The warmth reminded her of Riverrun, of days in the sun with Lysa and Edmure. How young they all have been.
AGOT, Catelyn II
“Watch for me, little cat,” her father would always tell her, when he rode off to court or fair or battle. And she would, standing patiently on the battlements of Riverrun as the waters of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone flowed by. He did not always come when he said he would, and days would ofttimes pass as Catelyn stood her vigil, peering out between crenels and through arrow loops until she caught a glimpse of Lord Hoster on his old brown gelding, trotting along the river-shore toward the landing. “Did you watch for me?” he’d ask when he bent to hug her. “Did you, little cat?”
AGOT, Catelyn X
She had played at being Jenny that day, had even wound flowers in her hair. And Petyr had pretended to be her Prince of Dragonflies. Catelyn could not have been more than twelve, Petyr just a boy.
(so, uh. that letter in percy’s pocket, huh? sure did read kind of like a suicide note… sure hope someone in vox machina picks up on that… sure hope this severely traumatised early-twenties kid gets some explicit mental health support real soon…)
warnings for discussions of suicide, mild suicidal ideation, brief mentions of canonical torture, mental health issues
“So,” says Scanlan, when he finally finds Percy. He’s high up on the ramparts of Castle Whitestone, on the thin walkway that runs behind the crenellated wall, just… standing. Watching. His coat, still torn through with bullet holes and stained russet-red with dried blood, his blood, flaps faintly in the breeze. “I’m sure the others aren’t going to appreciate me telling you this, but we found that letter of yours.”
The air up this high is cold, far colder than it is on the ground, and the wind is something fierce. It bites at exposed skin, grabs and tugs at any loose items of clothing. Though Scanlan’s sheltered somewhat by the wall, waist-height for humans and head-height for gnomes, Percy’s hair is blown back against his scalp, the tails of his coat snapping audibly behind him. In the several long seconds it takes Percy to answer, Scanlan can’t help but wonder whether his words have been stolen away by the sound of the howling almost-gale.
“Letter?” asks Percy, eventually, absently, still staring that thousand-yard-stare out over the quiet streets of Whitestone and the misty forest beyond. He doesn’t seem entirely there, if Scanlan’s being honest – hasn’t since they brought him back. As though death has filed his edges down, numbed him. As though he’s missing something.
Bodiam Castle is a 14th-century moated castle. It was built in 1385 by Sir Edward Dalyngrigge, a former knight of Edward III, with the permission of Richard II, to defend the area against French invasion during the Hundred Years’ War.
Bodiam Castle has a quadrangular plan. It has no keep, having its various chambers built around the outer defensive walls and inner courts. The corners and entrance are marked by towers, topped by crenellations.
It was the home of the Dalyngrigge family and the centre of the manor of Bodiam. The castle is protected as a Grade I listed building and Scheduled Monument. It has been owned by The National Trust since 1925, when it was donated by Lord Curzon on his death. It is open to the public.
‘Hearing Voices’ - The Fairy Glen - Isle of Skye by Gavin Hardcastle - Fototripper Via Flickr: Imagine the chills I felt as for the second time I heard voices in the Fairy Glen - Scottish voices.
This was my second visit to this mystical and enchanted Glen on the Isle of Skye on Scotland.
The day before I felt sure I could just hear a faint conversation but as I stood atop the hill to survey the surrounding area not a soul could be seen.
On the second day I’d completely forgotten about the mystery voices until once again they wafted my way.
I couldn’t quite make out the words as they seemed to fade in and out, so I made a concerted effort to try strain my ears and listen harder.
Again, the voices gently lapped over the crenellated hillocks and as I prepared to by awed by the magical whisperings of otherworldly fairies I finally heard this clear pronouncement.
“Frae Fecks sake man, get yer feckin shayte together and pass me that feckin stack!”
Magical, truly magical thought I.
To this day I’m convinced it was the fairies and nothing to do with the middle aged man and boy working on a gate repair about half a kilometer away from the Glen.
He did not always come when he said he would, and days would ofttimes pass as Catelyn stood her vigil, peering out between crenels and through arrow loops until she caught a glimpse of Lord Hoster on his old brown gelding, trotting along the rivershore toward the landing. “Did you watch for me?” he’d ask when he bent to bug her. “Did you, little cat?”
Mostly I don’t have very much to say about Edward Burne-Jones’ 1861 tile design (called Theseus and the Minotaur in the Labyrinth): I just find it utterly charming.
From the crenellated walls of the labyrinth, the slightly absurd relative scale of the architecture and the people, and Theseus’ pointed toes and patterned tunic, you might already have guessed what the Birmingham Museums write about the design: “It derives not from ancient mythology, but from Chaucer’s retelling of the Greek story in his ‘Legend of Good Women’, which explains its medieval character.”
Wouldn’t it make a lovely little row on a wall?
(Speaking of mazes, dear reader, I submitted my first few graduate school applications in the wee ungodly hours of the morning today. Wish me luck!)
Men and women, young and old, people of various hair and skin colors
gather at Jerusalem’s gates in anticipation of Jesus’s arrival on a
donkey. The architecture itself, with its patterned dome, pitched roofs,
and colorful crenellation, contributes to the celebratory atmosphere.
For the artist who illustrated this grand liturgical book for his
community of Syriac Christian monks, it was a point of pride that the
population of Jerusalem was so diverse.
Anachronistic and teleological notions about one-point perspective and its relationship to optical reality or the observation of space have led to a mass denigration of earlier pictorial strategies for rendering volumes, situating them, and specifying their relationships to each other. However, if one has spent any time in a medieval hill-top commune, such as Siena, San Gimingnano, Volterra, Assisi or Cortona, one knows that the enchanting jumble of sweet and savory-colored buildings, tiled rooves, jagged walls, myriad towers, gothic windows, crenellations, and empty loggie seen everywhere in trecento painting, correspond rather accurately to one’s visual experience urban architecture and topography in such places.
To put it more plainly, Siena looks like Ambriogio Lorenzetti’s Good Goverment in the City and the 14thc. renderings of the built environment are, on balance, fairly accurate. One couldn’t extrapolate a groundplan of the structures seen in any of these images, the way one can with Piero’s Flagellation, but then again they were never intended to have a cartological application. A similar case can be made for the representation of the contado–the rural or uncultivated topography landscape beyond the city walls.
A bust of a Sasanian King, perhaps Shapur II (AD 310-379), silver with mercury gilding, raised from a sheet of silver with chased and repousse details. The bearded King wears lobed earrings and wears a typical crenelated crown with striated orb mounted in a gilt crescent. height: 19 ¾ in. (50 cm) (note: A similar bust is held in the Metropolitan Museum NY gallery