It Will Always Be Very Funny/mildly Horrific To Me When A Mobile Game With A Disproportionately Large

it will always be very funny/mildly horrific to me when a mobile game with a disproportionately large audience names a new character after a historical dude

The mural of Achilles, and the temple of Amun.

Private commissions, please don't use for yourself.

Richard the Lionheart and Berengaria of Navarre

“Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind. Instead of being a single, downright, bluff piece of work of which no man need feel ashamed, our commonest deeds are set about with a fluttering and flickering of wings, a rising and falling of lights.”

— Virginia Woolf, Orlando

Ah, love

More knights - top is based on Narcissus Changed into a Flower by Nicolas Bernard Lepicie, bottom is based on Ophelia by Jean Baptiste Bertrand.

Edit: My tablet resolution was so bad I didn't realize. You can see the painting now.

“It is the mother’s not the lover’s lust that rots the mind. It is that which condemns the tragic character to his walking death. It is Jocasta, not Juliet, who dwells in the inner chamber. It is is Gertrude, not the silly Ophelia, who sends Hamlet to his madness. The heart of tragedy does not lie in stealing or taking away. Any feather-pated girl can steal a heart. It lies in giving, in putting on, in adding, in smothering without the pillows. Desdemona robbed of life or honour is nothing to a Mordred, robbed of himself–his soul stolen, overlaid, wizened, while the mother-character lives in triumph, superfluously and with stifling love endowed on him, seemingly innocent of ill-intention. Mordred was the only son of Orkney who never married. He, while his brothers fled to England, was the one who stayed alone with her for twenty years–her living larder. Now that she was dead, he had become her grave. She existed in him like the vampire.”

— T.H. White, The Candle in the Wind