Writing, meta, and ramblings blog, because if I keep annoying my friends and family with my nonsense they might stop talking to me. Born 1999. AO3 & Dreamwidth
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Incredible portraits of the main characters of my novel done by the amazing @mandhos ! âš
I'm so happy to see them drawn by someone else, it makes them feel more reel somehow ! I've admired mandhos' art for so long, I feel blessed I finally got to commission them đ«¶.
The characters are Misty, Alstroemere and Adonis in that order. (I write in french so it's probably not very usedul to talk about it here but I just wanted to share the gorgeous art with you!)
the achilles scene in the odyssey is haunting tbh. the whole iliad being about men dying to have honor and glory to be remembered after death and achilles is just, just getting to the point where he believes maybe thereâs more to life than dying and maybe he doesnât want to lose his life in this pointless war and then him getting pulled into it anyway, dying the homeric hero he never wanted to be, then meeting odysseus in the underworld and telling him a slaveâs lot would be better than his own because at least he would be alive
the odyssey as a direct refute to the entire iliad is insane. achilles ultimately choosing the short life with glory over the long one without. achilles choosing, painfully, to never go home. and itâs a mistake
odysseus is literally surrounded by the souls of heroes who died before him in glory and achilles looks at him and steps out of the iliad and into the odyssey and says itâs not worth it. itâs not worth it to not to go home.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
âI was on a strict diet during Episode VIII, and she was like, âKid, get into that fridge and take some chocolate bars. I have many there.â And I did,â he recalls. âI failed my diet because Carrie Fisher told me to. And it [felt] great.â
I know this is a jokey post (rip OPs notes) but a fursona is typically an animal REPRESENTATION of YOURSELF, not an external animal that is strongly meaningful to you and your life/journey.
I've seen daemon and familiar proposed, but to keep in line with the cursedness of the original post, may I suggest: spiritual tamagotchi
Rules: make a poll with 10 of your favourite movies. they can be just 10 movies you loved seeing, or your top 10 movies of all time, then tag some people.
Thank you for tagging me @winterbonesthings, @neeeeeeeeeklaus, @whateverthought, and @sharkboy305!
Tagging: @lady-of-imladris, @philtatosbuck, @crimsonlyinglilly, @frogs-are-bitchs, @freakazoidr17cr-5, @mariedemedicis, @samclownchester, @elena-mikaelson, @endless-natterings, and anyone else who wants to do this!
Originally I had fourteen and managed to get it down to eleven. You will have to be satisfied with that.
thank you @ffigwit @dancerinthestorm @kylobith @eilinelsghost for tagging me! I very much appreciate the love, I have just been criminally busy lately!
Finally had some time to myself today to work on a fic about Elendil I'm hoping to have done for NĂșmenor Week. This fic is basically me answering the question: what if someone decided to climb that blessed-cursed-depressed old man like a tree? It takes place when Elendil is having a crisis in the aftermath of AnĂĄrion's death and summons a seer to tell his future. The seer in question is from the White Mountains and so has the seedlings of DĂșnedain scepticism which Duinhir will be exhibiting at full force three thousand years later. She takes one look at the mental health disaster that is the High King of the Realms in Exile and is all: Well, the racial superiority rhetoric is clearly bullshit, the only special thing about him is that he wants to die so damn bad. I need to fuck him.
She was a brown creature. Brown-haired, brown-eyed, brown-skinned. Even her clothes were brown, although more of a russet shade. A brown cloth bound back her hair, red runes patterned along it with stars about its edges. Beads of amber glowed at her wrists and gleamed about her neck, one heavy drop of it, some insects trapped within it, hung between her breasts. He was momentarily tempted to attempt to work out what species exactly muddied the golden stone, but quickly looked away. She was slight, the faintest traces of a glare between her eyes and around her mouth as she craned her neck to look up at him. He had the impression that she resented him already and he had not even opened his mouth.
"My lord," she said. "You have ordered a fortune-teller and I am here." Her Adûnaic was fluent but heavily accented. He wondered if she struggled to shed the accent of her birth or simply refused to.
"I did," said Elendil, indicating for her to sit. "And I am glad that you have come."
She did not sit. Instead she stared at him, neck still craned to look him in the eye. "You truly are monstrously large, do you know that?"
Elendil wondered if that was a fault of the tongue, before seeing the gleam in her eyes and realising that the word was purposeful. Most Middle Men were awed by NĂșmenĂłrean height and beauty. Some, however, mostly in Harad, saw them as unnatural, an abomination, stretched and sanded to proportions unnatural to the human form. Elendil had spent his life looking down at people, but since NĂșmenor's fall he found himself looking ever lower, faces tilted up in awe and wonder and distrust. He tried to gauge how old she wasâthat was another metric that he had had to get used to recalibrating upon his arrival in Middle Earthâand suspected, judging by the wrinkles on her forehead and about her mouth that she was in her forties. Old enough to have grandparents who remembered a time before Gondor's founding.
"My ancestors would have been taller," he said, because he did not know what to say.
She raised an eyebrow, whether in doubt or surprise, and said, "I did not think, with their long sight and powerful minds, that the Men of Westernesse would have need of a humble augur from the White Mountains."
She was prodding him for weaknesses, he realised, working out exactly where she stood. "I have not my father's gift," Elendil admitted. "I see a little, but all is uncertain in this hour." He did not say that with every year the burden of NĂșmenor's memory became heavier. The future, the minds of others, he could not reach them, blurred as they were beyond the ever-expanding darkness of his own mind. He wondered if it was death, or living death, senses blurred and mind leaden, dreams dark and twisted, half-remembered nightmares that left him uneasy and unrested in the morning. Bed was no longer a respite. Maybe you should ask her for a sleeping draught as well.
tagging @endless-natterings @ithilienns @inkedmoth @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @balrogballs @sallysavestheday if you would like to share what you're working on!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Thank you for the tags: @whoreallyevenknowsanyway, @lady-of-imladris, and @klelijahotp.
I am tagging: @theabditories, @whateverthought, @crimsonlyinglilly, @emmathefanficgal, @endless-natterings, @neeeeeeeeeklaus, and anyone else who wants to do this.
A snippet for the Henrik ending of WRTG. Spoilers under the cut for those who are interested.
...
The dark had been so quiet.
You recall it like a bath gone tepid, the moment your ears slip under and your mouth and nose follow and youâre peering up through the water at a world gone strange and peaceful and silent, the loudness of the world turned to a low gold hum. First dark, second dark, real dark, false dark, it was all the same in the endâ
And you had gone down into it and down and down, and somewhere at the very bottom, at the center of the center of everything, you had heard itâthe heart of the making, the rise and the fall and the aching want of everything between, the oldest song in the world, the onerous desire of all things: I want to live.
Under every hymn and every dirge ever lowered into the ground, under the birdsong and the wolfsong and the thin reedy cry of the newborn thing slick and furious in its mother's handsâthe same three notes, struck over and over since the first living speck first shuddered awake in the warm mud and did not want to stop. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live.
That was all it wasâthat was all it had ever beenâthat under the sweetness and under the sorrow, under the vast and patient beat of it, that was the only words the dark knew how to sing, the words every made thing had been singing since the first of them opened its eyes and understood that it would one day be asked to close them. The trees sang it. The birds, the fish, the rain sang it. The mouse in the wall and every star in the sky, the whole aching chorus of everything that had ever been given a heartbeat and then been told that the heartbeat was a loan.
I want to live.
It was a lovely song.
I want to live.
It was a sad song, too.
And you had thoughtâdrifting, sinking, going soft at the edgesâoh.
Oh, it is ending.
And the grief of that had risen in you, huge and childish, the way it rises in everything when faced with their ending: not yet, not yet, I have only just begun, I did not get to do all the things I wished. I am unfinished. Give me more time. Please, more time. There are so many things I could do with more time.
The oldest complaint, the first and last one, the one the song was made of. You had wanted to claw your way back up the sound toward the light. You had wanted more and now here was the ending and your hands were empty and it was not fairâ
And then, quieter, from somewhere further down: Oh, it is ending.
Only that. The same words turned over in the palm, shown from their other side. And that side was not so terrible. That side was almost kind. For was everything not ending all the time for everything?
Had the trees not made their peace with it? And the stone and the stars and the mouse and every creature that had ever curled up small and let the dark come? Why should you be the exception? Why should you, of all the singing world, be the one thing spared an endingâyou who had been so tired for so long?
Everything dies. It is the plainest fact there is.
It is written into the song itself, is the reason there is a song. A thing that could not end would have no reason to sing I want to liveâit would simply live, dumbly, forever, and never once know what the living had been worth.
You had felt the two of them turning in you at once, the mourning and the mercy, twin dancers who never tired, who had been dancing this same slow dance in every dying thing since the beginning of the world.
It is ending, and I am not ready.
It is ending, and that is only right.
Round and round. Grief with its hand at mercy's waist. Neither one leading. Neither one letting go.
jacobvanloon
stormborns
tangentwithtanner
discoholicmusic
janainaart
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
