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Snowbirbs
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
âHope youâre a harvest god,â Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. âItâd be nice, you know.â He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. âI know itâs not much,â he said, his straw hat in his hands. âBut - Iâll do what I can. Itâd be nice to think thereâs a god looking after me.â
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
âYou should go to a temple in the city,â the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. âA real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. Iâm no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?â It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. âI mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. Itâs cozy enough. The worshipâs been nice. But you canât honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.â
âThis is more than I was expecting when I built it,â Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. âTell me, what sort of god are you anyway?â
âIâm of the fallen leaves,â it said. âThe worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. Iâm a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then itâs gone.â
The god heaved another sigh. âThereâs no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. Youâre so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.â
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. âI like this sort of worship fine,â he said. âSo if you donât mind, I think Iâll continue.â
âDo what you will,â said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. âBut donât say I never warned you otherwise.â
Arepo would say a prayer before the morningâs work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepoâs fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
âUseless work,â the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. âThere wasnât a thing I could do to spare you this.â
âWeâll be fine,â Arepo said. âThe stormâs blown over. Weâll rebuild. Donât have much of an offering for today,â he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, âbut I think Iâll shore up this thingâs foundations tomorrow, how about that?âÂ
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepoâs neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepoâs field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepoâs ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.Â
âThere is nothing here for you,â said the god, hudding in the dark. âThere is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.â It shivered, and spat out its words. âWhat is this temple but another burden to you?â
âWe -â Arepo said, and his voice wavered. âSo itâs a lean year,â he said. âWeâve gone through this before, weâll get through this again. So weâre hungry,â he said. âWeâve still got each other, donât we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didnât protect them from this. No,â he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. âNo, I think I like our arrangement fine.â
âThere will come worse,â said the god, from the hollows of the stone. âAnd there will be nothing I can do to save you.â
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
âI could not save them,â said the god, its voice a low wail. âI am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.â The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. âI have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!â
âShush,â Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. âTell me,â he mumbled. âTell me again. What sort of god are you?â
âI -â said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepoâs head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
âIâm of the fallen leaves,â it said, and conjured up the image of them. âThe worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.â Arepoâs lips parted in a smile.
âI am the god of a dozen different nothings,â it said. âThe petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -â Its voice broke, and it wept. âBefore itâs gone.â
âBeautiful,â Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. âAll of them. They were all so beautiful.â
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
"Oh no, Astarion's romance could be really heartbreaking and traumatic!"
veteran Solasmancers:

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The kingsman fight but Mamma Mia sung by Meryl Streep is playing
âGirls want a Superman, but they walk past a Clark Kent every dayâ
You fuckin CLOWNS think youâre a CLARK KENT? Not on my fuckin watch. You dumb, headass motherfuckers are barely a Guy Gardner and you think youâre a CLARK KENT? The amount of disrespect is unreal.
Listen here, wannabes: My boi Clark is 240 lbs of PURE KANSAS BEEF trained from a young age by Ma Kent to Love and Respect women as the Intelligent, Independent beings they are. He is shy rambling about tractors and casually moving the copy machine when my pen falls behind it and he would NEVER demand I be sexually or romantically interested just because heâs nice.
Yâall ainât Clark Kent.
I have never hit the reblog button so damn fast.
âbarely a Guy Gardnerâ is the sickest comics related burn Iâve heard to date.Â
Freya Was Jacked
So thereâs this story in Norse mythology, Ărymskviða. Compressed down, it goes like this: A Jotun steal Thorâs hammer Mjolnir and says heâll only give it back if heâs given Freyja to marry, as she is the most beautiful goddess in all of existence. The gods argue over what to do for a while before Heimdall suggests they stick a bridal veil on Thor, says heâs Freyja, and pretend theyâre giving Freyja (Thor) to the Jotun to marry so Thor can get close enough to the Jotun to steal Mjolnir back.Â
Now typically when people talk about this story, itâs with an element of disbelieving comedy. âOh my god, who would believe Thor was a woman, let alone Freyja, the most beautiful goddess in the world?âÂ
But I propose a different way to look at the story.Â
See, different cultures have different beauty standards. Modern western beauty standards may be a delicate hourglass supermodel, but thatâs not always been the case. Greece, for instance, depicted Aphrodite like this:Â
Yeah. A Greek sculptor was told âsculpt the goddess of beautyâ and they thought âalright, fat rolls, thatâs where beauty is at, letâs do thisâ. And everybody else apparently agreed with them, because up went the statue. Beauty is a malleable concept is what Iâm getting at.Â
Now this is where it becomes relevant that Freyja is not just the goddess of love, sex, and beauty. Sheâs also the goddess of war. And the righteous dead. Goddess of war in the same Viking warrior culture that gave us shield maidens, women who wielded seven fucking kilogram (15 lbs) shields in combat.Â
Sooooo ⌠when the Norse storytellers said, âThis is Freyja, goddess of war and the righteous dead, who rode giant murder cats into battle, she is the most beautiful goddess in the worldâ, Iâm guessing they werenât thinking of her as some willowy waif. No, Iâm guessing they probably thought more along the lines of:
190 cm (6â˛3âł), broad shoulders, built like a brick shithouse, with a jawline like whoa, and fully capable of murdering everything in her path.
Put in that context, the story of Thor dressing up as Freyja sounds less like a punchline about âhow could anyone ever mistake Thor in a veil for Freyja?â and becomes more a case of âohhhhhhhhhhh, no wonder all the gods thought this plan would workâ.Â
It did, by the way. The plan totally worked.Â
reblog to bless someones feed
Parks and Rec got Menâs Rights Activists exactly right and it was perfect.

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dragon age character designers: u know what would look good? a dark skinned elf with wild hair who is actually the dread wolf. but like, really hot.
bioware: u know what would be even hotter
bioware:Â
white man thats bald
This tiny octopus, whose body measured about five centimeters across, was spotted swimming along at a depth of 825 meters as we explored Whiting Seamount, off Puerto Rico.
its little floPPY EARS
Things I have been learning about cat food today
- âHolisticâ is not a regulated word and means jack shit. Any food claiming to be âholisticâ is trying to put one over on the consumer.
- âOrganicâ and âMade with Organic Ingredientsâ are different. Companies donât need as much âorganicâ material to make the latter claim.
- â[Meat] Cat Foodâ is required to have significantly more of the named meat than âCat Food With [Meat]â
- Ingredients are listed by weight
- If the first ingredient is not a named meat, walk the fuck away
- Non-specific âMeatâ and âFishâ and any by-products or meals of such are highly suspect.
-Â â[Meat] by-productâ is questionable because it means any squishy part that isnât counted as âfleshâ, aka giblets and offal. While some of those (liver, heart) are healthy and good, others are meh. Needless to say this should not be the primary (and thus first-listed) source of protein.
- â[Meat] mealâ is actually preferable to just â[Meat]â in dry cat food because the weight of âChickenâ might include water weight, while âChicken mealâ is weighed without moisture and is thus a more reliable measure
- Corn and wheat are distressingly common and are completely useless for your cat. If theyâre anywhere in the first five ingredients, your cat is gonna eat twice as much and most of itâs gonna end up in the litterbox.
- Re the last point, Meow Mix is utter shit. So is Friskies.
- Filler carbs are necessary to hold the pellets together but should not be one of the first two ingredients.
- Soy, beef, dairy, and fish are the most common cat allergies and can develop at any time
- There are a fuckload more reviews for dog food than cat food
- Regulation in the pet food industry is frankly apalling
this is gay culture
this reads like a lost shakespeare playÂ
me realizing my experiences with sewing have been a lie this whole goddamn time:

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three lil gryphon sketch coms for theycallmeser who might be getting one as a tattoo ? who knows what the future holdsâŚâŚâŚ.for any of usâŚâŚâŚâŚ..
No offence but oh my god
I canât Stop ducking kaughifnbdhdhdhdhdhsBHhshshd
friendly reminder that if youre mean to tigger i WILL pull your whole spine out of you