oliviaaaahr

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MC Name: womankisser66 Discord: oliviaaaahr Image: Description of Image: logo for my hookah lounge Dimensions: 1x1

I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE ARTWORK BELOW. [A young Antigone caring for an injured Aleksandra c. 1953] IN WHAT REALM must a girl sit and watch idle as one parent is martyred, and the other, nearly slain in her desire for justice; true Justice, where the culprit is punished accordingly, righteously, by the servants of GOD, through His word and teachings—that justice. A man taken from his family, a King taken from his people, all in a night’s work by those you so fervently protect. If a man of any house may slay a king and come forth unscathed, with the reward of maintaining his land; if he may come forth unscathed, with the reward of no consequence to match his crimes; if he may come forth unscathed, with the reward of watching the righteous writhe and shriek as his unholy, impious path continues, like generations prior—KINSLAYER! KINGSLAYER! – What is there to stop those with similar ambitions? What punishment, what JUSTICE weighs their conscience? THE ANSWER IS QUITE SIMPLE. None. Blood has been shed, lives have been lost, and yet you stand idle, tail tucked neat between your trembling, unsteady legs. COWARDS. COWARDS. Anonymous, you hide behind papers and exaggerate a story in which my mother’s agony is turned comical for your amusement? Well, I shall not remain anonymous; I am no coward. I share with the realm my name. I am ANTIGONE RENATA VON ALSTREIM and I condemn all those involved—STASSION, and the useless bystanders—to a suffering far worse than what my family has suffered, than what my mother has suffered at your hands. Was my father’s blood not enough to soak them? You, too, desire her life? Does it truly humor you? Does it bring you joy? A Saint’s week has not passed and yet, you sit like vultures ‘round your writing tables, scribbling down your profound, vile words and jests. See—I, too, have a splendid sense of comedy. ONE; a woman warns her Kingdom that impending doom is on their doorsteps. In turn, the woman is verbally and socially crucified, driven out from the land she has given her life & children to. TWO; the woman, and the Dowager Queen (in which her charges are alleged), are imprisoned shortly after – for the act of warning against a traitorous family with no loyalty to any but their own (and only on special occasions may that be the case). THREE; the woman returns home, graced with numerous visits and letters from those in her old Kingdom – a wondrous mix between condemning her actions and begging for her return. FOUR; the PUNCHLINE. The family the woman had warned her council against acts swiftly, SLAUGHTERING the King and the woman’s husband, the King’s most trusted confidant, in movements speedier than one may blink. A trial was held for the murderer, and he received NO PUNISHMENT. The woman acts, as the many times she stood idle and heeded her council’s power and respected such, NOTHING was done; and so, she attempts to take one life in exchange for the two. Those around turn against the woman and BRUTALIZE her beyond recognition. They brutalize her until her face is black and blue, swollen ‘til her eyes could not blink nor open. They brutalize, and let the murderer roam free. As the mob attacks the woman, her children in that Kingdom stand idle – even her eldest boy, her cherished son, her HEIR – the one that is meant to take his father’s mantle and PROTECT his mother, along with those in his Principality. They do not even take the barely-conscious woman to a clinic to ensure she is not harmed more than they intended (despite their intentions being truly GRIEVOUS and GRIM). To the Margrave of Stassion, the PRINCE OF NOTHING; to the blasphemous “MADAME THORN”; and the ONLOOKERS that stood by and let the honorable Aleksandra Milena, my mother, be DISFIGURED and MAIMED. . . I WATCH, AND I WAIT, AND I VY FOR JUSTICE. JUST AS MY MOTHER DID. HER LADYSHIP, Antigone Renata Petra Calliope Margarethe von Alstreim [!] ATTACHED TO THE MISSIVE IS ONE FAMILIAR IN BOTH ITS FERVOR & PASSION AND ITS STYLE; AND ANOTHER, LESS ELOQUENT, BUT EQUALLY AS DRAMATIC.

A young Antigone Renata skims the missive at her poor mother's side, amidst her brief bouts of consciousness and slumber. She lets loose a shriek, and skulks away from Aleksandra's bedside - slamming pen to paper.

“The King was felled, Antigone, and vy know that Father would niet leave his side.” ✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ The words went without saying – or, perhaps, Alexandra simply lacked the strength to say them. “Go to the palace, sestra. Mamej will want to speak to us." ✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ Even the most worldly wise-man cannot put to paper the proper words when one experiences loss; even the most courageous knight cannot process the grieving steps without faltering in his strides; and, even the most optimistic girl cannot look past the insinuations of her sister and wish for the best. One Antigone Renata paces through the snow, doll in one small, pudgy hand, and her skirts hitched in the other. Her breaths are quick, shallow, and coated in mucus from a cold she only just recovered. What? Her head is blank, and then it is not. Her imaginative, curious little mind shrieks and curls in on itself, attacking her with horrific sights and assumptions that she's unable to fend off. Her father, injured. Her father, bloodied and bruised. Her father, dead. He did not get to straighten her posture and correct her fencing. He did not get to subject himself to the torture of her flower-crowns and failed dessert-making. He did not get to guide her down the aisle and greet any of her children into the world. How? How, how... how? How did he die? Why did he die? Why now? Why not of old age, when he and mamej reunited and the family could stand as one, once more? When her dark gray eyes - her father's eyes - flutter open, Antigone finds herself on the cobble road before the palace, snow and ice soaking into her dress and sending a righteous chill through her bod. She wipes her face - and finds tears. When did that happen? She couldn't recall. When was the last time she had truly cried? Again, she couldn't recall. Now, the tears trailed freely, and she held her doll close, clutching it for dear life ere each sob and hack. Somewhere in her mind, she imagined it to be him.

yay herbs and drugs!

Billowing gusts whipped ashen-strewn tresses of a familiar dame, as she stood perched 'pon the balcony of her humble, Florentinian abode. A, tap, tap, tap, disposed cinder from a locally-produced cigar, and a rattle & cough expelled the plumes from cracked lips. Pale focals drifted to the sun; the way it began to set 'pon the horizon, dipping below & out of sight for the night to come. "Mój najdroższy Dante. My invitation has long expired. Gdzie? Gdzie jesteś?" Hissed the wretched crone, and cast away was her foul habit; with irritation prone in her visage and stride, she took to paper, etching supposedly cruel things at this unspoken rejection. His absence in the community was expected, given prior communications & schemes; yet, to be uninformed? She, uninformed? A slight not easily forgotten. A gesture that caused the sable-locked dame's foul temper to simmer and boil. "Ah, głupi chłopiec. Nie - coward you are, lowly cur of a proper man. Show your face, now; won't you?" Ah. Through the whirling fury in that lady's conscious, a single revelation came. And later in their time, the insult would be forgiven - face to wonted - yet, unwonted - face. . . in mildew-soaked tombs and catacombs of a primordial thew. Her vehemence would fade, and their work; their bickering & mutual distaste, mutual respect; it all would resume as it would, were he himself, Dante; and now, great things would be done.

people are comparing a minecraft server ban to a genocidal event in history i dont think i can do this anymore

[!] Around churches and other places most Holy were these articles passed about. "beady eyes he watches gather 'round & be gathered as his flock his cattle his heard submit to the higher lower middle power fall into his hooved grasp & be led"

mama

A certain dame of onyx tresses and a piercing gaze glanced the missive; something in her expression faltered at the sight, and she couldn't help but approach, fingers tracing those profound etchings. "..Ah," she'd whisper, breath catching and hitching in her throat. "Seems it all caught up to you, didn't it?" Before any other sorrow could be expressed in front of such a crowd, that bustling street- she swept away and ducked throughout each cloaked figure, each powdered dame, and stalked off towards her humble abode.

She lazily pans aside to her fallen compatriot and barely stifles the snort that escapes her. "The reason this happened, my sweet- my Ysidora," she began to chide, piercing eyes returning to her own reflection which shone in the aforementioned dame's mirror, "...is because of pacifists like you. Mrm. A lovely characteristic- but it's one that shall get you nowhere, in this world." With a clatter, Marion rummaged about for her cigar box- and hissed through grit teeth, ".. something- something must be done."

A raven-haired dame's gaze is locked beyond the panes of her window. Her fingers drum 'gainst a half-written letter, unsent - as she ponders recent news. [reserved]

why do you look like that (little pink thing on the computer)