingtons
My dear anonyme! One of the Little Corporal is far too many! - the man is as frigid and uninspiring as the land from which he originates - and his politics are nothing save stultification & oppression. If Lady Fortune were less of a whore, she'd have had the blighter shot at Wet Waterloo.
I hope @the1ronduke understands what a heartless & disgraceful specimen of an Englishman he is. Poor Caro Lamb only threw herself at him to distract herself from my waning affections.
Dear Lord Byron,
It had recently come to my attention that one Robert Southey may have sullied your name by spreading word that you are having an incestuous affair with your half sister. Have you been made aware of his allegations?
Furthermore, some rumors say that Southey has accused of you, Polidori and Shelley of forming an “incest league”. I fail to see why your friends would be dragged into this accusations, other than their association with you. Would you like to provide any comments regarding your friend's situation?
~ a concerned journalist
Dear God, the papers have uncovered my whereabouts - which British rag do you work for again? - It is of no matter, you seem to act in good faith, informing a fellow of terrible allegations.
Southey has very little brain - which is bad - and even less talent - which is worse. Poetics should be utilised for the sublime and the misrepresented - not whatever twaddle he pours out, as part of the bastion of English society. He sides with all that is turgid about Britain - her wealth, her god-forsaken government, her armies, her cloddy climate, her chilly women - and gilds them with an unnecessary grandeur. What is worst of all - the man used to be a Revolutionist, with all the passion that liberty inspires! I have no doubt he is gladly saying the most vile things behind my back.
I thank you for informing me of the allegations concerning Augusta and I - Southey seems clearly unaware that love and fraternal affection is possible amongst estranged siblings, without some strange perversion! Dear God - does the man have no heart too, to see two creatures - bound by ties of blood - and assume every touch of a hand is tantamount to a wealth of unsavoury activities in the bedroom? I can assure you, sir/ma'am/other, my relations with my own sister are as pure as any other man's - we have a deep affection bourn from having few relatives living, and find little to argue over. That is all.
As for this supposed league of incest - a damn fine name, I must say! - whilst I am known for my corruption of innocents - in part due to the vicious harpy, my wife, and her equally unlikeable cousin, the Lamb - I am damned if Polly Dolly ever lay with any woman, let alone one he was related to - the man has as much libido as a barrel of wet powder has the ability to explode - viz, none - and so one can safely assume he has no incest to present.
Dear Shelley is similarly innocent - although I conceive readily of how Southey has arrived at the concept of incest. Shelley believes in the soundest of doctrines - and I speak as a raddled old sinner of the Calvinist sort - that of free and untainted love. He cannot be blamed for the unfortunate relations with his first wife - wives are a terrifying thing - nor for his attraction to Mary - one of the finest girls I've had the pleasure to acquaint myself with. This conception of incest clearly springs from Shelley and Mary being accompanied to Geneva by Mary's own half-sister, Claire. If Shelley did take her to bed, it is hardly incest - he's not related to her, thank God - simply the free love he practices. Claire was one of my amours - again, nothing impure in that - and happened to be the one dragging the Shelleys to Geneva in the first place. The only possible method of incest amongst my friends at the Villa Diodati would have been if the young Misses Claire and Mary began consorting - which they most certainly did not.
My final word to Southey would be that I'm damned sure half the aristocracy of his dear England have lain with their sisters or mothers - the cloddy climate induces such vices, and brandy cements them - and perhaps he would do better to turn his hypocritical little mind towards them, rather than a wandering exile and his companions in misery.
It's always "it's a problem you sleep till the evening and don't fall asleep till morning" and "Why are you so pale and sickly looking?"
and never "yass go off Lord Byron" and "Percy Shelly core"
I really do not understand why any fellow would wish to be wakeful in the hours of daylight! - That is when the common fellow with his small mind walks abroad!
The night contains all sweetness - poetising, women's love, wine, madness and moonlight!
(( OOC note: just a little reminder that rp is something people do for fun and is not meant to be an accurate recreation of history 🙂 ))
This. While I try to be as historically accurate as I can be because I can be a pedantic butthead; there are time that the RP is just that, and we should not hold others who enjoy RPing to any standard we set for ourselves, nor should we have freakin hissy fits about it if the RP goes into the realms of the silly or bizzare.
LET. PEOPLE. HAVE. FUN. WITH. HISTORY. AND. LET. THEM. CREATE.
I mean, shit. I weave history and fun together. *gestures at all her cartoons and the infamous Bessimu* - BECAUSE THE MORE FUN PEOPLE HAVE, THE MORE LIKELY THEY ARE TO START WANTING TO READ THE HISTORY AND THAT'S HOW A CULT LIFELONG HOBBY IS STARTED!
(OOC: Yes! The entire reason I love doing RP is the mix of historical interest and the opportunity to play with story. It's the combination of two passions - I enjoy being irritatingly pedantic in my RPing too, as that is what I enjoy, but I love the silliness, the off the rails plots, the weird character arcs and the interactions between people who would historically not have got on.
RPing is a group storytelling project, and historical RP allows for storytelling with interesting plot-lines and characters already waiting to be used. If I want to send Byron to the Feywild for some reason, he should go! It's for the sake of seeing how he'd react, as a character.
I really enjoy the silliness and chaos here. There are so many wonderful and talented people engaging in the world we are creating together.)
