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Day 14 of Mogeko March 2025, the prompt of the day was "ships" and i suppose crackships enter that category, so here's a (quick and a bit rushed) drawing of Silone x Shirogane! ------ Dia 14 del Mogeko March 2025, la tematica del dia era "ships" y supongo que las crackships entran en esa categoria, asi que aqui hay un (rapido y bastante apresurado) dibujo de Silone x Shirogane!

#my art #okegom #funamuseart #ice scream #shirogane #shirogane ice scream #shirogane okegom #silone #crackship #shipping #ship art #ship #mogeko march 2025

Questi uomini in camicia nera, d’altronde, noi li conoscevamo. Per farsi coraggio essi avevano bisogno di venire di notte. La maggior parte puzzavano di vino, eppure a guardarli da vicino, negli occhi, non osavano sostenere lo sguardo. Anche loro erano povera gente. Ma una categoria speciale di povera gente, senza terra, senza mestiere, o con molti mestieri, che è lo stesso, ribelli al lavoro pesante; troppo deboli e vili per ribellarsi ai ricchi e alle autorità, essi preferivano di servirli per ottenere il permesso di rubare e opprimere gli altri poveri, i cafoni, i fittavoli, i piccoli proprietari. Incontrandoli per strada e di giorno, essi erano umili e ossequiosi, di notte e in gruppo cattivi, malvagi, traditori. Sempre essi erano stati al servizio di chi comanda e sempre lo saranno. Ma il loro raggruppamento in un esercito speciale, con una divisa speciale, e un armamento speciale, era una novità di pochi anni. Sono essi i cosiddetti fascisti. La loro prepotenza aveva anche un’altra facilitazione. Ognuno di noi, fisicamente, valeva almeno tre di loro; ma cosa c’era di comune tra noi? che legame c’era? Noi eravamo tutti nella stessa piazzetta ed eravamo nati tutti a Fontamara; ecco cosa c’era di comune tra noi cafoni, ma niente altro. Oltre a questo, ognuno pensava al caso suo; ognuno pensava al modo di uscire, lui, dal quadrato degli uomini armati e di lasciarvi magari gli altri; ognuno di noi era un capo di famiglia, pensava alla propria famiglia. Forse solo Berardo pensava diversamente, ma lui non aveva né terra né moglie. Nel frattempo si era fatto tardi.

Ignazio Silone, Fontamara (1ª ed. originale: Verlag Dr. Oprecht & Helbling AG., Zurigo, maggio 1933; 1ª ed. italiana: Editore Faro, Roma, 1947).

i drew the hot dog on the block 😎 from okegom 👌

#okegom #Silone #my art

#Lobco defense squad is a go!#dash commentary #silone

#funamusea #bad boy au #silone #renpais art #doodle #god i love her i hat guitars #*hate

@silone

“Can’t sleep?”

The owl raised the question, starting at the other with a serious but concerned look on her face. She was a strict adult figure at times, but it’s mainly because she cares of course!

#silone

One foot on the platform...

Evening descended over the quiet dunes of Thanalan. Though the hum of the wind drew spirals of its golden sand to sway, the desert was ultimately quiet that night. Overhead the waning moon shone what light it could down across it, feathering shadows to swarm the land. A lone figure traveled a small, barely noticeable path cleared through the grain towards a tiny canyon. Leather billowed as another gust of wind drifted across the plain, bringing with it the faintest hint of a cooked meal. The closer he drew, digging his feet into the sand with every step, the more that scent gripped the air. Roast, he pondered, with none-too-subtle a smile etched on his features. A dim aura of light pervaded the opening in the ground as he neared, and gazed down on the quiet sanctuary that had become his home.

“Did you get the bad men?” The small chime of her voice would’ve startled him, had he not caught sight of her hiding behind a small boulder a few feet away. As it was her tracks still lay in shallow markers on the sand. When she rose up from the hiding spot, there was a dimpled smile on the young girl’s features. Innocent and carefree. “We did, child. We got the bad men, and saved the good.” The sight of wonder in a child’s eyes could warm the coldest heart, even one touched by the shadows of their world. Sand kicked up in her wake before he felt her slam to his side with arms wrapped tightly around him. There was an urgency in her hug, that relief at seeing him back and whole. “There is more, Serena. I have a Starlight gift for you, if you have been good. Have you?” The prospect of a gift was enough to pull the young girl from her anxious worry, as the Stranger knelt down and took her arms to either hand. She nodded furiously as they locked their eyes, and a knowing smile touched his lips. “Good, I want you to count to close your eyes, count to ten, then open them.” Of course she did so. They slammed shut and before a second had passed she was counting. One, two, three, her giggling held it there a moment as she waited. Four, five, six, seven. His hand turned her just enough to face out towards the desert where he’d come from, and while confusion knit her brows she continued. Eight....nine.....te- “Serena?” It wasn’t his voice, but that of a woman nestled against the side of a man, her husband. Their clothes were ratty and torn, their faces and hair dirt stained and bruised in places. Yet they held fast to one another as though their lives depended on it, until they caught sight of her. “Ma-” Serena’s eyes flashed open the moment the familiar notes of her mother’s voice called out. She stared dumbfounded for a moment before tears filled her eyes. “MAMA, PAPA!” Before any of them could think they were running together, a tangle of arms and hair and stained cheeks. They wept together as the three embraced, and fell to the sands of the desert. Torn apart by the greed of another, and set to be sold in some obscure mine, the three had finally been reunited. Scars hung like stubborn markers around their wrists, but for that one moment the pain was forgotten. The shadows that had driven them apart blasted away by light. He watched them for a time, though too short to be a nuisance before his steps carried him further into his sanctuary. Others looked and waved, but most were so caught up in the festivities of the season. There was warmth and laughter, good food and better drink shared between them. Yet he carried himself down a dark hallway towards a simple wooden door. It bore no carvings or marks, just aged grain and a heavy iron latch. A click and a whine gave way as the door opened, spilling torchlight into the otherwise darkened room. It was quiet there, muted almost, and with a sense of calm that no other place had ever held for him. His feet carried him around the small enclosure, a small bit of wood lit at the end now lighting the scattered candles. Shadows were chased away until the simple furnishings came to view. A small writing desk, a bed lined with furs and blankets. It was as plain a room as any one might expect, save the cabinet tucked in the corner. Hands peeled the garments from his body, bruises and a few markings still staining his skin red. They would need to be bandaged, but for the moment other matters called his attention. The creak of wood hit the air as the Stranger settled in, a slip of parchment and quill in hand. Ink gathered against the tip before the faint tapping removed the excess bits, and he set to the paper. “To the Woman in Red.....”