#apologues

[pink-toonss]

Inktober day 4: murky

So like okay today's inktober already breaks that i wanted to try for a 'focus' each day. But its ok bc I drew a character ive never drawn before: Hero from the property of hate!! (Tpoh created by the aamzing @modmad on tumblr). I originally wanted to try rendering a puddle but I was on an airplane and so I couldnt find a reference lol. So instead I drew Hero and assok being silly in the mud. Guys go read tpoh go read tpoh go read tpoh go r

[knightofleo]

Masayoshi Fujita | Tears of Unicorn

[francepittoresque]

SOCIÉTÉ | Fables de La Fontaine : appréciées par le public, dépréciées par les critiques ? ➽ https://j.mp/3aDeb9b Si le public plébiscita les Fables dès la parution du premier recueil en 1668, critiques et historiens de la littérature furent longtemps peu soucieux d'admirer dans les apologues de La Fontaine la vertu d'enseigner des vérités morales associée aux dons d'un peintre de la vie, et l'invention d'un genre où les trouvailles du séduisant metteur en scène enrichissent celles de l'habile poète didactique qui eut pour alliée Madame de Sévigné fustigeant les « pédants d'esprit infirme, incapables d'apprécier ces artistes ingénieux »

[queens-guard-xiv]

The Days of Glory

Thavnair, 12 years prior | Vibes

It is a special day in Hannish lands. Their City is in heat, front gates spread like the legs of a harlot welcoming all with coin in hand and debauchery on the mind. The price of a visit, whether traveler or local, merchant or merchandise is undoubtedly your soul, but the thrills are unlike anything else the imagination can conjure.  

Voices clamber for dominance throughout the streets attempting to sell their wares both living and otherwise, and the air is ripe with the stench of sweat and warm bodies shuffled too close to be acceptable anywhere else but a pillowhouse. Yet the main event that attracts people en mass can not be found on the outskirts in these stalls, but at the center of all that was prosperous. One need only follow the clash of ringing steel to the arena where men fight for entertainment, and their lives beneath the jeering of a hostile crowd all too eager for blood to fall.

The chamber walls of the hypogeum tremble violently beneath the weight of  stomping feet, as cascading sand shakes loose and lands in the wild mane of a virgin gladiator and though he knows none of the excitement is for him, the slave considers it the closest thing to a lullaby he has. He knows before the bell is through, those cheers will be for him and if they were not? Well, he would not be able to care for the outcome. Feline ears twitch to the sound of a terrified scream cut short. Another one bites the dust. 

One fighter presumably falls to the other causing the volume of the audience to swell tremendously. Praise and disappointment both intermingle to create a cacophonous reward for the champion. To the victor goes the spoils, so it’s said. It’s an empowering sound, even when not the target of such excitement. With head bowed, a warrior’s prayer is whispered slowly upon his breath, recited from the sacred annals of  ancestors he might yet come to meet, and the throats of captured brothers and sisters he might never meet again. 

“Clamber to the upturned keel..and cold is the Oceans's feel.” 

The doors to the underground hold swing wide with two guards following at the heels of a corpse being dragged by its ankles.The scent of lingering shit taints the tight quarters when it passes through, snaking through the dusty paths where blooded gladiators awaiting their next chance at glory spit and piss on the fresh cadaver in its passing. No tears exist for the memory of a life that might’ve been as what was done before the arena mattered not. 

It’s a face unproven and in such a brotherhood where prowess was measured by the flesh sacrificed to the sands and the notches earned on ones sword, there was no reward in a death unblooded. Many fresh fighters had succumbed that day, and many more likely would. Should he lose, this was to be his fate. Though the odds are far from his favor, he embraces them anyways for the sins that brought him here to begin with. He would die if the Gods willed it for all he’d done. 

“Let not your courage bend, for here your life will end...”

The two guards march to the lion’s cage where his chin lifts to the jingle of fumbled keys  shoved into the grate and his golden eyes glow like two suns in the dark. He’s led by his chains to the fighter’s pit where the weight of his shackles are traded for the more freeing burden of sword, shield, and subligar regalia and where the crowd hisses and spits just outside the pens, hungry for another demise. His demise, no less. 

“Old man, don’t scowl, though winds blow foul...”

The opposition’s Champion is announced to cries more loving -- a fan-favored Goliath with accolades worthy of the title beared...but he would turn their thoughts once he was baptized in the blood of his enemy. This was the way, and there was to be no other for him. Light from the falling sun filters through the grated face plate of his helm, desperate to blind and he knows that the underdog is given the sunset to increase the odds of failure. He does not let this distract him. 

Sword and shield are gripped as something holy, voice growing in ferocity from whispered spring to roaring tide, powerful as he beats the flat of his blade against the metal surface of his hoplon. “With maidens --- you did lie!” The gates rise and so too does the Lion’s adrenaline, as he bounds forward to meet his enemy head on with a powerful slash and vicious warcry. . 

“ONCE, ALL MEN MUST DIE!” 

The Champion’s expectation is not for their opponent to come flying from the opposing end of the arena and though surprised, blade rises to  intercept the Lion’s wild strike at the last second. It’s an eagerness the Champion is all too willing to indulge and steel meets steel fiercely, much to the exhilaration of the crowd. Ferocity is traded back and forth in terrible blows meant to rob the other of limb or life, and for a time the Hellion even seems to be holding his own.

The natural experience of time is the Champion’s advantage however, and each empowered blow is only bated to sap the strength from the youthful beast, barely yet the age of a man. Yet, just like the battlefield, morals could be no obstacle here lest you be the one to fall. All the Champion saw was inexperience in need of correcting and he did so. Brutally. 

The young hrothgar over extends and is pulled off balance to the sands and though he rolls to recover, the bite of the Champion’s blade still catches him between the shoulder blades. The lion’s back is wet and warm when he rises, his roar a mix of pain and ferocity as he resumes the assault with further gusto. Though the slave is familiar with battle, its nothing in comparison to the savagery met here and his hits are batted away as easily as one might a fly. Retaliation comes swift and decisively, until he’s all but being carved where he stands and he realizes then that he’s being toyed with. 

Strength wanes with time and still he pushes on with the knowledge dawning that he can’t possibly win this fight. Victory, or death. It is all he has now. He forsakes neither one to fear though it begins to swell in his chest under the reign of a vicious onslaught of strikes more powerful than the last. The youth’s blade is severed from his grip and his shield splinters under the weight of the final blow. The lion hits the ground, stunned by the impact of such a strike and he can do little else but watch as the Champion  stalks forward and kicks his blade out of reach. 

“Do you hear that little kitten!? “ He begins with arms spread, gesturing to the surrounding crowd. There’s an accent that’s thick and rolling, reminiscent of the hannish locals. “Do you feel that tremble of your heart? While you called for your gods, the people called for your death! And now there is no god left here, but /me/! You may have thought you had a chance! But your life was FORFEIT the moment you stepped through those gates!  And you have only lived this long because I have allowed it!”  

The pressure of abuse keeps the lion low, as Champion’s words were reinforced by a bone shattering stomps and a kick to the chin that removes his helmet from his head. His attempts to crawl away or lash back are simply ignored as demise approaches ever nearer. ”You can feel it now, can’t you -- the fear. I no longer know the sensation, but I can see it in your eyes.”  The Champion's blade rises above the crumpled form and in that moment, the Lion is left to decide --- Victory, or death. 

The weapon plunges and time moves slow. Everything does. From the fall of the weapon, to the drops of beaded sweat that fall from the Champion’s raised arms. The crowd becomes muted, distant, and background to the pounding of his own pulse in his ears before he lunges. Body is thrown towards the remains of what had once been a shield. The spot previously occupied --now empty-- was cleaved in twain, the steel biting down upon the earth instead of flesh. Splintered wood is brandished in the paw of the lion as a weapon of sorts and plunged into the vulnerable space of the Champion’s inner thigh, while unsheathed claws are used to gouge the ankles. 

Achilles tendon is compromised in a spray of crimson as the Champion’s leg buckles beneath the weight of his own massive frame. The wounded giant howls in pained fury, bellowing his curses amidst wild swings and he begins to feel it -- the fear he’d so brazenly denied as the battered slave picks himself up from the ground with all the slow certainty of a shark smelling blood. The gladiator can’t fight the chill that catches his spine when youth’s golden eyes fall upon him, the wild element trapped within such a gaze telling the Champion that his days alive were narrowed now to minutes if he did not give it his all.

The crowd, fickle as it is, turns on their Champion like a pack of starved hounds, eager for any result that ended in blood and now it is the Lion’s turn to play. It’s not an easy victory as the injury does little more than even the odds and when the men collide once more, the lion still has the champion’s formidable strength to deal with. 

The struggle for dominance is unrelentingly violent, depraved of even the barest vestige of humanity as men become animals, primal and unfettered. Its the Goliath that ultimately comes out on top with his hands wrapped around the lion’s throat, screaming bloody murder while the youth’s struggles become erratic. This is it. The lion thinks. It seems then the moment is lost, until -- 

CRACK!

It’s a sound that can be heard even over the shocked gasps of spectators and is followed by a second as the helmet previously discarded is used to strike the Champion in the skull once more. The large man falls over, only to receive the shock of another impact, and then another, as the golden eyed lion straddles him and pins him down. The sickening sounds become less profound and wet as the skull beneath caves under the lion’s brutality, and the feral moment lasts well after the former Champion has stopped breathing. 

As if in a trance, the lion is snapped from the instinct of his kill and he stands on shaky legs stumbling away. There’s stunned silence from the crowd as the lion collects his weapons in shock, but when he exits back to the pit, it’s to the sound of a deafening crowd that cheers only for him. 

[knightofleo]

Masayoshi Fujita | Beautiful Shimmer

[queens-guard-xiv]

What was their worst encounter with another person?

TW beneath the cut - death, child death, graphic implications.

“Too many to count out and pick the ‘worst’.” The bearded lion’s words are formed slowly as he pushes a hand back through his long hair. There is a wryness in his voice that carries no warmth for exception as he continues. “Over time I’ve come to realize that people are born to fuckin’ suck. When given the opportunity, the freedom, most choose cruelty and I have seen the most vile of creatures hiding behind the faces of ‘men’.” 

The strong form of the former Hellion pushes forward, until his weight rests upon powerful forearms and towards his inquirer. Their space was his space now, and his long teeth cage together in a vicious sneer. “I could tell you of things that would make your stomach turn, so where should I start?” What is initially dark amusement, fades into something sober as the question impresses itself upon the lion’s mind, bringing up memories the Hrothgar did not but could not help to reflect upon. Slowly, Halcyon pushes out a long breath, steadying himself before he indulges the question. 

“When I stayed in Ishgard for a time, I would earn my keep as a champion for trials. It made solid gil, and I didn’t particularly care who I represented. Most were naturally, walking shit shows but at the end of the day, it paid well. Living as a sellsword, you don’t get picky when it comes to jobs. I knew a woman there though. This whore from the Brume named Delphine.” He smiles fondly at the name. “She’d patch me up after my fights and in return, I would provide her with gil. She had a newborn on the way and I wanted to see her off the streets. I admit I was sweet on her, and even meant to be a father to her unborn child though nothing…ever truly sparked between us.”

What seemed like a fond memory however, was nothing more than precursor to tragedy as the male’s lips straightened and his tone darkened significantly. 

“She ran afoul of one of her clients. Some noble cunt that I’d scared off once before. He had his eye on her, and not in any good way. Once I’d stepped in, I thought the situation taken care of, but I fucked up…underestimated his obsessiveness. He’d simply gone off to war and came back with fresh hunger. When he saw her state, he wasn’t happy. In truth, the child could have been his given the timeline, but he didn’t fuckin’ believe her.”

“I came to her place that night with the intent of entertaining a hot meal. Do you know what the stench of a burning child smells like? I had thought her to be cooking fresh lamb. I remember my mouth…salivating before I walked in and I remember what the bastard looked like, sitting there on her couch covered in blood. In disbelief, as if even he couldn’t come to terms with what he’d fuckin’ done.” Briefly, the male’s throaty tone breaks under the weight of his words, horror and disgust both present before he inhales a staggering breath to calm the turn of his belly. 

“Delphine had bled out on the floor, but a trail led from her body to the fireplace where I discovered the rest. I…can not recall what I did next, but I was later told much of his body had been crushed to the bones.”  The big guy sniffs, whiskers twitching as he rolls his shoulders forward and rotates his neck until the joints pop audibly. Fallen strands of chocolate are captured with lifted hand and returned behind tufted ears as piercing eyes of gold retain their vigilance upon inquirer’s visage. 

“Was that the tale you wanted to hear? Either way, fuck off.” 

[queens-guard-xiv]

@snowbound-brews​

Nothing fancy, but I hope it fits your needs. Merry Starlight, ya' cunt. 

    ~H.

A note given alongside a bundled package. Revealed, it appears to be a fresh alchemist's satchel. As stated, there's nothing over the top about it but it bears a unique pattern of colorfully stitched string, webbed in a circle with beaded feathers hanging from the flap.

There's a good weight to it too, and when sides are unclasped the bag unfurls into a full display kit. It appears to be fully stocked with a variety of essentials one might need for an expedition and while compact, seems to hold quite a bit: 

Among the supplies are empty vials, suture needles, mortar and pestle, some dry herbs already bundled and stocked for health, fortitude, and stamina. There’s a small notepad and charcoal box for sketches, an adjustable looking piece for better observation of fine details in a specimen and a nifty alchemical guide to some of the regions more exotic plants and their uses.

[queens-guard-xiv]

It's a last minute decision, but one Halcyon was determined to see through. For much of the morning and even late day, the lion hunted. Not for prey, but for parts, seeking rare metals, and stones before scouring the beach for his final details. The rest of his time is spent at the forge, and though he's out of practice with more intricate detailing, determination sees him prevail in enough time for him to slip into Hotaru's room and leave behind a small gift. 

 The box itself was elongated and a deep brown, reminiscent of the male's fur and laced with a golden satin ribbon that slipped undone at the lightest touch. It weighed hardly anything but one got the sense they should handle it with care. With cover removed what lay within was a pendant hanging on delicate gold chain. The pendent itself was a tiny anchor forged of wrought iron. 

At the shank of the miniature anchor, the chain was connected and slipped through a colorful seashell just large enough to house the pendent against a opalescent background which shimmered as ocean scales in the sun. 

 A more perceptive eye might notice the styled 'H' engraved upon the crown of the anchor. Cleverly left for the owner to decide if it stood for their name..or his?

The note attached simple yet cheeky, ‘Happy Starlight, hun. Might be more later. Tis’ the season of giving and receiving after all.’

@hotaruffxiv