Antesdelanochecer - Hetalia, Unfortunately

Mayhaps regency Scotland(sideburns!).....🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 ? Or baroque nyo russia? Completely separate on silhouette but so iconic. Aneeways ur art is great!

Very handsome...

Can you draw Haiti, in a military uniform during the Haitian Revolution? Thank you very much for wonderful and historical art

“The Good Lord who created the sun which gives us light from above, who rouses the sea and makes the thunder roar–listen well, all of you–this god, hidden in the clouds, watches us. He sees all that the white people do. The god of the white people demands from them crimes; our god asks for good deeds. But this god who is so good demands vengeance! He will direct our hands; he will aid us. Throw away the image of the god of the whites who thirsts for our tears, and listen to the voice of liberty which speaks in the hearts of all of us.”

The Haitian Revolution took place between 1791 and 1804, and was an insurrection by the slaves of Saint Domingue, now Haiti, against French colonial rule. To this day, it is considered the only successful slave rebellion, establishing an independent society of liberated slaves.

Historical Footnotes (+ bonus sketches!):

I TRIED ON THE LIGHTING.... I TRIED

The quote from before is Dutty Boukman’s speech, one of the early leaders of the Revolution. Born in Senegambia, he was captured, enslaved, and sent to the new World, where he ended up in Haiti as a carriage driver and a vodou priest. He played a key role in northern Haiti, where he presided over a religious ceremony in 1791 that would kick off the revolution. He is said to have give this speech during the ceremony!

You’ll notice that her uniform looks remarkably similar to those of the American Revolution. This is because the two events took place very close to one another- in fact, many of the freed people of color in Haiti had served in the American Revolution themselves.  

Women played a large role in the Revolution. People like Suzanne Belair had leadership positions in the army, as well as countless other women who served integral roles in the information networks that organized the rebellion.

I probably should’ve added golden embroidery on her collar and wristcuffs but I legit forgot IM SORRY

This was the original sketch for this, cuz I wanted to try to doing more dynamic poses, but it just didnt feel right to me? Part of the reason I took so long to do this was because I took months to mull over it until I had a better vision of what I wanted!

sketch I did to get her features down!

My soul guards…that smash my enemies into pieces…(didn’t have time for Ice sorry) yeah…happy new year🌋

I'm so sorry if I'm bothering, but reading "The Captain" has seriously floored, contaminated and infected me and I'm making a playlist inspired by it - But I was wondering if you had thoughts on Alfred and his people in that context? Because I... Like cowboy Alfred and I can't emphasize enough how many stories would emerge from Alfred losing a dual, lying dead on the ground, just to be gone by dawn and seen again in the next town over on death row to be hanged, just to be seen alive again some time later?

Like, it gives campfire stories and western-tales! 🥹

The Cowboy

Characters: America

The Captain (England)

The Artist (France)

The Cleaner (Scotland)

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Some say there are monsters out on the plains.

Unholy things. Dangerous things. Things that no man should see, and that would drive him mad if he ever did.

The cowboy does not believe all this. He believes in truth, cold and bitter. Life is hard out here, that is true, and sometimes a hard life does things to a man. Turns him inside out with wanting and regret. Makes him yowl for his momma at night like a child from loneliness. Cold nights, bitter winds, and dust choked skies- miles and miles with nothing but the hot sun and ghosts of old lives nipping at your heels.

Because to choose a life on the plains alone is to have come from something. To go far into the desert and stay there means that there is sanctuary in the sands that cannot be found in a town, or a village. And that life changes those who live it. Makes them see their fears manifested in order to understand them. Forces them to acknowledge their wrongs and mistakes by trapping them alone.

The cowboy is no different. He’s seen many things he wishes he hadn’t. Has done many more besides.

There’d been a boy. Many summers ago.

Bright blue eyes, golden hair. Rough broad hands of a working man, but the expensive clothes of a comfortable one. He’d rolled into town with fear behind his wide smile; twitchy fingers and a need for work with no questions asked. He’d been running from things, that was clear, and the cows don’t ask no questions. Nor do cowboys in need of able hands.

He’d been good. Been quick. Great with horses, could calm even the most spooked or rowdy with just a touch. A real gift for them, and a real love for the plains. He grew tall under the wide blue skies, expanded his chest outwards as he rode in a way that made you look at him. Talked much, talked often, but without saying anything at all.

When he’d died, the cowboy didn’t know who to send for. The boy had never mentioned his father, hadn’t spoken of his momma, not even in passing. No family and not even a family name to claim him. He’d had to leave him out there to the sun, nothing but a bright red blanket over his face to offer him shade and the cowboy’s own rings on his eyes to pay for something he didn’t quite understand. It had felt right. It had felt inadequate.

He’d been too young.

The memory of the boy haunts him. The cowboy sees their final ride in his dreams, sees the herd change direction and sees the boy react too late. Sees him realise across the cattle that he was pinned- rock of the canyon on one side, and the stampede the other. He caught the cowboy’s eye and that, that moment of knowing, seared something into him that the cowboy knows he will never forget.

Over the thunder of a thousand hooves, the boy’s scream is an unanswerable battle cry he still wakes to, even now.

The cowboy keeps moving. The herds do not stop. Rides must be finished. Life goes on.

He goes it alone. Wrings out his soul in the dust, lets it boil over with regret. Then he gets another partner. Then another. The cowboy is older, too old these days to head on out to watch the cattle without someone he trusts at his back. The world is changing around them but this life does not change, does not grow easier. Only harder, as his bones begin to hurt and his eyes can no longer spot unfriendly shapes moving in the shadows.

One night and a shared fire like any other- three men and a dog in the middle of nowhere- the cowboy looks up to see a face he knows all too well. It has been years, decades, but the boy’s face is unchanged. Still milk smooth, still full and whole.

He has a chain around his neck that glitters in the firelight. Thin gold links that hold up familiar rings, unused payment for a journey not taken. He catches the cowboy’s eye over a whisper of long ago screams and nods.

There are monsters out on the plains.

Things that creep around campsites, things that stir in the night. Things that wear the faces of long dead men, that put on old skin like clothes and come to sit quietly by your side.

The cowboy cannot look at him. He hears him breathing as the men around them talk, feels the warmth of the boy’s arm through this jacket.

‘Well met,’ the cowboy manages, and offers his old friend his flask to drink from.

The boy does not take it. He looks up at the stars, bright and endless above them, and holds the cowboy’s rings in one hand.

‘Strange, isn’t it?’ he says softly, ‘What things we can sometimes think we see.’

The cowboy’s heartbeat beats loud in his ears, ‘Too much sun does things to a man.’

‘It does.’ The boy turns and looks back. His eyes are old, hard things, ‘I’ve heard people tell all sorts of tales. Drunken ghost stories no sane man would believe.’

The cowboy’s gut screams a warning, that he is but prey in front of predator. He knows to listen, has enough sense not to question, ‘I’m too sane to believe most things.’

He meets the boy’s eye and does not look away. The fire before them cracks, and the boy breathes. There is no other sound. Then, he smiles, teeth emerging white and gleaming. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Maybe, it never did.

‘Well met, friend.’ the boys says. He claps the cowboy’s shoulder and settles back. The cowboy’s chest feels lighter, ‘I think we’ll get along just fine.’

---------

I couldn't help myself Sunny, I was instantly inspired and it's all your fault

As it was written so quickly this may well change, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone and I had to get it out there

If this story is to have a song, it's 'Ghost Rider's' by Johnny Cash which is, and always will be, an utter banger.

I’ve written a little drabble along with this below, because I just- I just needed this

(”Marry me, Archie” by Flyte, sets the scene)

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What do you think England's relationship with Hong Kong is like?

hmmm good question! this is how i think it would’ve been during the Victorian era: from England’s perspective, I see him positioning himself as HK’s “”benefactor”” (laden with all the ironies and caveats of empire), if that makes sense? (China’s perspective would of course, be completely different.) I don’t really see a parental dynamic the way I analogise Arthur and Alfred’s relationship. The closest analogy I can think of as to how England sees it is like a wealthy patron who funds a younger person’s education—those kinds of 19th century dynamics. I guess I’m thinking of the cultural dimension of the British empire here? The way I see it, HK as a teenager being ‘educated’ in the British schooling system in the 19th century is also about instilling certain concepts, ideas and world views too. The aspect of history that I’m trying to incorporate is the historical dynamic of how HK existed within the larger empire—intended as an important port city that further facilitated trade and commercial links across the British empire’s other colonies, as well as the cultural influence and legacy British rule had on HK. Victoria’s reign was an era where the concept of Westernisation was uncritically assumed to be synonymous with modernisation and progress by a lot of people: therefore, in terms of global imperial dynamics, the narrative was that the older, formerly powerful empires Qing China had become stagnant and therefore, its value systems and way of life were outdated etcetera. 

From HK’s perspective, I think he sort of tries to make the best of the situation (he doesn’t have much leverage, between Arthur and Yao, whom are from his perspective, the old world empires with all the cards, even if the latter has been shorn of a lot of prestige after the Opium Wars) and that means sometimes going along with some things. But I do think the end result of all of this is him growing into his own distinct person with a unique way of seeing things, and in some ways he has a perspective of two (and more) different cultural worldviews from it. On this level, this is where I think he has some things in common with Eleanor/Zee (NZ); both being distinctly read as not-English and having to navigate that cultural terrain. I also pretty much can see them both going to university in the 1800s (I already headcanon Zee being educated at the first women’s college at Oxford, whereas I don’t see Alfred, Matthew or Jack/Australia going to university then, at least not until they decide to take it up after WWII). 

Purgatory

Whumptober Day 8: Back from the dead 

Summary: ​​ Vietnam, 1967. Marine Captain Alfred F. Jones, born on July 4th 1942, is killed in action at 0930 hours, twenty klicks from Quang Tri city. This is the aftermath. 

Or: Alfred, through the eyes of one of his men. Because not every human’s experience coming face-to-face with their nation is a good one. 

Notes: CW for violence, death, graphic injuries, war, depictions of PTSD, murder and Cold War-era imperialism. This fic leans hard on the darker side of ‘nations as creepy as hell eldritches and their relationship with war’; citizenship, loyalty and nationhood can cut many ways can’t it? 

“VC” refers to the Viet Cong— the Vietnamese guerrillas who fought against both the US-backed South Vietnamese military and US forces. They were allied with, but distinct from the regular ARVN (aka, the North Vietnamese military). “Charlie” became a slang for the Viet Cong, because the NATO phonetic alphabet reads “V.C” as “Victor Charlie.” [3.2k words]

Read on AO3

One week after Jones dies, a VC sniper nails me twice in the right thigh on a night patrol, with all the suddenness and wrath of a prayer answered by the Almighty. 

Maybe Charlie had been aiming for my balls and had missed, the helo pilot on the medevac chopper had guffawed. He’d seen people in worse shape than me, I’d live, so just sit tight and shut up. 

It enters my leg at a diagonal, it hurts like a bitch, fractures my thigh bone, shreds a whole lot of muscle and nerve tissue, nicks a major artery; I lose buckets of blood. The surgeon at the field hospital in Khe Sanh who ties the artery, fishes out the bullet fragments and sews me back together tells me that at best, I’d walk with a painful limp all my life—if I even recover that much function. Then, I get a raging infection. I burn and I freeze; my temperature shoots to a hundred and three, I’m pumped with antibiotics, I’m told I nearly died—but I don’t give a shit. 

I’m giddy, delirious and incoherent, hopped up on morphine and euphoria. 

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HEJ Nordics - Winter 2020 - News 1

【Collection Blue】by _Ay_ & Me

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I'm not intelligent enough to do all the existential philosophical ones yall are doing so here's my contribution of in-universe memes from the 2020 election