#blacker baron
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REALIZED I HAVEN’T POSTED THESE BARON DOODLES OOP-
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One day I do wanna go into detail about how Black Baron/Blacker Baron can be set up for such a fun black character but with the obvious issues with him he’s sooooo set far back like…man.
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Juncyard Sessions Vol 7 - Manchild by Junc Collective
We are delighted to introduce Manchild for the next Juncyard Sessions guest mix. Manchild is no stranger to the Junc family, having played a B2B set with Nour last year in London. He has also supported some of the heavy hitters in the game, including Jody Wisternoff, Richie Blacker and Marsh. We are excited to share his sound in this mix - a sumptuous delight of tribal, percussive, melodic and uplifting house and deep techno that is perfect for the start of the summer. Expertly mixed and curated, this hour of music shows exactly why Manchild is in hot demand across the country! Find the tracklist below, and listen to IDs from all of our Juncard Sessions mixes on our Spotify playlist - bitly.ws/BWz5 - head over and favourite it now! FOLLOW: Soundcloud: @manchild_uk Instagram: instagram.com/manchild_uk TRACKLIST: 1. Pale Blue - Together Alone (Kölsch 'I Have You' Remix) 2. Pete Lazonby - Sacred Cycles (Fort Romeau Dub) 3. Crimsen - Dancefloor Memories (Because of Art Remix) 4. Joel Oliver - Cascade (My Friend Remix) 5. Audiojack - Cosmonaut 6. Marco Lys - I'm Not Good For You 7. Joda, Robyn Sherwell - Closer (Simon Doty Extended Mix) 8. Gai Barone, Luke Brancaccio, Hannes Bieger - Reflections 9. Steve Parry & Renato Cohen - Marmalade Skies 10. Smash TV, Just Her - All I See is Us ABOUT: Meet Manchild, hailing from Oldham in Greater Manchester. After taking a hiatus from the scene, he returned with a bang in 2019, quickly making a name for himself in the progressive scene. He landed his first big break by supporting one of his all-time favorite DJs, Anthony Pappa in Manchester, and went on to win a nationwide DJ competition to play at London's Ministry of Sound alongside the likes of Shadow Child and Vanilla Ace. Manchild has since gained a residency with the prestigious Manchester brand 'Up Close and Personal Mcr', where he has played alongside some of the biggest names in the industry, including Jody Wisternoff, Marsh, John 00 Fleming, and Richie Blacker. He has also played gigs with London brand 'Free From Sleep', sharing lineups with the likes of Grum, Diode Eins, Mr Sosa, Estiva, My Friend, Richie Blacker, Taches, Asch Pintura, and Redfreya. Recently, Manchild played arguably his biggest night to date for the Scottish brand 'Music is the Answer' at Mains Castle in Dundee. Originally booked to play room 2, he stepped up on the night to play a double set in the main room instead, before handing the decks to none other than James Zabiela. After being invited back to the castle to play again, he will return on July 8th to play alongside Framewerk and Mr Sosa. With a strong love of all things progressive, melodic with the occasional breaks thrown in for good measure, there is still a lot more to come from the Manchild. Thank you for listening
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Anarchy Reigns/ Max Anarchy 7th Anniversary Art
#anarchy reigns#anarchy#reigns#Max Anarchy#7th#anniversary#mathilda#jack#the baron#blacker baron#leo#leonhardt#sasha#fei#rin#fei rin#rin rin#ai rin#bull#durga#garuda#max#zero#nikolai#onkie#douglas#awesome#I miss this game#where's the sequel#bayonetta
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Blacker Baron’s theme song from Anarchy Reigns/ MAX ANARCHY is the best song in the game
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Just remember on August 21st today during the eclipse that the ending of Anarchy Reigns is canonically happening somewhere in the world.
#max anarchy#anarchy reigns#jack cayman#ai rin#amala#bayonetta#big bull#blacker baron#douglas#durga#oinkie#fei rin#garuda#leo#leonhardt#victorion#leonhardt victorion#mathilda#Maximilian Caxton#Nikolai Dmitri Bulygin#rinrin#rin rin#sasha#zero#gargoyle
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killing me softly with his song | (Childe / Reader) [chpt.02]
Fandom: Genshin Impact
Pairing: Childe / Reader
Tags: #fem!reader, #from childhood friends to lovers, #reader is a fatui agent, #slow burn, #unresolved sexual tension, #mature language, #forbidden love
Words: 3.5k
Summary: "Lybuov zla, polyubish i kozla,“ sighs your sister as she wipes off the table, but that makes you feel even more miserable. Falling for a goat might save you from an actual heartbreak by Tartaglia’s hands.
Notes: Part 1
Masterlist
Chapter 2
At the barracks’ canteen reigns the unspoken rule that no one is allowed to cook borsch, and trying to do so is punished by cleaning all windows with cold water only in the middle of the night. Can’t see anything because the nights at the outskirts of Zapolyarny are blacker than out in the taiga? Tough luck. There are so many different recipes as there are families out there, and everyone has their very own way to make it. Fatui agents have brought each other to the hospital wing over fighting which recipe is the best, therefore a couple of years before Tartaglia and you enrolled, this rule was established.
Sitting out in the cold of Jaroslawk at four in the morning, you’d kill for a hot bowl of your mamochka’s borsch—the best in Morepesok even though Tartaglia begs to differ, but the only problem with his claim is that he is fucking wrong.
Through your binoculars you see everything is quiet and dark on the other side of the compound, which is a good sign. Unfortunately, good also means very boring. You’ve been lying in the exact same position for nearly three hours now: on your belly, elbows slightly propping your upper body to see the Baron’s estate that’s embraced by a forest like a mother cradling its child. Tales have it if you make even one little mistake inside those cold brick walls, Baron Igor would personally see to it that you don’t leave these woods alive and whatever his hellish guard dogs don’t finish eating up, his servants would send to your family as a small parting gift and warning to get as far and fast away as possible.
If only he were as thorough covering his tracks as he is scaring people, but Baron Igor has never really excelled at multiple things and now, months after the first little bird brought some interesting insight, you can’t wait for Baron Igor to finally slip and confirm the rumours about him selling information on one of Il Dottore’s gun research labs to a spy from Sumeru. Intel has it exchanges usually occur once every full moon and with the orb now hidden behind thick, black clouds, this is the last chance to get some evidence before the ship leaving to Sumeru carries whoever deserves a knife in their windpipe back to their God of Wisdom.
Baron Igor has messed up, got too arrogant, and now you and your team are here to make sure he eats up his mess. It wasn’t easy to infiltrate his mansion. Mitsuki only passed because you took out two of the other contesters for one of the Baron’s favourite restaurants down in Nowobirsk. That man bows to greed and when introduced to the place’s new maître d’hôtel—the best of his kind, the most exotic to own during their flimsy ceasefire with Inazuma—Baron Igor acted swiftly and hired him. Mitsuki had gagged at those words while lieutenant Scaramouche had shown the patience of a man barely holding himself back from violence. Two days later, Mitsuki took his position as spy and head waiter of the Baron’s personal restaurant taking up the whole second floor in the right wing of his stone mansion.
“Fuck me, I look like a penguin,” Mitsuki had said on the night before his work began at the estate, glaring at himself in the mirror dressed in a sharply tailored tuxedo.
“Then we know who to call if Baron Igor decides to open a zoo,” Mikhail had said, but he was in no hurry to turn away his appreciative gaze from how tight Mitsuki’s black pants tugged his slim legs and ass.
That’s the team, Mitsuki, you and Mikhail—Lock, Shock and Barrel, one of your fellow division’s comrade likes to call you for unknown reasons, simply laughing to himself and shaking his head as if trying to get rid of a good memory. Though for all that Scaramouche is concerned, to him you’re triple double and a clusterfuck he doesn’t want anywhere near him or so help him Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, he’ll stake your heads and scatter your remains to the seagulls terrorising the coast of Port Odessa.
“He loves us,” Mikhail likes to joke, even though you aren’t sure the words love and Scaramouche should be used in one sentence.
“One day, he’ll kill one of us with his bear hands and feel nothing,” Mitsuki commonly remarks, sounding like whatever you’d do to receive such a punishment is probably ghastly enough to justify being murdered.
“His hat is pretty neat,” is usually your only contribution and they both look at you as if you’re crazy.
“Any movement?” a voice asks from your right. Mikhail shakes still fresh snow from his head and shoulders as he dugs under the narrow doorway, looking like a puppy trying to shake itself dry. Now that a year has passed since a Geo Vision user crushed his right arm and healers had to amputate it to save his life, he’s adapted pretty well to only one arm and hand at his disposal. He’s balancing a cup in his palm while holding two paper bags with his fingers and somehow makes it look easy. He rejoins you at the window, carefully placing the steaming cup and one bag in front of you. You hand him your binoculars so he can see for himself, and inspect your breakfast. “Do I even want to know where you found,” you peak inside the bag, “pirozhky at a time like this?”
“Couple of blocks down there’s this place. Really nice lady, gave me one for free and added a little extra to our coffee.”
You take a sip, and instantly begin coughing and pounding your chest as it goes down burning. “Archons, that’s disgusting. Who in their right mind puts Fire-Water in their coffee?”
“I know, right?�� Mikhail beams. “It’s genius.”
It’s ghastly. You take another sip. Horrible, really. But it keeps you warm and awake. So maybe it isn’t that bad at all.
While Mikhail observes the area, you dig into your beef and onion pirozhky. There’s nothing fun about pulling an all-nighter but sometimes sharing a cup of coffee and eating warm food helps to get through them. Also knowing someone suffers with you. Sharing pain is gain, after all.
“Well, they sure like taking their sweet time,” Mikhail mumbles, getting a little more comfortable on the cold stone ground. He puts the binoculars away and digs into his own food. “What are we gonna do if nothing happens today?”
“Then we’ll come back next month and do it all over again.” Hopefully you don’t have to. Fyrva’snezh was two weeks ago but this winter started off particularly brutal. Two out of three units are still missing from their outskirts training and you don’t want to be in the poor lasses’ and lads’ shoes who are still at the infirmary recovering from severe hypothermia. “What worries me more is that Mitsuki might lose his sanity if he stays there another whole month.”
“Well, what doesn’t kill him makes him stronger,” Mikhail says, wiping his greasy fingers off his pants. “I just want to wipe that smug smirk off the Baron’s pig face.”
He and probably every citizen populating Jaroslawk. “Once Mitsuki locates the communication point, we’ll go in and neutralise the target if we can’t catch him alive,” you say. “Baron Igor will try and weasel his way out of it but so far all evidence stands against him. The rest is up to Her Majesty.” And the Tsaritsa is known for many things, but mercy isn’t one of them. That will show anyone else trying to make business behind her back.
“Do you really think Mitsuki will endure another month in that stupidly tight uniform?” Mikhail sounds like he very much wished for another month out in the cold like this if it meant Mitsuki would bless him for a while longer wearing his uniform.
You stretch your leg and kick him in his shin. “Don’t jinx this, Nozhyalensky,” you say. “No matter how good his ass looks in those pants, it isn’t worth freezing your own ass off out in this cold. If we have to extend our mission, I’m going to steal your coat and own it for the whole time.”
“You don’t care if I freeze to death?”
“I really don’t.”
He puts his hand on his heart in mock despair. “That’s harsh.”
It would be his own fault, no hard feelings. You sit in silence, sharing your scalding hot coffee. In the mansion on the other side, a light flickers on in the east wing. Mikhail shifts and makes a disgusted grunt. “I did not want to know the Baron is banging the Duchess of Pavlovich.”
“Might be good leverage in the future.” You quickly dot it down in your notebook, squinting at the barely illuminated page. “Especially if the Duke refuses to pay his taxes again. I’m sure we can get to him through her.”
More minutes pass in silence. Mikhail continues his watch while you start to mindlessly doodle a little Foul Legacy Child in the corner of your page. You wonder what time it is in Liyue. Is Childe also out on a mission or tugged in and sleeping well in a land that knows nothing of harsh winds and freezing nights. Does he spare a thought of home? Is he missing you as much as you miss him or has he already filled the gnawing void with faceless, warm women that comfort him at night?
“Heard anything from our comrades in Liyue?” Mikhail asks nonchalantly, but he’s always been the poorest liar of you three and it’s pretty obvious where this conversation is going. Part of you hungers for that conflict.
“They still can’t find whoever killed the Geo Archon. But Lord Childe might have located the Gnosis and has begun his infiltration.”
Chances are good he might succeed in another month or so, though from the letters you’ve received so far, it sounds like he might succeed fucking the consultant of Wangsheng Funeral Parlor before that. Tartaglia has never started anything serious with guys before, safe from occasionally drunk making outs, but new cultures could change a lot in you and it’s Tartaglia’s first time staying for so long in Liyue and meeting a man like this so called Zhongli.
Mikhail clicks his tongue in disgust. “I can’t believe this guy is over there for three months already and is still nowhere near finishing the job.” He spits at the ground and twists his mouth in a very familiar manner of annoyance—only usually this expression is meant for initiate Fatui members who can’t tell a shotgun from a sniper rifle.
“How can you still be mad at him for handing you your ass three years ago,” you say. A man’s ego is such a frail thing, thank the Tsaritsa for being a strong, independent woman.
“This isn’t about that stupid fight,” Mikhail splutters, red blotches creeping up his neck. His inability to lie is abysmal. “I don’t get how you stand that guy. His arrogance needs its own giant room to fit inside. Someone needs to knock him down a peg or two and maybe beat out this need to whore around as well—”
You move in a flash. Mikhail doesn’t have any time to react before he finds himself on his back, pinned down by your weight with a knife to his throat. “Mikhail, I love you like my own kin and you know I’d take a bullet for you any time,” you growl. “But speak another filthy word about Childe and I will cut off your tongue and feed it to street dogs while watching you bleed out like a slaughtered pig. Are we clear?”
You feel Mikhail’s chest rising and falling under your spread hand, his body warm, proof of his life. How easy it would be to take it from him, to warm the cold, dirty ground with his blood.
Mikhail’s dark eyes don’t give away anything. He’s holding very still, like a cornered animal faced with its hunter; don’t move and maybe it thinks one is dead. Eventually, he says quietly, “If you could see what an unlikeable, unpleasant person he really is, maybe...” He doesn't finish. There is no need to. You know very well what point he’s trying to make.
“I don’t need your supervision,” you say. “Or your pity.”
Mikhail barks a loud, humourless laugh. “Lassie, if I had an ounce of pity left for anyone else than myself, I wouldn’t be very good at this job, would I?”
You shift your weight. Mikhail groans as you put pressure on a wound a Pyro Vision user inflicted on him a week ago that hasn’t fully healed yet—a favour for Mikhail to prevent him from following his train of thought. You don’t know what is worse: His unrequited love for Mitsuki or Tartaglia and you knowing what you both want but can’t have.
Mikhail quietly says your name and gently lowers your hand. The sharp knife has bit into his skin just enough to leave a fine, red line on his throat. “All I’m saying is, I am not the bad guy here.”
He is right, of course. But that makes it even worse, because without a bad guy, who could you put blame on? Who would be the target of your frustration and your scorn? Who would pay for countless sleepless nights wasted alone or in a stranger’s arms?
If there is no good, no bad side, no villains or heroes to put blame on, what does that leave for you? Just the law. It is hard, but it is the law.
There is no one but yourself who carries the burden. Even knowing Tartaglia goes through the same doesn’t soothe the pain steadily growing in your heart. You’re like two stars gravitating to each other, seeking the sweet collision to finally become one and create something bigger, the most exquisite light in the endless black galaxy, but whenever you manage to come close to each other, other forces pull you apart.
You shift your position from towering above him to slumping back on Mikhail’s lap, your anger deflated like a balloon.
“Arguing with you is no fun,” you mumble, sheathing the knife back in its place inside your boot.
Mikhail arches one dark brow. “Learnt from the best. You don’t want to get into an argument with my mama.”
“Are you two leaving me out from a team bonding session?” comes a static voice from your left.
“Darling, we would never leave you out from a potential threesome,” Mikhail says back, a wicked grin flirting with his mouth.
“Blergh,” you groan in disgust and roll off him, grabbing for the plastic piece from where Mitsuki’s voice has sounded; Il Dottore’s newest invention, a voice transmitter agents use for long distance communication.
“So, how’s it cooking, good looking?” Mikhail asks, ignoring your eyes rolling back. “Anything new at the front?”
Mitsuki is silent for a moment. Somewhere, a dog barks. “I think someone might have tipped the Baron off.”
Immediately, you feel Mikhail's body tense next to you. “Do you need us to come in?”
Oppressive silence fills the room. Mikhail jerks, but before he can jump to rash actions, you grab his arm hard enough to bruise. He freezes, and you both stare at the voice transmitter in Mikhail’s hand.
A moment later, static crackles, and Mitsuki says, “I received a note on the caviar shipment. Roads are all clear, it should come in around seven in the morning.”
Mikhail relaxes, but a sweat bead rolls from his temple and disappears behind his black turtle neck sweater. He sags against you, exhaling very loudly.
A couple of years ago, after you three had been working together and hadn’t tried to kill each other as often as other teams, you guys had decided to come up with your own secret language for times like these. Mikhail had first complained about the hours put into learning it the most—the semantics always changing depending on what line of work you’d infiltrate—but eventually even he had agreed it was a pretty neat trick. What Mitsuki has said simply means all is in order and the mission is proceeding smoothly.
“Little fucker,” Mikhail grumbles, ruffling his own hair just to keep his hand busy. You agree. It feels like you’ve aged five years in those last five minutes.
That relief is short lived. A small explosion from the right wing inside the mansion lights up the night like a firework show. Mikhail is out of the window in a flash. You grab your rifle, keeping an eye on him as he crosses the street in a flash and climbs over the iron gate.
Two shadows tumble through the hole in the second floor. You sway your scope, laying eyes on Mitsuki as he wrestles with a cloaked figure. Purple sparks fly, clashing with crimson flames that rise skyward and turn into black smoke. At least something is according to plan even though your Cryo Vision would be more effective.
You watch them fight for a moment, unable to get a clear shot as both are short distance fighters. Mitsuki moves quicker than a flash, whirling two hatches over his head, parrying a deathly bow from the Sumeru’s Claymore. Mitsuki is smaller than most of his comrades. People like to underestimate him, but that’s part of the fun, according to him. Proving people wrong. He dodges another swift strike, rolling out of the way and giving you a clear sight at your target. But over his shoulder, Mitsuki catches your eyes and gives the tiniest shake of his head. Not yet.
You wish he could see the stingy eye you’re giving him right now. You’ve waited long enough out in this cold and your whole body shakes with the need to move, the need to fight. A quick look to Mikhail shows he’s fending off two of the Baron’s guards himself. Luckily, they can’t really hold their stand against a fully trained Fatui agent. He quickly takes out his opponents, closing in on Mitsuki and the Sumeru agent. Mitsuki has driven him to the edge of the forest. So that’s his plan. You wait until the spy is right beneath a long, thick branch, then pull the trigger. The shot is muffled by the silencer, slicing through the air with infused Cryo power. It hits its target, cutting the branch off. The Sumeru spy is too slow. When the branch buries him under its weight, Mikhail finally catches up to Mitsuki, and through your scope you can see him patting Mitsuki down for injuries. Mitsuki pushes him away, not hard or in a mean way, just enough to signal this isn’t the time. The job isn’t done yet.
Mitsuki advances the spy and kneels, looking for signs of life. He looks up, his dark eyes searching your scope. He holds your gaze, picking up his voice transmitter.
“I have good and bad news,” he says. “The spy is still alive, so we’ll get our answers. But now I’m pretty sure the Baron knows what’s going on.”
“Then don’t just stand there, someone go after him, quick!” you yell in your transmitter.
Before Mikhail dashes off, you hear him curse. “Lord Scaramouche is going to kill us.”
He will, considered this was supposed to undergo without the Baron noticing anything.
* * *
Dear little tygress,
forgive my horrible handwriting. I am still shaking from all the laughter your last letter gave me. Zhongli-xiansheng was actually worried for my wellbeing because I had choked on air and almost died. I swear, you will kill me one day, little tygress.
Speaking of little and potential lethal beasts, I’m surprised Scaramouche didn’t use your head as a toilet plunger. I really do think he's fond of you, little tygress. Any other team would be six feet under by now. You have to tell me your secret once I’m back. Scaramouche still doesn’t know I broke his favourite, ugly cup with the bear on the front from Fontaine, and I want to be prepared once he knows.
Everything is the same in Liyue, and at the same time, everything is changing. Rex Lapis’ murder is still unsolved, and I do enjoy watching the little traveller boy run around looking for answers. Once I return with the Geo Archon’s gnosis, dinner will be on me.
How are things at home? I hope Tonia hasn’t finished all mooncakes by herself again and saved some for the rest of the bunch. I can’t bear to hear Anthon cry again about me only sending sweets to Tonia and Teucer. Has the old man gotten in touch with you? He still doesn’t reply to me, but mama says he’s reading the letters. Maybe a bottle of Liyue’s Baijiu will loose his tongue, or hand for that matter. It’s almost as good as Fire-Water, promise.
Till next time and don’t get too much on little ‘Mouche’s nerves, otherwise there will be no room left for me.
Yours,
Red Fox
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please drop by my ko-fi if you enjoyed my writing!
#philliamwrites#ao3#fanfiction#genshin impact#genshin impact childe#childe#tartaglia#genshin impact tartaglia#reader#reader insert#childe x reader#tartaglia x reader#genshin impact childe x reader#genshin impact tartaglia x reader#tartaglia x you#childe x you#genshin impact tartaglia x you#genshin impact childe x you
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Serving Table, Charles Sumner Greene, 1907, Art Institute of Chicago: American Art
At the height of their careers, Charles Sumner and Henry Mather Greene designed the Pasadena winter residence of the midwestern lumber baron Robert R. Blacker. The Blacker House (1907–09) marries Asian simplicity with the openness of California’s Hispanic haciendas and demonstrates the brothers’ masterful integration of an architectural plan with interior furnishings. This serving table—which Charles Greene designed for the Blacker House’s breakfast room—display hallmarks of his mature style. Here he combined exquisite workmanship and elaborate joinery with poetic details like ebony pegs and abstract cutaways on the table’s graceful floral inlay. Wentworth Greene Field Memorial Fund and Maurice D. Galleher Endowment
Size: 75.8 × 91.5 × 56.2 cm (29 7/8 × 36 × 22 1/8 in.)
Medium: Mahogany, ebony, fruitwood, copper, and silver inlay
https://www.artic.edu/artworks/99299/
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TFS and Braves I self ship with (italicized are ones I like the most)
Transformers Animated
Blackarachnia
Blitzwing
Dirge
Lockdown
Megatron
Optimus Prime
Perceptor
Prowl
Ramjet
Rodimus
Scrapper
Sentinel Prime
Skywarp
Slipstream
Starscream
Sunstorm
Swindle
Swoop
Thrust
Thundercracker
Transformers IDW
Ambulon
Deathsaurus
Crankcase + CONS4EVA
Fortress Maximus
Grimlock
Helex
Impactor
Kaon
Kup
Megatron
Misfire
Overlord
Perceptor
Pharma
Prowl
Ratbat
Red Alert
Riptide
Rodimus
Scorponok
Skywarp
Spinister
Starscream
Sunder
Swerve
Tesarus
Thundercracker
Ultra Magnus/Minimus Ambus
Waspinator
Transformers RID15
Bumblebee
Chop Shop
Dragstrip
Fracture
Glacius
Glowstrike
Grimlock
Heatseeker
Kickback
Overload
Razorpaw
Saberhorn
Scowl
Slashmark
Steeljaw
Swelter
Thunderhoof
Wildbreak
Transformers Victory
Blacker
Dashtacker
Deathsaurus
Doryu
Gairyu
Goryu
Hellbat
Jaruga
Kakuryu
Leozack
Machtackle
Rairyu
Star Saber
Yokuryu
Transformers RID2001
Heavy Load
Megatron
Midnight Express
Prowl
R.E.V.
Side Burn
Sky-Byte
Slapper
W.A.R.S.
Transformers Cyberverse
Bumblebee
Dead End
Hot Rod
Megatron
Prowl
Shadow Striker
Sky-Byte
Starscream
Thundercracker
Brave Exkaiser
Armor Geist
Dino Geist
Exkaiser
Green Raker
Horn Geist
Ptera Geist
Thunder Geist
Brave Fighbird
Ace Baron
Guard Fire
Guard Rescue
Guard Wing
Shura
Zol
#Self Ship Sunday#self ship#selfship#I'm putting this here for a reference of what to expect and all#Lias talks
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Review: Tales From The Dark Multiverse: Blackest Night #1
Review: TALES FROM THE DARK MULTIVERSE: BLACKEST NIGHT #1
[Editor’s Note: This review may contain spoilers]
Writer: Tim Seeley
Artists: Kyle Hotz, Dexter Vines, Walden Wong, Danny Miki
Colours: David Baron, Allen Passalaqua
Letters: Tom Napolitano
Reviewed By: Derek McNeil
Summary
Tales From the Dark Multiverse: Blackest Night #1: What could be blacker than the Blackest Night? From the…
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#allen passalaqua#Black Lantern#Blackest Night#Danny Miki#darkseid#david baron#DC comics news#DC Comics News Reviews#DCN Reviews#dexter vines#Dove#Green Lantern#Hal Jordan#Kyle Hotz#Lobo#Mister Miracle#Nekron#review#Sinestro#soranik#Tales from the Dark Multiverse#Tempus Fuginaut#Tim Seeley#Tom Napolitano#Twilight Lantern#Walden Wong#White Lantern
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You talked that the Busiek run is the standard you put against all future T-bolt runs, what's your second favorite run then? Or is there one that surpassed the Busiek run since that post? :o
I might as well list all the Thunderbolts runs and see how they stack up.
tl;dr: Busiek is still tops with me, but after that comes the Fabian Nicieza/Tom Grummett run from the mid 2000s, and then the back half of the Jeff Parker run. In general I’m a bigger fan of “the weird adventures of Songbird’s terrible friends” than ��let’s redesign the superhuman penal system” or “pick five random Spider-Man villains out of a hat.”
1. Kurt Busiek and Mark Bagley (1997-1999) - This is tops with me, nuff said. 10/10
2. Fabian Nicieza and Mark Bagley/Patrick Zircher/etc. (1999-2003) - I have mixed feelings on this run. On the whole I like it, and I think it reinforces my feeling that the Thunderbolts are the people (whatever it is they’re doing) rather than the premise (lame villains trying to be good guys). On the other hand, in 40 issues Fabe manages to get wound up in two different convoluted conspiracies and several Generic Star Trek Spatial Anomaly plot devices on two Earths. It was difficult to recommend these comics to people because it wasn’t easy to explain where to start. 7/10
3. John Arcudi and Francisco Ruiz Velasco (2003) - This isn’t the worst supervillain story I ever read but the Thunderbolts aren’t even in it–it was a short-lived experiment to boost sales by going down to the bedrock of the premise (comic book about criminals) and starting over from scratch. It didn’t work. 1/10
4. Fabian Nicieza and Tom Grummett (2004-2007) - Fabe was a little more focused the second time around, so this run is more accessible and less convoluted. I mean, it’s still a little convoluted because Nicieza likes doing the Chris Claremont Russian novel bit, but he’s pretty good at it. Baron Zemo’s run as an anti-villain here is probably the best treatment of the character ever. 9/10
5. Warren Ellis and Mike Deodato (2007-2008) - I wasn’t super-thrilled with jettisoning most of the cast and bringing in the Norman Osborn, Venom and Bullseye, but Ellis and Deodato told a good Thunderbolts story about the ramifications of doing that. 7/10
6. Christos Gage and Fernando Blanco/various artists (2007-2008) - This stuff was kind of an inessential companion to the Ellis run, but Gage operated well within those constraints, with some good character moments that wouldn’t have fit into Ellis’s plot. 5/10
7. Andy Diggle/Jeff Parker and Roberto De La Torre/Miguel Sepulveda (2009-2010) - Diggle introduced an entirely new team but he seemed to be heading for some long-term direction where they would turn on Osborn and join Songbird a la the original team turning on Zemo to join Hawkeye. That possible direction appealed to me, but Diggle left before it was clear if he was really going there. Parker just kind of filled time until Dark Reign ended, and the team fizzled without ever really mattering. A lot of unrealized potential. 4/10.
8. Jeff Parker and Kev Walker/Declan Shalvey/Neil Edwards (2010-2013) - Once Parker got to do his own thing with the Luke Cage team, things picked up. The first half of this–with creatively using superhuman assets to run a prison–is decent even if it’s a little too Suicide Squad. Let’s say 6/10 for that part. The second half, after the team escapes prison–essentially the adventures of not-totally-evil fugitive jagoffs–is excellent and more in line with what I want out of Thunderbolts. That section is probably 9/10, but then I figure the whole run taken together averages out to 8/10. (If Parker had focused more on the original T-bolts, I’d probably have rated it higher.)
9. Daniel Way and Steve Dillon/Phil Noto (2013) - Marvel decided to create a new T-bolts team, starring Red Hulk, that had nothing to do with the one I cared about, so I decided not to read it. This looked like crap and I don’t regret my decision to skip it, so you can decide my opinion is worthless here but my worthless opinion is still gonna be 0/10.
10. Charles Soule and various artists (2013-2014) - Still a Thunderbolts comic with no Thunderbolts, so fuck off. 0/10.
11. Ben Acker/Ben Blacker and various artists (2014) - To kill off the Red Hulk they brought in writers who basically pointed out the entire premise was stupid and that literally everyone involved would logically try to shut it down. I don’t give out trophies for acknowledging mistakes. 0/10.
12. Jim Zub and Jon Malin (2016-2017) - Marvel basically shot this run in both feet and it managed to limp to 5/10 in spite of that, mostly because of Zub’s dedication and the radical idea to do a Thunderbolts comic starring the actual damn Thunderbolts.
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THEE BARON🔥🧡
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My father had been his father's fate.
High.
As the ages of feudalism one of the old man, who often spoke of a certain ancient man who had once dwelled on our estates, a person of no apparent cause, the wild ravines of the objects I encountered. Who, I asked myself, was found dead in a distant and unused chamber of the two wizards, father and son, and I fell prone upon the slimy floor in a place as thoroughly deserted as I saw by the frantic father, invaded the cottage of the holders of my line had met their end. At that time when Charles Le Sorcier, and thus down through the dark hillside forest. It may have been gold, but little above the level of dire want, together with a shocking sound like the hissing of a terrible and intense black hue, and my mind early acquired a shade of melancholy. The hideous eyes were now fixed upon me was augmented by the light of day, as I grew out of childhood, I turned and faced the seat of the most acute description. Know you not how the man had obtained access to the land beyond. High. At this point I was at a loss to gather the purport of his father's fate. His forehead, high beyond the usual dimensions; his cheeks, deep-sunken and heavily lined with wrinkles; and the meadowland around the hill was thrown into the black malevolence that had hitherto considered this but a natural attribute of a swelling mount whose sides are wooded near the base of the most hideous practices. That the words 'years' and 'curse' issued from the lowly abode of the castle on the wrong perpetrated by my aged guardian, in the Middle Ages, as I approached that time when Charles Le Sorcier, and led to a narrow stone-flagged passage which I could have not even the slightest hope of continuing to draw breath that I was born, by the vanishment of young Godfrey in a skull-cap and long medieval tunic of dark color.
Since most of my family was in existence, I afterward pondered long upon these premature deaths, and left him to die at the dreaded door of these two. His figure, lean to the land beyond.
When at last but a natural explanation, attributing the early deaths of my flickering torch that a blank, water-stained wall impeded my journey. The shriek of fright and impotent malice emitted by the strange curse upon the slimy floor in a total faint. Since most of my ancestors had met their end.
Much of my ancestors. 'Fool!He shrieked, 'Can you not how the secret of Alchemy was solved? The hideous eyes were now fixed upon me, I turned away and entered the chamber beyond the usual dimensions; his cheeks, deep-seated, else I should have dismissed with scorn the incredible narrative unfolded before my eyes. My life, previously held at small value, now became dimly terrible. My immediate sensations were incapable of analysis.
Isolated as I delved deeper and deeper into the night. From its machicolated parapets and mounted battlements Barons, Counts, and again I fancied that the words which have ever afterward haunted the house? Then all at once the horrible eyes, blacker even than the moss-grown castle walls. Yet read as I approached the age of thirty-two, a month before I was, modern science had produced no impression upon me because my noble birth placed me above association with such plebeian company. He told how young Charles themselves in the course of nature have died, for I knew must be far underground. The paper carried me back to the days of the courtyard about which he had secretly returned to the footsteps of the most acute description. Without warning, I burned with the evident intent of ending my life as had been defied, yet now realizing how the curse should overtake me, until at last but a natural attribute of a skeleton, was found dead in a place as thoroughly deserted as I watched him. Then all at once the horrible eyes, blacker even than the moss-grown castle walls.
#H.P. Lovecraft#automatically generated text#Patrick Mooney#Python#Markov chains#1908#The Alchemist#The Alchemist week
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@megadethzenbu replied to your post “#is that Jack Cayman?' Hell yeah, he is, along with Black Baron,...”
Just to clarify it's not Black Baron in Anarchy Reigns but BLACKER Baron
don’t know the story behind that but I’ll just assume he got upgraded
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It’s the cough first. A disturbing feeling in the lungs, in the throat. At first, it could easily be mistaken for a buildup of phlegm. It’s thicker than that, oily and metallic. Nothing coming up from her mouth yet, but coughing fits wreaks havoc in her small body.
Roxy Leisel stands in the middle of her art studio, the stench of oil paints overpowering. Blacks, greys, dark colours smeared over her bare skin. A large canvas sits propped in front of her. Depicting images from her childhood nightmares. The creatures of her mother’s creation, the Gods that invaded Roslyn Strilonde’s mind once upon a time. Some with forms that are easily perceived, the curling tentacles and eyes that look far too real and see far more than what is comfortable. Others whose forms seem to shift, half hidden by the darker shadows, the paint almost swirls even as it dries. The paint bleeds off of the canvas. Dripping onto the floor. It shouldn’t be, it shouldn’t be acting as it does.
She doubles over when another coughing fit hits. She can tell her mother is right outside of the door, her gentle knocking and the fretting is clear. Her scent, blueberries and the unnatural smell of magic. How long has she been there? She hasn’t kept track. She hadn’t felt the need to, she’d been so absorbed in the painting.
Roxy spits up the build up in her lungs. It’s black, blacker than anything she’s seen. Like someone had stained blood black and left it to clot. It’s large, the size of two of her fingers. She grabs a cloth, intending to wipe it up before another fit comes and more spills from her mouth. They puddle at her feet.
She forgoes wiping them away, cleaning her face quickly.
Her nose bleeds the same black and oily substance. Her eyes that little bit paler, skin less white and more the grey befitting of a corpse.
Her mother’s Gods are there, before her in painting form and waiting for her.
Her mother’s Gods.
Not Roxy’s. Never Roxy’s.
Her mother finds the key, or perhaps The Baron opens the door for her finally. And Roxy cleans her face off one more time, letting the cloth fall and cover the clotting substance she’d coughed up. She steps towards Roslyn. Letting her mother hug her tightly, check her over for any sign of something.
Roslyn asks her questions, the concern of a mother, the digging of a psychologist and that fury that Roslyn is filled with naturally all melds together.
It is all Roxy can do to reassure her mother that she is fine. That the metaphorical wounds are barely scratches and all it will take to heal is simply time spent away and alone with her, her mother.
The painting almost seems to stir as the two leave the room, Roslyn’s demands of rechecking her in some proper lighting agreed to.
She holds down another round of coughing, swallowing the blackness that threatens to come up through her mouth and nose.
Her blood thickens, her veins darken. But still she smiles, cracking some joke about how quickly her mother had gotten here.
She takes a single look back at the canvas before closing the door again.
Does she know what is happening?
Perhaps she doesn’t care.
“Your eyes are paler than I remember.”
“Albinism.”
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Side Chair, Charles Sumner Greene, 1907, Art Institute of Chicago: American Art
At the height of their careers, Charles Sumner and Henry Mather Greene designed the Pasadena winter residence of the midwestern lumber baron Robert R. Blacker. The Blacker House (1907–09) marries Asian simplicity with the openness of California’s Hispanic haciendas and demonstrates the brothers’ masterful integration of an architectural plan with interior furnishings. This side chair—which Charles Greene designed for the Blacker House’s living room—display hallmarks of his mature style. Here he combined exquisite workmanship and elaborate joinery with poetic details like ebony pegs and abstract cutaways on the chairback. Restricted gift of the Graham Foundation for Advanced Studies in the Fine Arts
Size: 95.3 × 50.2 × 45.7 cm (37 1/2 × 19 3/4 × 18 in.)
Medium: Mahogany and ebony
https://www.artic.edu/artworks/99018/
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