#like i hope that herold would find comfort in it

[fluffstravels]

Dried Rations for Cosmic Hibernation

Dried Rations for Cosmic Hibernation (A Winter Prog/Psych Mix)

Van der Graaf Generator - Arrow - Godbluff / 1975

Happy the Man - Upon the Rainbow (Befrost) - Happy the Man / 1977

Island - Herold and King - Pictures / 1977

Terje Rypdal - The Hunt - Whenever I Seem To Be Far Away / 1974

Ashra - Deep Distance - New Age of Earth / 1976

Steve Tibbetts - The Alien Lounge - Yr / 1980

Tim Blake - Lighthouse - Blake's New Jerusalem / 1978

Anthony Phillips - Wise After The Event - Wise After The Event / 1978

Tangerine Dream - Bent Cold Sidewalk - Cyclone / 1978

FM - Black Noise - Black Noise / 1977

SUMMARY

The catalyst for this mix was listening to the second to last song listed, Bent Cold Sidewalk by Tangerine Dream, and realizing that in my brain there was an understanding of an oddly specific subset of late, sci-fi-influenced 70s progressive rock that felt like winter to me. The music has this kind of ultra nerd aura. Uneven, occasionally squeaky vocals (see the Tim Blake and Tangerine Dream tracks lol) contrasting with engrossing, rich instrumentation. Cold sequencers, inhuman reeds, war drums, woody guitars. All the elements of these songs come together to create some perfect sonic rendition of being snowed in, with little available to you besides hunkering down. If you’re like me, avoiding snowbound boredom is eerie movies and falling down endless rabbit holes of wikipedia articles. I hope you enjoy this mix and can find those lonely, dorky winter feelings that these songs bring me. <<<<<Track By Track Breakdown Below>>>>>

Arrow: VDGG is a band that I almost considered too good to put on this mix. Peter Hammill’s vampiric voice never fails to totally enrapture me, but the robotic goth keys, chilled saxophone (a running theme in this mix),  and the chugging bass+drums, are what seals this track as an all-time prog favorite for me. Hammill’s banshee declaration of the arrow-like unpredictability of death will shatter your bones.

Upon the Rainbow: Happy the Man’s cool jazzy electric piano pins this track like a fresh cuppa hot chocolate. The vocals are a bit like what I imagine a forest gnome’s Pavarotti (upon the rainBOWWWWWW) would sound like and I think they add a lot of whimsy to this track, especially with the fantasy lyrics. The sax and flute are also very welcome additions.

Herold and King: It’d be ignorant to do a “winter hibernation prog” mix and not try to capture the isolation and anxiety that can come with the season. The vocals on this track are fantastic, the singer emulates the haunting vibe that only Hammill has gotten otherwise. The reversed vocal freakout, underpinned by what sounds like VDGG and ELP’s angsty child who starts fires, is a highlight for me, and it only grows more disturbing from there. It’s a peculiar track, but if you like it, you love it.

The Hunt: This is the first of the two “ECM prog” tracks here, as in prog tracks from albums released by the jazz-focused label ECM. This track finds you in a frozen wasteland where King Crimson’s monolithic record Red, released this same year, once stood. Fuzz bass, machine drums, hazy fusion guitar, and a mysterious french horn create a soundtrack that would suit a fending off a polar bear as well as it’d suit trying to get the blanket to equally cover all parts of your frigid self. The mellotron towards the end is especially welcomed by me.

Deep Distance: Just as it’d be silly to ignore the anxieties of winter, it would be remiss of me to ignore the hazy atmosphere that holiday lights & decorations can bring. Manuel Gottsching crafts the innate wonder a snowy environment brings with synth, guitar, and percussion. You have no need to worry about shoveling the driveway or finding the right layers yet. You’re with whoever you love most, watching the snowfall from the comfort of the indoors by the fire, seeing the neighborhood lights twinkle out into an otherwise pitch black night. The Alien Lounge: Alien Lounge is ECM prog track no.2, and excerpted from Steve Tibbetts’ excellent 1980 album Yr, which I bring up as I’ve used his amazing hand-sketched cover for that album for this mix. The stark black and white rendering of an undefinable sci-fi portrait made it an easy fit. The track itself is a really delicate guitar-led piece that, paired with Deep Distance, continues that very cozy winter feel. I highly recommend this entire album paired with the warm beverage of your choice on a late, late night. Lighthouse: I admit this song is a VERY cheesy addition. Tim Blake is best known as a keyboardist for Gong during their classic Radio Gnome-era. All the synthesizers on this track are absolutely wonderful, spacey blurbing and bubbling at its best. The cheese comes from Blake’s vocals and the lyrics that feel equal to a 1950s B-Movie, rather than the expansive, immersive science fiction found elsewhere on this mix. That being said, I enjoy it a lot. Also, you can sing the lyrics to the Mystery Science Theater 3000 theme song over Blake’s vox.

Wise After The Event: I have to thank my good friend James for introducing me to this song because it fits the vibe I was seeking with this mix almost too snugly. Most know Phillips for his all-too-brief stint in Genesis, and at most maybe his “The Geese and the Ghost” record that features Mike Rutherford and Phil Collins. I do highly recommend “Geese”, but I also feel that Wise After The Event of is one of the most underappreciated prog records of the 70s. In it's title track, Phillips delivers a delicate vocal over gorgeous 12-string Rickenbacker guitar and earthy keyboards, with the lyrics conjuring imagery so equally vague and specific that Jon Anderson would be jealous. Bent Cold Sidewalk: I love this song and it's album, Cyclone, but I do understand why a TD-purist would be opposed to it. Cyclone is the crumbly bleu cheese of the influential Berlin School band’s discography, but I adore the goofy lyrics, melancholic vocals, wistful woodwinds, and theatrical percussion in this song so much. I hope that hearing it in the context of this pure prog rock context can make the most staunch Cyclone Grinch have a change of heart :) Black Noise: FM's Black Noise is far too under-discussed in prog circles. The violin/synth/drums trio is one of the most unique prog bands and they've made some of my favorite music in the genre. The titular song of that album tells the story of underground sewer lizard people facing their fears to come out into the world..or something. It works. The percussion on this song is magic, the synth is perfectly moody, the vocals are slightly goofy but so earnest they always win me over, and Nash the Slash’s soaring violin in the middle of the song is so good that you understand why these guys never bothered to find a guitarist. The buildup at the end of this song with the chunky Rickenbacker bass and the building synthesizer is so fittingly intense for the weird sci-fi world the band is trying to build. This is my favorite song on this mix, and the one I most strongly recommend.

If you’ve read all of this, thank you, and I hope you enjoy the mix I’ve put together!

#music #playlist #mixcloud #prog rock #space rock #psych rock

[katnisshawke-blog]

♠: One character adjusting the other's jewelry/neck tie/ etc. Pairing is up to you, and I'm definitely gonna ask at least one more if you don't mind! once again congrats!

THX so much Jo and yes please prompt me as much as u like, this is giving me life.

Honestly, I’m a bit tired, and I’m not sure about what I wrote, but I’ll correct later.

I don’t know if this is going to properly answer to your request, but I tried to interpret that “etc…” that was in the prompt as best as I could.

Pairing: Cullen X Anya by @gugle1980​  I chose this pairing because I found it so lovely in @etaeternum ’s tale.

Anya does not possess any magical power. She’s not a warrior. She is such as “normal” as any of us could be. And I love her for that.

I also worked out a quite weird Inquisitor, Lucas Trevelyan: what if the Inquisition’s Leader was a complete disaster?I hope you’ll enjoy it.

“To be honest, Commander, Skyhold is such a huge place. I’d have got lost without your help.”Cullen nodded politely to the Inquisitor’s admission about his lack of sense of direction.

“My duty, Your Worship”, said Cullen, never missing his martial etiquette.

Lucas Trevelyan stopped dead his pacing. He cheerfully let his gaze wander all over the room in which they were standing, arms folded behind his back. With a well-mannered yet uncertain smile, he finally stated:

“We are now under Josephine’s office.“ And paused.

Then, hopefully landing his look on Cullen’s face, he added:

“Right?”“ Solas’s quarters.” replied Cullen with efficient brevity.

“Oh.”  The Inquisitor tried to seem at ease with his umpteenth mistake.

“I see”, he said in a quite tone, and kept on smiling at a rather puzzled commander who was now attempting to appear as stoic as he could, while he faced the appalling confusion of the Inquisition’s most important man.

“So, that’s my personal library and that is the cellar.” Said Trevelyan.“Yes” answered Cullen, holding a sigh of relief.

“And there is the kitchen, according to my nose!” went on mischievously the Inquisitor, pointing at the door from which was coming a tempting smell of fresh cooked food.

The Commander followed with his eyes the Herold heading to the door he just indicated.- He eventually could be able to find his way back, somehow- Cullen thought.

He heard Trevelyan’s voice that congratulated the cook for the excellent dinner they had enjoyed the night before, how he had adored every single dish. He heard him inquire about the supplies or any problem that could result from having to deal with a such large number of people.

Cullen thought that if he worried about such matters, he could not be so bad as a guide. Or maybe he was just looking for an excuse to taste one of those chocolate cakes he had shown to like so much.

Cullen decided to follow the Inquisitor in the kitchen, hoping to get back to his daily tasks as soon as possible. He did not expect to find… her.

She was busy with her hands deeply sank in a soft and puffy mixture that she was kneading with gracious yet accurate movements. She stood in a mist of flour that slightly flew around her as a glow of purity; a pitch-black strain of hair was sneaking out of the rag on her head, and loosened on the alabaster skin of her cheek. She reminded him of the moonlight, although her nose was sprinkled with a note of cinnamon coloured freckles.

Cullen indulged his gaze on her beauty: soft, butter-like skin, a large breast that was hardly hold by her corset. Her waist was a sweet and delicious run before the eye could rest on the Maker-blessed shape of her generous hips. Cullen heard her laughter ringing and caught her genuine smile on her eyes and mouth.

“What ‘s your name, my lady?” Asked the Inquisitor.

Cullen woke up from that daydream as he heard Trevelyan’s voice.

“Anya”, she simply answered.“Anya, that was a true pleasure!”

The Inquisitor moved toward the door that leaded to the courtyard. He looked at Cullen and said:

“So! This way there are our prisons, right?”

He opened the door and found Master Dennet who greeted him.

“CRAP! This is going to be endless!”

Cullen heard him cursing while he walked away.The Commander took off his hands from the table on which he was leaning and rubbed his forehead, thinking about the journey to Crestwood that the Herold was supposed to take in the next few days.

Anya was bouncing her glance between the Commander and the open door. Cullen noticed it and stepped forward nodding hello. He was about to leave when Anya called him back.

“Commander.”

He turned and saw that blessing moving toward him. He suddenly panicked when he caught her getting closer and closer to his face. She looked at him with an amused smirk; finally, she drew out of her apron a small napkin. She soaked it   with the tip of her tongue, then she raised it and cleaned the spot of flour that was upon his forehead.“I think you wouldn’t like your men to see you like this, would you?” She was… Maker. It was a lifetime that Cullen couldn’t feel so comfortable with someone, although they barely met before. She acted so naturally, with effortless kindness and essential pragmatism. Without second thought, she pulled out from a pantry a fruit tarte and gave it to him.“There” she said, “your favourite”.Cullen raised one eyebrow and asked: “how do you know?”

She winked: “You might be the Commander out there, but here, I am the one in charge!”

#prompt time #my writings #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #cullen x Anya #gugle1980

[readbookywooks]

The Nautilus

CAPTAIN NEMO stood up. I followed him. Contrived at the rear of the dining room, a double door opened, and I entered a room whose dimensions equaled the one I had just left. It was a library. Tall, black-rosewood bookcases, inlaid with copperwork, held on their wide shelves a large number of uniformly bound books. These furnishings followed the contours of the room, their lower parts leading to huge couches upholstered in maroon leather and curved for maximum comfort. Light, movable reading stands, which could be pushed away or pulled near as desired, allowed books to be positioned on them for easy study. In the center stood a huge table covered with pamphlets, among which some newspapers, long out of date, were visible. Electric light flooded this whole harmonious totality, falling from four frosted half globes set in the scrollwork of the ceiling. I stared in genuine wonderment at this room so ingeniously laid out, and I couldn't believe my eyes. "Captain Nemo," I told my host, who had just stretched out on a couch, "this is a library that would do credit to more than one continental palace, and I truly marvel to think it can go with you into the deepest seas." "Where could one find greater silence or solitude, professor?" Captain Nemo replied. "Did your study at the museum afford you such a perfect retreat?" "No, sir, and I might add that it's quite a humble one next to yours. You own 6,000 or 7,000 volumes here . . ." "12,000, Professor Aronnax. They're my sole remaining ties with dry land. But I was done with the shore the day my Nautilus submerged for the first time under the waters. That day I purchased my last volumes, my last pamphlets, my last newspapers, and ever since I've chosen to believe that humanity no longer thinks or writes. In any event, professor, these books are at your disposal, and you may use them freely." I thanked Captain Nemo and approached the shelves of this library. Written in every language, books on science, ethics, and literature were there in abundance, but I didn't see a single work on economics-they seemed to be strictly banned on board. One odd detail: all these books were shelved indiscriminately without regard to the language in which they were written, and this jumble proved that the Nautilus's captain could read fluently whatever volumes he chanced to pick up. Among these books I noted masterpieces by the greats of ancient and modern times, in other words, all of humanity's finest achievements in history, poetry, fiction, and science, from Homer to Victor Hugo, from Xenophon to Michelet, from Rabelais to Madame George Sand. But science, in particular, represented the major investment of this library: books on mechanics, ballistics, hydrography, meteorology, geography, geology, etc., held a place there no less important than works on natural history, and I realized that they made up the captain's chief reading. There I saw the complete works of Humboldt, the complete Arago, as well as works by Foucault, Henri Sainte-Claire Deville, Chasles, Milne-Edwards, Quatrefages, John Tyndall, Faraday, Berthelot, Father Secchi, Petermann, Commander Maury, Louis Agassiz, etc., plus the transactions of France's Academy of Sciences, bulletins from the various geographical societies, etc., and in a prime location, those two volumes on the great ocean depths that had perhaps earned me this comparatively charitable welcome from Captain Nemo. Among the works of Joseph Bertrand, his book entitled The Founders of Astronomy even gave me a definite date; and since I knew it had appeared in the course of 1865, I concluded that the fitting out of the Nautilus hadn't taken place before then. Accordingly, three years ago at the most, Captain Nemo had begun his underwater existence. Moreover, I hoped some books even more recent would permit me to pinpoint the date precisely; but I had plenty of time to look for them, and I didn't want to put off any longer our stroll through the wonders of the Nautilus. "Sir," I told the captain, "thank you for placing this library at my disposal. There are scientific treasures here, and I'll take advantage of them." "This room isn't only a library," Captain Nemo said, "it's also a smoking room." "A smoking room?" I exclaimed. "Then one may smoke on board?" "Surely." "In that case, sir, I'm forced to believe that you've kept up relations with Havana." "None whatever," the captain replied. "Try this cigar, Professor Aronnax, and even though it doesn't come from Havana, it will satisfy you if you're a connoisseur." I took the cigar offered me, whose shape recalled those from Cuba; but it seemed to be made of gold leaf. I lit it at a small brazier supported by an elegant bronze stand, and I inhaled my first whiffs with the relish of a smoker who hasn't had a puff in days. "It's excellent," I said, "but it's not from the tobacco plant." "Right," the captain replied, "this tobacco comes from neither Havana nor the Orient. It's a kind of nicotine-rich seaweed that the ocean supplies me, albeit sparingly. Do you still miss your Cubans, sir?" "Captain, I scorn them from this day forward." "Then smoke these cigars whenever you like, without debating their origin. They bear no government seal of approval, but I imagine they're none the worse for it." "On the contrary." Just then Captain Nemo opened a door facing the one by which I had entered the library, and I passed into an immense, splendidly lit lounge. It was a huge quadrilateral with canted corners, ten meters long, six wide, five high. A luminous ceiling, decorated with delicate arabesques, distributed a soft, clear daylight over all the wonders gathered in this museum. For a museum it truly was, in which clever hands had spared no expense to amass every natural and artistic treasure, displaying them with the helter-skelter picturesqueness that distinguishes a painter's studio. Some thirty pictures by the masters, uniformly framed and separated by gleaming panoplies of arms, adorned walls on which were stretched tapestries of austere design. There I saw canvases of the highest value, the likes of which I had marveled at in private European collections and art exhibitions. The various schools of the old masters were represented by a Raphael Madonna, a Virgin by Leonardo da Vinci, a nymph by Correggio, a woman by Titian, an adoration of the Magi by Veronese, an assumption of the Virgin by Murillo, a Holbein portrait, a monk by Velazquez, a martyr by Ribera, a village fair by Rubens, two Flemish landscapes by Teniers, three little genre paintings by Gerard Dow, Metsu, and Paul Potter, two canvases by Gericault and Prud'hon, plus seascapes by Backhuysen and Vernet. Among the works of modern art were pictures signed by Delacroix, Ingres, Decamps, Troyon, Meissonier, Daubigny, etc., and some wonderful miniature statues in marble or bronze, modeled after antiquity's finest originals, stood on their pedestals in the corners of this magnificent museum. As the Nautilus's commander had predicted, my mind was already starting to fall into that promised state of stunned amazement. "Professor," this strange man then said, "you must excuse the informality with which I receive you, and the disorder reigning in this lounge." "Sir," I replied, "without prying into who you are, might I venture to identify you as an artist?" "A collector, sir, nothing more. Formerly I loved acquiring these beautiful works created by the hand of man. I sought them greedily, ferreted them out tirelessly, and I've been able to gather some objects of great value. They're my last mementos of those shores that are now dead for me. In my eyes, your modern artists are already as old as the ancients. They've existed for 2,000 or 3,000 years, and I mix them up in my mind. The masters are ageless." "What about these composers?" I said, pointing to sheet music by Weber, Rossini, Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, Meyerbeer, Herold, Wagner, Auber, Gounod, Victor Masse, and a number of others scattered over a full size piano-organ, which occupied one of the wall panels in this lounge. "These composers," Captain Nemo answered me, "are the contemporaries of Orpheus, because in the annals of the dead, all chronological differences fade; and I'm dead, professor, quite as dead as those friends of yours sleeping six feet under!" Captain Nemo fell silent and seemed lost in reverie. I regarded him with intense excitement, silently analyzing his strange facial expression. Leaning his elbow on the corner of a valuable mosaic table, he no longer saw me, he had forgotten my very presence. I didn't disturb his meditations but continued to pass in review the curiosities that enriched this lounge. After the works of art, natural rarities predominated. They consisted chiefly of plants, shells, and other exhibits from the ocean that must have been Captain Nemo's own personal finds. In the middle of the lounge, a jet of water, electrically lit, fell back into a basin made from a single giant clam. The delicately festooned rim of this shell, supplied by the biggest mollusk in the class Acephala, measured about six meters in circumference; so it was even bigger than those fine giant clams given to King Francois I by the Republic of Venice, and which the Church of Saint-Sulpice in Paris has made into two gigantic holy-water fonts. Around this basin, inside elegant glass cases fastened with copper bands, there were classified and labeled the most valuable marine exhibits ever put before the eyes of a naturalist. My professorial glee may easily be imagined. The zoophyte branch offered some very unusual specimens from its two groups, the polyps and the echinoderms. In the first group: organ-pipe coral, gorgonian coral arranged into fan shapes, soft sponges from Syria, isis coral from the Molucca Islands, sea-pen coral, wonderful coral of the genus Virgularia from the waters of Norway, various coral of the genus Umbellularia, alcyonarian coral, then a whole series of those madrepores that my mentor Professor Milne-Edwards has so shrewdly classified into divisions and among which I noted the wonderful genus Flabellina as well as the genus Oculina from Reunion Island, plus a "Neptune's chariot" from the Caribbean Sea - every superb variety of coral, and in short, every species of these unusual polyparies that congregate to form entire islands that will one day turn into continents. Among the echinoderms, notable for being covered with spines: starfish, feather stars, sea lilies, free-swimming crinoids, brittle stars, sea urchins, sea cucumbers, etc., represented a complete collection of the individuals in this group. An excitable conchologist would surely have fainted dead away before other, more numerous glass cases in which were classified specimens from the mollusk branch. There I saw a collection of incalculable value that I haven't time to describe completely. Among these exhibits I'll mention, just for the record: an elegant royal hammer shell from the Indian Ocean, whose evenly spaced white spots stood out sharply against a base of red and brown; an imperial spiny oyster, brightly colored, bristling with thorns, a specimen rare to European museums, whose value I estimated at 20,000 francs; a common hammer shell from the seas near Queensland, very hard to come by; exotic cockles from Senegal, fragile white bivalve shells that a single breath could pop like a soap bubble; several varieties of watering-pot shell from Java, a sort of limestone tube fringed with leafy folds and much fought over by collectors; a whole series of top-shell snails - greenish yellow ones fished up from American seas, others colored reddish brown that patronize the waters off Queensland, the former coming from the Gulf of Mexico and notable for their overlapping shells, the latter some sun-carrier shells found in the southernmost seas, finally and rarest of all, the magnificent spurred-star shell from New Zealand; then some wonderful peppery-furrow shells; several valuable species of cythera clams and venus clams; the trellis wentletrap snail from Tranquebar on India's eastern shore; a marbled turban snail gleaming with mother-of-pearl; green parrot shells from the seas of China; the virtually unknown cone snail from the genus Coenodullus; every variety of cowry used as money in India and Africa; a "glory-of-the-seas," the most valuable shell in the East Indies; finally, common periwinkles, delphinula snails, turret snails, violet snails, European cowries, volute snails, olive shells, miter shells, helmet shells, murex snails, whelks, harp shells, spiky periwinkles, triton snails, horn shells, spindle shells, conch shells, spider conchs, limpets, glass snails, sea butterflies-every kind of delicate, fragile seashell that science has baptized with its most delightful names. Aside and in special compartments, strings of supremely beautiful pearls were spread out, the electric light flecking them with little fiery sparks: pink pearls pulled from saltwater fan shells in the Red Sea; green pearls from the rainbow abalone; yellow, blue, and black pearls, the unusual handiwork of various mollusks from every ocean and of certain mussels from rivers up north; in short, several specimens of incalculable worth that had been oozed by the rarest of shellfish. Some of these pearls were bigger than a pigeon egg; they more than equaled the one that the explorer Tavernier sold the Shah of Persia for 3,000,000 francs, and they surpassed that other pearl owned by the Imam of Muscat, which I had believed to be unrivaled in the entire world. Consequently, to calculate the value of this collection was, I should say, impossible. Captain Nemo must have spent millions in acquiring these different specimens, and I was wondering what financial resources he tapped to satisfy his collector's fancies, when these words interrupted me: "You're examining my shells, professor? They're indeed able to fascinate a naturalist; but for me they have an added charm, since I've collected every one of them with my own two hands, and not a sea on the globe has escaped my investigations." "I understand, captain, I understand your delight at strolling in the midst of this wealth. You're a man who gathers his treasure in person. No museum in Europe owns such a collection of exhibits from the ocean. But if I exhaust all my wonderment on them, I'll have nothing left for the ship that carries them! I have absolutely no wish to probe those secrets of yours! But I confess that my curiosity is aroused to the limit by this Nautilus, the motor power it contains, the equipment enabling it to operate, the ultra powerful force that brings it to life. I see some instruments hanging on the walls of this lounge whose purposes are unknown to me. May I learn - " "Professor Aronnax," Captain Nemo answered me, "I've said you'd be free aboard my vessel, so no part of the Nautilus is off-limits to you. You may inspect it in detail, and I'll be delighted to act as your guide." "I don't know how to thank you, sir, but I won't abuse your good nature. I would only ask you about the uses intended for these instruments of physical measure - " "Professor, these same instruments are found in my stateroom, where I'll have the pleasure of explaining their functions to you. But beforehand, come inspect the cabin set aside for you. You need to learn how you'll be lodged aboard the Nautilus." I followed Captain Nemo, who, via one of the doors cut into the lounge's canted corners, led me back down the ship's gangways. He took me to the bow, and there I found not just a cabin but an elegant stateroom with a bed, a washstand, and various other furnishings. I could only thank my host. "Your stateroom adjoins mine," he told me, opening a door, "and mine leads into that lounge we've just left." I entered the captain's stateroom. It had an austere, almost monastic appearance. An iron bedstead, a worktable, some washstand fixtures. Subdued lighting. No luxuries. Just the bare necessities. Captain Nemo showed me to a bench. "Kindly be seated," he told me. I sat, and he began speaking as follows:

#20000Leagues