#Alcoran

[bsuddmr8mzg]

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[ief81lmikra]

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[rotworld]

1: Decadence

each year, the kingdom of ilcordia commemorates the death of a tyrannical king with a day of feasts and festivals. you see nothing to celebrate about.

->explicit. contains dubcon/noncon, gore, graphic depiction of corpses, various methods of public execution, angst, threesome (kind of), necrophilia (kind of).

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The finest dyes of dawn adorn Lynzveth, City of Beauty. Light shimmers prismic through twisting crystal spires and gilds the gentle waves of the Divinitas River. Flowering trees scatter starburst petals like dots of paint across the Moonstone Promenade. There are only the softest wisps of gossamer clouds drifting across the sky and the warm winds of spring. It is splendid weather for the Day of the Tyrant’s Demise. 

Tranaud, the King’s Ear, catches you slinking out of the royal servant’s quarters long after the day’s festivities has begun. He seizes you by the arm before you can slip past him. “Your mask,” he hisses. You can hardly see him through all the silk and finery, ruffles and scarves and pearls lining the seams of his robes. His mask holds a tranquil expression, emerald blush dusting the sculpted cheeks. “You cannot leave the palace like that. Do not dawdle. His Eternal Eminence will be displeased.” He hears your sigh before you exhale it, snapping, “Now, Eye.” 

You would drag your feet just to spite him, but you’re already running late. When you return, your face covered, Tranaud nods in approval and lets you pass. Merchants gather just beyond the palace bridge, selling silks, pigments and alcoran flowers, their opal blossoms in full, glittering bloom. Children play with toy swords, shrieking and laughing. Their small masks are tipped with horns and flowers, little cherub wings. The one playing the part of the Tyrant is cornered at the edge of a fountain, teetering on the stone edge. “Kill him!” the others cry out in glee, closing in with their paper lances and daggers. “Stab him! Drown him! Slit his throat! As many times as it takes!” 

The glassy, crystal path of the Moonstone Promenade sparkles beneath the noon sun. Rainbows of light arc across a makeshift stage, tasseled velvet curtains and elaborate costumes speckled with kaleidoscopic splendor. The crowd is enormous, gathered on all sides of the elevated stage platform. You spot King Leolis in his ornate robes easily, enormously tall and surrounded by dignitaries. It’s easy to reach him. The crowd parts for you, native Ilcordians bowing in deference, outsiders shrinking back with unease and suspicion. Unnerved the smooth strangeness of your mask, the inhuman shapes, the lack of holes for eyes. 

“A Blessed Day of the Tyrant’s Demise to you, Eye,” King Leolis murmurs. His twin masks are opposites, one of jagged gold and ivory, one of smooth silver and obsidian, sun and moon. The sun mask gazes up at the stage while the other is downturned, scrutinizing you. A noblewoman hangs on his arm—a foreigner, her face bare. She has powdered her face, rouged her lips, painted her eyes in an imitation of the local style with shimmering inks. She makes herself smile brightly, intent on holding this single expression without the slightest twitch. She has tried, meticulously, to make herself resemble a Lynzvethian mask, an effort you find both amusing and pitiable. 

“Which one are you?” she asks. “I’ve met the Ear and the Tongue already. What a delightfully strange practice!”

“The Eye, my lady,” you say. She hesitates to offer her hand, flinching when you press your porcelain mask against her fingers in an imitation of a kiss.

The reenactment is half over. You’ve arrived just in time for the Tyrant’s death by disembowelment. The executioner’s black robes flutter behind her like a crow’s wings as she crosses the stage, ceremonial dagger clutched in one gloved hand. Her beaked mask is scarlet, wreathed with blood red feathers and a veil of black lace. “How unsightly, this beast that once ruled!” she recites. “He has defied the noose and scorned the flame. Shall he face my blade with the same impenitence?” 

The Tyrant, bound to a wooden beam, struggles against his bindings. There is a crack in the facade of his weeping mask, tears of sapphire dotting the golden cheeks. “Please don’t do this,” he begs. “Please, I—there’s been a mistake. I’ve been loyal all my life.”

The noblewoman’s discomfort is obvious. She shifts, the beads and baubles along her dress clinking together. “What is it that you do, exactly? Eyes and Ears and whatnot,” she asks. 

“Ilcordian monarchs are blessed by the heavens,” King Leolis says. He strokes her arm through one velvet sleeve, drawing her gaze to the serene expression of his sun mask. “We manifest our will through these appendages. An Ear and Eye to learn all that happens in the realm, a Tongue to speak what is decreed…”

“Peculiar,” she says. “We have a royal spymaster for such things.”

“A spymaster can’t do what I can,” you say.

On stage, the executioner unsheathes the ceremonial dagger. The blade glints in the golden light, sharpened to a razor point. She begins the Butcher’s Lament, long, poetic verse about duty, honor and the cleansing of sin, drowned out by the Tyrant’s shrieks. “King Leolis!” he screams. “I’ve done nothing wrong! I’ve done nothing—!” 

“This death I give with pleasure!” the executioner declares. She glides forward, dagger in hand. With vengeful purpose, she drives the blade into the Tyrant’s chest. The sound is a dull, wet thunk. The executioner must always be an actor of great strength and dexterity to strike through flesh, and sinew, to saw through layer upon layer of sacrificial garment and expose the flesh beneath, and to do it all with style. This one is perhaps the best you’ve ever seen. She works with artful precision and wild ecstasy all at once, soft giggles turning to raucous laughter as she begins to gut the Tyrant like a fresh kill. Ilcordians cheer and applaud, chanting, “The Tyrant’s Demise! The Tyrant’s Demise!” Foreigners shift and murmur, hesitantly excited. They were warned, surely, heard stories at the very least, but to see it is another thing, you suppose. 

“I’ve always admired the Ilcordian flair for spectacle,” the noblewoman says. “You make an art of everything.” Blood spatters across the stage and wets the executioner’s gloves. She plunges her fist into the gaping wound, wrenching a length of pulsating intestine from the Tyrant’s stomach. He makes a gurgling, weeping sound, sagging in his bindings. You watch. A dull heat ignites in the pit of your stomach, a quiet rage. 

This is a farce. A disappointing imitation. The Ilcordians who were here that day know it as well as you do, but they’re willing to swallow this uninspired forgery. The real thing, you recall, was indescribably beautiful. 

“Is it true you had to kill him six times?” the noblewoman asks. 

“Eleven, actually,” King Leolis says. He chuckles at her wide eyes and soft gasp. “A dreadful business, but it’s behind us now.” 

“For that, I’m grateful. The old king—the Tyrant,” she quickly corrects as King Leolis’ cold, moon mask turns towards her, “his war against the northern provinces came dangerously close to our borders. I woke each morning to smoke on the horizon, fearing the worst.” 

“Never again,” King Leolis vows. He touches her openly, shamelessly, his hand sliding from her arm to the small of her back as he draws her in. “War is not my way. You will see that, in time.” The noblewoman’s facade nearly crumbles, the corner of her lips twitching, her eyes half-lidded with desire. You wonder what she, and all foreigners, think is beneath an Ilcordian’s mask. Ear has told you all manner of bizarre rumors he overhears, that your masks magically change themselves to suit your soul, that you die if they break, that the masks are your faces. She must believe the latter. Unfortunate, you think. If King Leolis manages to lure her to his bedchambers tonight, she’s unlikely to survive the night.

“Could you send your Eye away?” she asks quietly.

King Leolis’ masks both turn towards you, lingering behind her. He says nothing. You stare back at those mismatched faces, both gentle and stern. He is, to the outsiders, austere and imposing, towering over mere mortals. To you, he is no better than the reenactment, the impotent squelch of flesh unraveling around a blade, a shadow cast by a greater being. You say, with a sweeping bow, “If that is what the lady wishes.” You know that King Leolis lets out the breath he was holding only when you have crossed the Moonstone Promenade and gone far, far away.

Veyette, the King’s Tongue, stands in the town square, drowning in an extravagant gown. The lips of her black mask are stretched in a wide, golden smile, a crescent moon and stars painted across her features. She stands straight-backed, hands clasped together, as motionless as stone. “His Eternal Eminence welcomes you to the City of Beauty,” she says, her voice smooth and pleasing. “Partake in all that intrigues you. Indulge in all that pleases you. That is the Ilcordian way.”

You’re restless. It’s hard to sit still for long. Another, more grand production of the reenactment is staged at the amphitheater, a venue of greenery and marble columns with the scent of flowers wafting through the air. You drift through during the infamous scene where a mob of Lynzvethians storm the palace, disinterested even as the Tyrant is dragged across the stage in chains, sobbing, “Don’t just stand there! Help me! Do something! You really think Leolis is any better? You think it won’t be you up here next year?” 

Courtesans in lavender masks travel in search of the lonely and unoccupied, alcorans and their winding stems painted beside their eyes. They whisper to starstruck outsiders about the coming celebrations, a performance of movement and pleasure held in the royal gardens beneath the moon. Gossip is everywhere. A horde of nobles corner you in the marketplace, fishing for secrets. “King Leolis is refreshing, isn’t he? More fond of the pen than the sword,” one says. 

“He is what he is,” you say, amused. Outsiders are fun to look at with their expressive, fearful eyes and quivering lips. 

“Do you think he’s interested in increasing trade with the western realms?” another presses.

“I wouldn’t know.” 

“I suppose you haven’t been his Eye for long. He only ascended to the throne four years ago. How does that work, anyway? It sounds like sorcery. You simply came into existence when he became king?” 

“I’m not his,” you say. The nobles make even more interesting faces. You watch their skin stretch and furrow, their mouths twisting into worried frowns. 

“That mouth will get you into trouble one of these days.” Oanick, the King’s Hand, drapes his spidery fingers over your shoulder. Swirls of silver are embossed across his mask, a colorful diamond pattern adorning the edges. “Honored guests,” he addresses the outsiders, tilting his tricorn hat, “don’t mind this one. The Eye is a creature of riddles. We are the appendages of His Eternal Eminence. King is such an uninspired title in comparison.” His grip slides down to your wrist and he drags you away, heels clicking across the stone path. 

“Are you upset with me for telling the truth?” you ask.

“You forget yourself. You are to watch. Nothing more.” He doesn’t look quite as absurd as the rest of you, permitted sleeker, more subdued garments, embroidered sleeves hugging his long, slender arms. Together, you make your way back to the palace. You pass the marketplace, Veyette still speaking words that are not her own, “His Eternal Eminence asks only that you enjoy yourself to the fullest. Take what you wish and do as you desire.” The reenactment has ended at the Moonstone Promenade, the crowd dispersing. King Leolis and his conquest are already gone, onto the next spectacle. 

“I’m tired of this,” you say. “Tired of all of this.” 

“He does not want to see you like this, Eye.” 

“He’s dead,” you say. 

“Even so.” 

One must pass through the palace gates, the gardens, and the servant’s quarters before finally reaching the royal cemetery. The air is cold here. The grass is gray and brittle, the sky swirling with clouds. There is sunlight beyond the trees but it doesn’t reach here. They call this strangeness “Ilcordian gloom,” and it was once everywhere. It shrouded Lynzveth in its smothering embrace. It followed the royal army into battle. It crept through the earth and menaced the frail realms on the borders of Ilocrdia, threatening to overtake them. Now, it can only be found here. 

Oanick leads you to a mausoleum, the eclipsing sun and moon of the royal crest adorning the heavy, stone doors. He splays one of his long-fingered hands against the stone and pushes. You see it, and he must feel it—how all of Ilcordia trembles when that first wisp of accursed air seeps out. The darkness within is deeper than night. A set of stairs spirals into the abyss. 

You don’t speak to Oanick for the entire descent, and he doesn’t speak to you. It takes everything you have to keep walking, to keep yourself from turning around. That heat in your chest burns hotter, fires of anger licking the inside of your lungs. You long for this, year after year. You dread this more than anything. Deep in the earth, covered in cobwebs, cave moss and ancient dust, lies the tomb of the old king. There is no casket. No headstone. No surviving monument that bears his name. There is only an old throne and his corpse seated upon it, still bearing the wounds of his executions.

He wears the thin, ashy remains of his once splendid robes, his head concealed behind crude burlap, the hood of the executed. Chains bind him and long, iron rods nail him to the throne. His throat is slit and gaping, his bones prominent through stretched, emaciated skin. A rope of intestine dangles from the grotesque woud in his chest, a flayed display of flesh peeled back and held open by insect pins. A snapped noose hangs around his neck. And yet, when you set foot in this old, forgotten place, you see the corpse move. His fingers flex and curl. His chest heaves with rattling breaths. He lifts his head and you feel his gaze. 

Oanick shoves you so hard you stumble. You catch yourself on the armrests of the throne, face-to-face with the grotesque husk of the old king. You look back and he shakes his head. An apology. The action wasn’t his.

 

“Your Eternal Eminence,” you murmur, stroking the mangled, pale hand of the corpse. “You see what I see. But do you see it the way I do? I wonder what you think of all this sometimes.” It’s with some difficulty that you climb into his lap, straddling his bony hips. The chains and sharpened stakes dig into you, catching on your extravagant clothing. You push yourself closer, leaning against his chest. You hear lace tearing. You don’t care. He’s so vast compared to you, even bigger than King Leolis. He towers over you, even seated. “I don’t get it,” you admit. “He’s not much different than you. He does all the same, awful things, but more carefully. He dresses them up, gilds them. There was never any pretension to your cruelty.”

The old king sucks in a low, rumbling breath through his dead lungs. One finger twitches like a dying spider’s limb.

“What do you think of that? Do you think anything anymore?” you ask him, running your hands across his chest, feeling the unraveling silk turn to ash beneath your fingers. It’s maddening. Dead eleven times over, gray as the stone around him, and still so regal. Long, unkempt hair trickles out of the burlap hood and spills down his shoulders, the same immaculate color as the stone path of the Moonstone Promenade. You lean into him, rest your head against his cold chest. His heart beats a faint, stuttered rhythm, once with each breath. “I have always hated being your Eye,” you say. “But I hate this even more.”

You hear the click of Oanick’s heels and then his hands are on you, curling over your shoulders. They’re the same as the old king’s. Smaller, more delicate, but the same spindly fingers, the same firm, confident grasp. You can hear him panting as the old king’s arousal overtakes him, his breath warming the nape of your neck. He took his mask off. A shiver runs through you. 

“I have nightmares where you take your vengeance,” you tell the corpse. “You reclaim everything. Your kingdom. Your palace. You take us, and we are whole again.” You hear your clothing coming apart, seams ripping on Oanick’s sharpened nails. The chill of the mausoleum hits your bare skin, shoulders first and then the expanse of your back. Your hands rise to the hood of the executed, feeling for the shape of the old king’s jaw. You touch him through the burlap, frame his face against your palms. “And when I wake up, I feel the Ilcordian gloom on my skin and in my lungs. And I’m hateful and afraid.” 

Oanick’s lips caress the shell of your ear. His fingers hook into the strings holding your mask in place and you feel indignation. He doesn’t deserve to see you. It’s his fault that Leolin took power, his fault that this new age of masks and make believe began. “Don’t,” you whimper. 

Oanick hesitates. The old king does not. The string snaps and you hear the porcelain shatter on the mausoleum floor. Oanick feels you with the king’s hands, tracing your jaw, your lips, the shape of your eyes. All of them, along your cheeks and bared forearms, wiping away the tears gathering like pearls on your collarbones. It’s the old king who grabs your hips with careless, sharp fingers, the old king who blankets himself against your back as his hands roam your body. Oanick whispers apologies and kisses your neck, and he is just as lost and broken, a disembodied appendage. 

“Let us go,” you beg him. Oanick inhales sharply behind you. Your insolence is rewarded with a hand twisting in your hair and pulling hard on your scalp. The old king takes you both.

Oanick gasps and shivers as he buries his cock inside of you, his lower half moving against his will. It’s misery, shivering in the lap of a dead thing that will not die. He is cruel through Oanick, making his hands pinch and scratch you, leaving marks in your skin. Every thrust pushes you harder against his cold body. You feel his malevolence like a fog in the air, a burning smog in your lungs. You understand, without words, without anything but how frantically Oanick begins to fuck you and his teeth sink into your neck, that he still wants with the same terrifying ferocity he held in life, he still desires. 

Oanick bounces you on his lap. His nails sink into your hip like knives in your skin and every thrust makes them cut deeper. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, but his kisses have turned harsh and biting. The flesh of your shoulder crunches between his teeth and you shiver at the hot press of his tongue against the wound. The pain is not as terrible as the yearning in your chest, the knowledge that this, too, is a pale imitation. A theatrical performance of something greater. The old king watches you shiver and cry as his stand-in fucks you harder, the slap of his hips against yours echoing in the emptiness of the mausoleum.

You cry out when Oanick’s hands wrap around your abdomen and you’re pulled into the rhythm of his thrusts like a toy. He slams into you and holds you still, stammering more useless apologies as you writhe. Oanick's hand wraps around your throat and starts to squeeze. Your fingers scrape at his wrist, tearing the delicate fabric of his sleeve. He rolls his hips and your eyes roll back in your head. 

“He wants you to beg,” Oanick says. 

“I won’t,” you mutter, and he starts to choke you again. 

There is no time in the abyssal darkness of this tomb, no way of knowing how long you’re there, lungs burning, shivering between Oanick and the old king. You are broken and put back together, granted just a glimpse of wholeness. Oanick grasps your hips as he starts to move again, pounding into you faster than before. You find yourself with your arms over the old king’s bony shoulders, your fingers tangled in his hair. Your lips move mindlessly against burlap, kissing something you can only remember. His mouth doesn’t move. He does not speak, does not return your devotion. But there is rigidity in the old king that wasn’t there before, intention that does not belong to the dead. You feel, distinctly, that you are seen, beheld by hidden eyes. You feel him like a fist around your heart, squeezing until you burst. 

Far above in the streets of Lynzveth, the King’s Tongue cannot help the satisfied smirk that crosses her lips. “The King is dead,” she says in a voice not her own, “long live the King.”

#rotpeach writes #goretober #starting the month off with a weird one lmfao #original

[chattering-magpie-uk]

Francis Bacon (1561 - 1626) - Essays (1625) ‘Of Atheism’

I had rather believe all the fables in the legend, and the Talmud, and the Alcoran, than that this universal frame is without a mind.

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[mj-blog-spot]

Alejandra Arado Heir, etc. V. Anacleto Alarcon, et, al., G.R. No. 163362, July 8, 2015

Artcle 172

Facts: Raymundo Alcoran was married to Joaquina Arado, and their marriage produced a son named Nicolas Alcoran. In turn, Nicolas married Florencia, but their union had no offspring. Nicolas had an extramarital affair with Francisca Sarita, who gave birth to respondent Anacleto Alcoran on July 13, 1951 during the subsistence of Nicolas’ marriage to Florencia.

Raymundo died leaving properties to Nicolas and his wife. Nicolas died subsequently leaving the properties to his illegitimate son. Joaquina died shortly thereafter with a will. Anacleto claims entitlement to the properties as the heir of Nicolas and by virtue of the will executed by Joaquina

ISSUE: Whether or not an illegitimate child has a right to inherit from his father.

RULING: No, an illegitimate child has no right to inherit ab intestato from the legitimate children and relatives of his father or mother, as provided for under Article 992 of the Civil Code; in the same manner, such children or relatives shall not inherit from the illegitimate child. As certified in Diaz v. Intermediate Appellate Court, the right of representation is not available to illegitimate descendants of legitimate children in the inheritance of a legitimate grandparent. Anacleto could not inherit from the estate of Joaquina by virtue of the latter’s last will and testament. Article 838 of the Civil Code dictates that no will shall pass either real or personal property unless the same is proved and allowed in accordance with the Rules of Court. In Gallanosa v. Arcangel that in order that a will may take effect, “it has to be probated, legalized or allowed in the proper testamentary proceeding. The probate of the will is mandatory.”

#@judgeprincess

[xdanfx]

AFGHANISTAN | With the return of the Afghan political situation to the media, Adventists and other evangelicals appropriated the event to assert the superiority of Christianity in the name of "women's freedom." This discourse, however, carries a US imperialist ideological baggage that limits the issue of freedom to how much skin an Afghan woman can publicly show; and, furthermore, it reinforces a misleading notion of Western "Judeo-Christian" superiority, which not only justifies US intervention in the country, but detracts from the moral and religious values ​​of Islam. The freedom of Afghan women, in fact, has strong religious convictions, based on the Koran, and which are often aligned with the feminist struggle. It must be understood on its own terms, not from Western intentions. 

To read the full article, visit  www.revistazelota.com and contribute to independent Adventist journalism in Latin America.

Written by: Gercyane Oliveira and André Kanasiro Instagram: @revistazelot @gessmylena

Post on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/p/CTQGWw_Lkkb/?utm_medium=copy_link

#zelota #afghanistan #woman #womenempowerment #women rights #feminism #muslim #taliban #religon #koran #alcoran #magazine

[ranjit7853]

Smallest Koran

Some people in India can write on a rice. It is a very painstaking work. Similarly there are copies of Holy books which are miniatures. One such smallest copy of the Muslim holy book, the Koran, is kept at Ningxia Museum in Northwest China’s. It has been identified as the smallest Koran in the world.

The copy weighs just 1.10 grams. Its dimensions are 19.6 mm length, 13.2 mm width, and 6.1 mm…

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#alcoran #British Army #China #Guinness Book #hanif chaudhary #he xinyu #Iran #Islam #Koran #Muslim #Ningxia #Ningxia Hui Autonomous Region #quaran #Quran #Silchar

[a-lilac-gray-sea]

Chris Alcoran

#lilac #purplecore #lilac aesthetic #cinderella #disney princess #princess dress #dress #gown #fashion #princess gown #princess #chris alcoran #lavender #lilac blog #lilaccore #lavendercore #color blog

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

It began upon the following occasion. It is allowed on all hands, that the primitive way of breaking eggs, before we eat them, was upon the larger end; but his present majesty’s grandfather, while he was a boy, going to eat an egg, and breaking it according to the ancient practice, happened to cut one of his fingers. Whereupon the emperor his father published an edict, commanding all his subjects, upon great penalties, to break the smaller end of their eggs. The people so highly resented this law, that our histories tell us, there have been six rebellions raised on that account; wherein one emperor lost his life, and another his crown. These civil commotions were constantly fomented by the monarchs of Blefuscu; and when they were quelled, the exiles always fled for refuge to that empire. It is computed that eleven thousand persons have at several times suffered death, rather than submit to break their eggs at the smaller end. Many hundred large volumes have been published upon this controversy: but the books of the Big-endians have been long forbidden, and the whole party rendered incapable by law of holding employments. During the course of these troubles, the emperors of Blefusca did frequently expostulate by their ambassadors, accusing us of making a schism in religion, by offending against a fundamental doctrine of our great prophet Lustrog, in the fifty-fourth chapter of the Blundecral (which is their Alcoran). This, however, is thought to be a mere strain upon the text; for the words are these: ‘that all true believers break their eggs at the convenient end.’

from Gulliver’s Travels, by Jonathan Swift

[mkealcoran]

SEMA Motion Graphics from Mike Alcoran on Vimeo.

[airmanisr]

Anime Expo | 2013 by chris alcoran

#Mad Moxxi #cosplay

[misterrandelearcilla05031988]

The Good Great Man from Manila.

THE GOOD GREAT MAN FROM MANILA

I am the really the good great of the totally man as the good great man from Manila was began on Friday, March 02, 2007 at 12:00 M.N. only for the first time on Tumblr was here in the Philippines for the website such as Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, Instagram and many others and start only for start the on my post and all others only today and my name is Mister Randele Alcoran Arcilla was born in 1988 at Old Sta. Mesa, Manila as the Chinese Zodiac on lucky charm is Year of the Dragon and through current hometown in Antipolo City and hold down for the beginning start over today.

[aad73]

#jonathon #alcoran #remix

[emilybeemartin]

You all knew Rou was coming next, right?

Someone asked what my influences have been for designing fantasy clothing. Some of my earliest inspiration came from Pauline Baynes' classic illustrations in the Chronicles of Narnia. I love her long, flowy tunics and lacy capes. The descriptions of clothing in Lord of the Rings and the Queen's Thief also gave me a solid baseline for creating casual/formal/travel ensembles while still feeling like they could all belong to the same culture (you can thank Gen for all my standard ensembles being undershirt/overshirt, belt, loose pants tucked into boots). And then following artists like Claire Hummel who are big into historical fashion has helped a lot in designing clothes that seem functional as well as interesting.

In the end, though, a lot of my costume design comes from context---what is this outfit meant for? For Rou at First Fire, that means shiny. I want him covered with cloth and ornaments that will reflect all the firelight. I want Val and Mae's dancing clothes to be full of movement, which is why there's fringe on fringe and pleats on pleats. I want Lumeni diving costumes to have pearl reflectors for visibility in dim water, and I want Alcorans to favor darks the same way they favor red-tinted lights---to preserve night vision for stargazing. These have always been good starting points for creating thematic fashion for different countries. 

Gemma Style Sheet

Valien Style Sheet

#creatures of light #rou #poi #character design #costume design #style sheet #fantasy clothes #pauline baynes #narnia #lotr #lord of the rings #queens thief

[mikealcoran]

Thru the snow.

#throughcalifornia #mike alcoran #mkefilms #photographers on tumblr #lensblr #original photographers #yosemite #nature #scenery

[calikusuvedunyasi]

The Story of Ayuba Suleiman Diallo “The Fortunate Slave”

Ayuba Suleiman Diallo was born in 1701, Eastern Senegal he was raised in a religious household which led him to memorise the entire Quran at a young age and familiarize himself with the Maliki Madhab (school of thought). Even from a young age, he was revered for his amazing intelligence and incredible memory.

He and his father were slave traders, however, he himself was captured and fell victim to the Atlantic slave trade. When the slavers successfully captured him, they shaved his beard and shipped him off to Annapolis, Maryland in 1731. He was then sold to a family-owned tobacco plantation. Although Diallo experienced tremendous difficulties, he still maintained his daily prayers and Islamic rituals. The family who owned him would humiliate him by mocking him and throwing dirt him when he prayers. This led him to run away from the family, however, he was soon captured and taken to prison.

While he was in prison he met an English lawyer named Thomas Bluett. Bluett was impressed by Diallo’s piety, literacy, intelligence and adherence to faith. Bluett wrote about Diallo in his book ‘Some memoirs of the Life of Job’:

“His memory was extraordinary; for when he was fifteen years old he could say the whole Alcoran [Quran] by heart…”

Diallo wrote a letter to his father who had traveled from Annapolis to England. This letter eventually landed in the hands of James Edward Oglethorpe. James, who just so happened to be the founder of the Georgia colony. Because the letter was written in Arabic, James had the letter translated at Oxford.

James was touched by the struggles presented in this letter. In fact, he felt so touched that he paid money to purchase Diallo’s freedom and bring him to England. Additionally James arranged to have slavery banned in Georgia, however, due to economic pressures in Georgia, the ban was lifted.

When Diallo arrived in England in 1733, he was treated as equals to the white English people. He would talk to them casually (which was uncommon for black people to do so at the time). Black African people were held in low regards in terms of their intelligence seeing them as inferiors to the majority white, so when Diallo would engage in theological debates with Christian priests and Bishops, people were impressed with his intelligence, monotheistic beliefs, and piety.

Before he returned back to his home in Africa in 1734, a portrait was made of Diallo.

This portrait by William Hoare is no doubt beautiful. It’s a realistic depiction of light and shadows reflecting off his face make it look very realistic. However, that isn’t the reason why this portrait is so special. If you have a look at portraits or depictions of people from African descent during the 18th century you’ll find some things that may disturb you. They are often depicted in ways that exaggerate their facial features in unnatural ways and are often never the subject of any painting, reduced to the background leaving the white man or woman the center of attention.

If you look closely at this portrait and compare it to William’s other portraits you’ll find that Diallo is illustrated as an equal to the white English people. This portrait is first to depict an African Muslim ex-slave that uses the conventions of British portraiture that were common around this time. This is represented in his posture and frontal direction in his position.

Also, another thing to note is that when Diallo agreed to the portrait, he said he’ll do it as long as he is depicted in his traditional garb. But Diallo did not have access to the garb at the time he simply described what the garb looked like, and so what you see is the artist’s interpretation of Diallo’s description. To complete his look, finally, Diallo had hung this red book around his neck for William to illustrate. This is the book is the one of three Quran’s Diallo had written purely from memory.

What is so amazing about this story is that Diallo wasn’t concerned with beautifying himself for the portrait like any of us today would do when taking a picture, but rather he wanted to represent his culture, religion and himself through this image. He didn’t lose his true identity as an African Muslim over two hard years of slavery.

Source : https://onepathnetwork.com/the-fortunate-slave/

#The Fortunate Slavery #Ayuba Suleiman #History