Erin Hanson (American, b.1981) "Saguaro Dusk," 2016 Oil on canvas
Cosmic Funnies

Origami Around
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
DEAR READER

Kaledo Art
we're not kids anymore.


blake kathryn
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
One Nice Bug Per Day
Today's Document


❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Mike Driver
RMH

Janaina Medeiros

JBB: An Artblog!
seen from Brazil
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Malaysia

seen from Belgium

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from Germany
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States

seen from Belgium

seen from United States

seen from United States
@rambleverse
Erin Hanson (American, b.1981) "Saguaro Dusk," 2016 Oil on canvas

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.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Three hours turned in the sky above. The star of Uldum cooks the sand beneath the beast’s feet. The plodding, cushioned gait bobs you side to side. You wonder how the humans keep in such a world, but you are made from rock and fire. You are from the mountain raised from hell, fed on the strength of stone.
You are Dark Iron.
The cut drove through blood and bone. For the first time he heard his breath stagger. With axe between broken horn and shoulder, and dagger gripped between the eyes, he spoke:
“Do it then.”
writer asks 📃
send these to a writer you know or answer some yourself!
ink: what do you do to “set the mood” when writing?
pen and paper: do you prefer writing by hand or on a device? why?
diary: how many pieces have you written that are just for you or will never see the light of day?
journal: do you ever write just so you can enjoy something to read?
novella: do you prefer to write short stories, one-shots, or entire novels?
pulitzer: tell about/link a piece where you fielt your writing was the best.
genre: what genre do you prefer to write in?
narrator: what pov do you like writing in best?
backstory: how did you come to love writing?
time-lapse: how long have you been writing (as a hobby or for work)?
characterization: describe your favorite character(s) you’ve written.
carnegie: what authors and/or books/stories have inspired you to write or influenced your work?
faulkner: what tropes do you LOVE writing? which ones are your guilty pleasure?
o’connor: what tropes/genres do you dislike writing?
dickinson: what insecurities do you have about your own writing? what do you think you should improve on?
playlist: what kind of music/songs help you write? do you have a writing playlist?
record: have you written things based off of songs? do you like to?
nobel: have you published anything you’ve written? online or irl?
notepad: can you write anywhere or do you have to be in a specific place and mood to write?
parchment: how often do you or your personal life influence your writing?
dedication: if you were to publish a book or multiple, who would you dedicate the book(s) to?
trope: what’s a pet peeve you have about writing?
input: what’s something you hate that people say to you about writing/your writing?
critic: what’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received about writing?
mifflin: what do you feel is your strong suit in writing?
houghton: what’s something you love that people compliment your pieces on?
Stepping across the Emberglades in the dark did little for Ouron’s hopes. The well tended trees and menagerie stirred suspiciously in the shadows. Each sound in the nocturne journey set his old neck taut and sore. His lengthy, chapped ears cooled painfully listening for the intruding snap of a twig or footfalls paced within his own.
His heart rapped against his ribs as his nerves grabbed him. Eyes on the tower, he quickened his steps. Faster. Quick. His hand gripped at the broach cinching his cloak as it flapped behind him. The tower seemed so far away. The tower seemed so dark. Its midnight shade cast ground and gaze to darkness. Blindly, fumbling, he stepped by pairs up the entrance rise. Huffing-fiddling-useless hands! It’s not even locked! It’s not even-
SLAM.
The door to Sanarissa’s tower shut behind him. He could not hear it echo through its rise and fall; just breathing dragged loud, clawing lines to his lungs. He slumped to the ground, hand going to his stomach, There was no scar beneath his fingers, but scars are memories first.
That searing cut.
That human’s eyes.
That tower--that human.
He stayed there for a while.

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.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Inktober Day 2: Floral
Coming from that place felt like death, and for good reason. The things that lived there could barely be called alive. Only darkness and pain could grow there, and only through spite could they thrive. Coming home meat remembering what the light made. All around him the grass greened. With a little coaxing the sunleaf trees could soon sprout bulbs of pink and yellow. Life waited with plenty, ready to thrive, ready for what came next.
“Where…” said a whispered, wooden voice ten paces back. Ouron turned about.
The splintering treant loped to catch up. One crooked and curled hand stuck halfway above its fading agate core beset by beady hollow holes. Each movement killed it, little by little, with bits of blackened timber catching on the soft ground. Ugly sap rimmed its empty shoulder-hole; a fatal wound in timing only. Ouron hoped it felt no pain. The others were already gone, and in such--
“Wheeere…?” it asked again, voice creaking.
“It’s a special place to me. I want to show it to you. You’re--”
A tree. A tree made to move. The agate is the only thing that makes it so.
He huffed.
“It’s for special things, like you.”
“Oh!” it said with a shake. A snap cracked beneath it, another root buckled from the weight of living. It hit the ground before Ouron could hold it, roll it over, check the agate.
Still glowing.
“Hello…!” it said.
“Hello Agate,” Ouron said, “Let’s--” he heaved, jagged ragged knives of wood cut through his hands, “--get you up.”
When it could not stand, could not walk, Ouron leaned against the treant. Burning sweat slicked his face. He heard his breathing huff and chuff. A bird sang just ahead.
A stranger grove for miles around rose from the tall, tall grass. Its trees were white and violet. They towered indifferent to a life’s work, and to his father’s work. They lived for thousands of years alone as intended. Shadebough grown a world away from home stood here, and here they would remember.
The weight of moving forward came so bitterly, carrying the little life left as far as he could.
He reached the edge with robes and chest a bleeding tangle, his old arms screaming from their joints. Setting Agate down--letting them stop here--he needed to go farther--
“Oh…”
The treant uncovered his eyes, there in the dark wood. Its hollow sockets cracked wider looking at the canopy. Ouron got to his knees, then fell to a seat.
“Do you like it, Agate?”
The treant did not answer at first. It did not answer for a long time. The gemstone faded dark, and he hung his head.
“What am I doing--”
“Pretty…..” Agate said. It reached its arm out, pushing itself to an angle. Ouron helped it upright.
“I’m glad--”
“I’m glad you’re here, Agate,” Ouron said closing his eyes. The cool, dark ground slowed his heart. The shade shielded his broken skin from the hot sun. A slow breeze rolled through the grove. It took away his breath.
He reached out with eyes closed, touching his hand to Agate’s sickly black bark. Knowing whipped his hand away, opened his eyes, shot air too fast into his chest.
At the edge of the quiet grove came a clink, a clink, a thud.
There in the dark grew a little dark thing--so richly purple it seemed almost pitch--it rose beset by beady hollow holes. Despite the dark, away from light, it opened all at once. A royal bulb with leaves gilded gold grows. A lifetime began as another one closed.
Inktober Day 1: Runes
“Can you hear me, old friend? It’s me, you remember?”
The walk south took little, and gave much. He passed his nights beneath the sunleaf boughs between their comely roots. Some days turned on without him waking, preferring to dream in the soft rolling heat of daylight. The roads guided less and less, meandering like a lazy windblown cloud as he was. Their paths of overgrown stone once told him where his people walked. Between the lines, he found more room to stretch.
In this mind he almost passed it by. Still as stone, midnight blue, a marker for another year; the obelisk rose from the earth to nearly twice his height. When he remembered its face, he stopped. Alone, together in a field of swaying golden grasses, he raised a hand.
“How long has it been?” he called, and like the past long gone the stone stayed silent.
How long had it been since he walked so carefully, so comfortably, past this very spot? How different, how similar, how utterly unfamiliar. Two lives walking to one point removed by life after life, and so much pain. He looked upon the runestone, found the space made for his hand. There he hovered, hesitation, until at last contact refrain.
The etched enameled layers scintillated interlocking strokes from conjured slab on slab.
“Centimeters thick, no more or less. The core must be exactly so--build it eight times over eight. Face it south--” the shapes, the words, the meanings rose together. Thousands of stranded syllables rippled as his spell brushed past. Conjured from the stuff of order--exactly so.
“Exactly so…”
Still the words turned silently. The mighty Ban, sentry in its absolute form, said nothing. The trace of it sat ready, as it was always meant to be, but it slept still. One eye open: vigilant at rest.
His lungs let go. His hand parted, and he soon followed.
A testament to another life.
An epitaph to years gone by.
Ban’dinoriel they called it; a gate forever shut.
Entry 85:
A most dishonorable, most shameful, and of course damnable passage may never follow tonight’s affair. In pursuit of the hated Brood, the adjunct once again came to the opportunity to strike against the usurper worms. Yet--yet! It fills my heart with righteous shame, no ounce of pity, to try to account for the night.
Draig’mur
Entry 78:
The Aspirant took great interest in the rumor spread by one Sanarissa Firewing. As expected for such a claimant, to reject an opportunity to strike at such a despicable foe as Neltharion’s aberrant spawn would create cause for highest demerit. When asked his thoughts, Aspirant responded in acceptable terms.
“Fie on them, adjunct. May this venture into Modgud’s victory redouble the council’s ire of me. I will strike the dragons from their den, and retake the whole of the city if it means reminding the world of the Queen’s might.”
I asked the Aspirant on which queen he spoke, and he thus responded:
“Both, of course. May Moira inherit the honored Modgud’s wrath. Mayhap I will bring such back to the city. No doubt your masters would approve?”
Vetinari was just gently carrying around his very sleepy Wuffles puppy this entire scene.

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.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Character Description Ask Meme
I need to work on character description, and I’m sad I’m not good enough at arting to participate in the drawing memes going around, so send me a number and a character (preferably an OC) and I will write a paragraph or two describing:
Them as a child
Them several years past their main adventure
Their parent(s)
Their laugh
Their crying
Their interactions with their children, if they have them
Their interactions with their pets, if they have them
Their interactions with their significant other(s), if they have them
Their interactions with their best friend
Their interactions with an enemy/rival
Their interactions with a stranger (feel free to say who the stranger might be! wink wink)
Them in their favorite outfit
Them in formalwear
Them in an uncomfortable outfit
Them tired
Them sleepy
Them sleeping
Them eating
Them drunk
Wildcard/writer’s choice
peace.
MY MUSE IS NOT ALWAYS RIGHT
Please keep in mind that, however hard my muse may argue something or however confidently they make a statement, they can be wrong. It’s my muse’s opinion, and my muse talking, and their perception is skewed. Do not feel like everything out of my character’s mouth is the truth, or that I’m godmodding.
Conflict can be important and lead to character growth! ✨👏✨
Call to Arms: Part 4 - Blood from a Stone
Congratulations, Phoenix Knight.
Lightward. Please. If even that.
Commander?
Congratulations all the same. Congratulations.
Another stripe on the dress shirt. A pair of ribbons too; one for service and one for wounds.
Militia captains: Rel'theron, Skytouched, Woods (basically woods).
Suncrown, Sunstar, Fairbreeze. One was a miner's son with the best arm and a cool temperament. One didn't like him. One was an old scourge veteran, and thank the Light for that. None of them fought like this. None of them fought together, if at all. Lux talked with him about it. There wasn't much to talk about.
So, it's the van?
Yes. Yes.
The three walked out with the rest of the warm air.
For the realm, then.
Lux still held the little bundle in his arms. Hm?
"They put in for it, with this being It and all."
Laid across the table, a banner:
A field of red, dark red with purple. In a corner a black hand stabs a stone opposite, and on its blade sit four bleeding heads. One elven, one elven, one elven, and one human. Across the bottom, in common.
"We'll make it right."
You don't have to run it, the normal colors would do fine.
"No, it's good. It's right. What's it called?"
"Gideon's debt."
ITEM CREATION:
Gideon's Debt
Mystical Banner:
+ 15 to Troop Total
+ 10 to March and Forced March
+ 5 to Mod damage
Call to Arms: Part 4 - Blood from a Stone
Congratulations, Phoenix Knight.
Lightward. Please. If even that.
Commander?
Congratulations all the same. Congratulations.
Another stripe on the dress shirt. A pair of ribbons too; one for service and one for wounds.
Militia captains: Rel'theron, Skytouched, Woods (basically woods).
Suncrown, Sunstar, Fairbreeze. One was a miner's son with the best arm and a cool temperament. One didn't like him. One was an old scourge veteran, and thank the Light for that. None of them fought like this. None of them fought together, if at all. Lux talked with him about it. There wasn't much to talk about.
So, it's the van?
Yes. Yes.
The three walked out with the rest of the warm air.
For the realm, then.
Lux still held the little bundle in his arms. Hm?
"They put in for it, with this being It and all."
Laid across the table, a banner:
A field of red, dark red with purple. In a corner a black hand stabs a stone opposite, and on its blade sit four bleeding heads. One elven, one elven, one elven, and one human. Across the bottom, in common.
"We'll make it right."
You don't have to run it, the normal colors would do fine.
"No, it's good. It's right. What's it called?"
"Gideon's debt."
For Honor - Warden by Bastien Aufrere

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.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
“You do not command us. You do not call on us. If you seriously believe yourself a Warder, then serve.”
“The Vale and its druids move only at our own decision. Nothing less.”
“That you took this power and purpose is your own doing. Until the elders decide what to make of you: find yourself a place to meditate on what you’ve heard today.”
“May the mother moon and earth below give you guidance. You may leave us.”