Today's Document
oozey mess
we're not kids anymore.
#extradirty
Love Begins
Cosimo Galluzzi
JVL
if i look back, i am lost
tumblr dot com
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h
occasionally subtle
izzy's playlists!
pixel skylines
Not today Justin
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Three Goblin Art
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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ojovivo
seen from India
seen from Italy
seen from Hong Kong SAR China
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Indonesia
seen from Greece
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Liechtenstein
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
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seen from Sri Lanka
@amareritus
LOVE RITUAL / this is a highly private, multi-character rp blog, featuring a mixture of ocs & canon selections. sideblog account. i will not be following you back. messages okay. written by gale, they/he/she, 21+. i’m here to write with friends.
— Ernest Hemingway, from The Complete Works; "The Old Man and the Sea,"
Pomegranate made of gold, rubies and emeralds
sanctamater: gale i dont even know what the fuck this says
one issue with anaar is that he has lived so long that his grasp on humanity ( & the value of life in general ) does tend to diminish over time. further, one of his great purposes is to seek out entities or things that might jeopardize the balance of life: in many ways, he assumes the role of a monster hunter, desiring to destroy that which may unfairly or unjustly take life. which, in a way, is quite hypocritical -- considering he & his brethren possess such power themselves, & a few of them have indeed taken pleasure in such acts. his perception of what is ‘just’ or what is ‘fair’ is skewed. to try & circumvent this, he oft spends company with individuals over a lifetime, to remind himself quite thoroughly of the fluctuations & depth of each person, as not to assume upon meeting one that their lives are not as intricate & rich as his own, or of those who also share such longevity upon this world. truthfully, he may desire to smite something just as equally as he may hesitate in order to see the depth of its power. he’s an unreliable assistant at best: helpful in certain situations should one gain his favour, but perceived as evil the next, for he may not intervene at all when needed.
The Angel of Death (detail), Evelyn De Morgan, 1881
May 5th is National Awareness Day for Missing & Murdered Indigenous Women #MMIW here in Canada, also known as #RedDressDay . I would ask that people show their solidarity by wearing red, educating themselves on this crucial issue, & supporting Indigenous women. Here are a few resources for you: https://youtu.be/zdzM6krfaKY - MMIWG Documentary https://mmiwg-ffada.ca/final-report/ - MMIWG Inquiry Report Some readings: http://itstartswithus-mmiw.com https://kairoscanada.org/missing-murdered-indigenous-women-girls… https://cbc.ca/missingandmurdered/… Places to consider donating: https://canadahelps.org/en/explore/charities/category/indigenous-peoples/
what if we were both boys & we had matching icons haha @golemn art cred. @ capriqo
he’s a sun-knight c:
[ ??? ] || @golemn
EMET’S FIST MAKES A slow crawl back to his side, still tightly clenched as he undergoes examination. The man’s expressions are mask-like, painted onto cool indifference. His head tilts, brows pulling together in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. Emet recognizes himself in the gesture, but this is practiced mimicry, nothing like the crude facsimiles he sometimes practices in the mirror.
The questions turn to the town behind him, and Emet quickly feels the anger seep back into him — like water into soil. This man ( if he is a man at all) assumes and categorizes, seeking the easiest possible answer without all the facts. If they were truly alike, the stranger would not call him by that name. He would know what title suits him best.
It’s in moments like these he wonders what it would feel like to cry.
❝ I was born here. ❞ He casts his gaze back over the horizon, to the shtetl on the hill. He remembers the gunshots, the smell of burning flesh. All he does is remember. Human memory loses detail over time — pictures lingering without sound. But Emet’s mind is an archive of horrors, nothing faded, every second preserved like a fly in amber. He was not meant to be this, this instrument of war. Violence is an instinct, a split-second reaction based on experience. He doesn’t want to be this, but he doesn’t know how to be anything else. ❝ I…am…a…guardian. ❞
BURDENS TO ANAMNESIS ARE the vessels of immortality, wrapt veritably within the vice of memories, bitter and sweet. Such was life’s greatest glory and its evocable sorrow -- for to know joy was to know sorrow, existing together as quantum entanglement of soul. Home could be a source of both. Whereas he might not recall the events of his own birth, he could sympathize with the attachment one felt to a particular place of significance: for he, it was where the herons’ glossy backs glistened by a river and the sun would oft kiss his skin. What then did this stranger intend to do now that he returned ?
❝ I did not know that you could speak. ❞ It is not an apology for his previous accusatory nomenclature, but greatly has the clarification come to be appreciated. Perhaps even more-so than Emet intended the moment he opened his mouth. The stories of his kind suggested they were incapable of such a feat, or if they were, to minimal capacity. To have been wrong in his presumption draws forth humble feelings, but also that of embarrassment, as one might feel moments after an argument undertook out of pride, not inherent correctness. He frowns, deeply -- genuinely.
❝ I confess I wondered if I might kill you. ❞ Arms wrap the edges of his coat a touch tighter around his body. Upon the cold morning air, vapour curls from his lips. As if belatedly recalling that these words would not be of comfort to anyone, he shakes his head. ❝ Not for what you did before, no. Indeed I believe you were quite justified. I came only because I thought you might do the same here. ❞
His eyes meet the other’s expectantly. Still on edge. ❝ Do you ? ❞
[ ??? ] || @golemn:
VILLAINS MADE VICTIMS, HE teaches predators to cower. Their lives are not sacred, souls forfeited in their evil; all dying to the same tune : begging for their lives. He is not built for cruelty, meant to be a vessel immune to emotion, yet this anger feels like the only thing he knows. Unrighteous and earthly, he enacts human vindication, too brutal to be the hand of G-d. So far removed from the celestial, he knows heaven doesn’t await him. There’s no afterlife for murder to deprive him of.
But in the quiet moments between the rage, he remembers what could have been, and returns to what was. Emet’s walked this road many times before and almost always alone, so visitors are rarely welcome. The flutter of wings is too fast to react to. He hears the voice before he has time to turn and face it, shoulders climbing high with sudden tension. He would have heard the man approach had he appeared from anywhere but thin air.
He spins to face the intruder, fist raised aloft and loaded with the power of a double-barrel shotgun. The man looks out of place in the ruinous landscape, a polished cut-out overlaid onto reality. The stranger has the youth of the eternal, an ageless curiosity that unnerves him. It’s not the clinical dissection he experienced with the Nazis, yet the dissimilarity brings him little comfort. He knows when he is being analyzed.
Emet’s chin tilts from left to right. He is not hunting now. the only thing that awaits him here is a grave.
RESOLUTE AT THE FORMIDABLE prospect of violence, they do not so much as flinch as the creature raises an offending hand / ( how many had seen such a sight before ruination? ) However, the subtle shake of his head -- that palpable acknowledgement of understanding -- is enough to prompt the newcomer to cant his skull slightly to the side: a gesture of which could be translated as surprise upon an otherwise eerily unwavering visage. The truth of his visitation thusly remains unspoken -- for now. The impulse to bring harm upon his personhood could be forgiven under the justification of self-defense. Much as the deer fled upon instinct, or the wolf would stop to raise his hackles, the natural reactions of this life were not so much categorized as much as individualized: for so too could the stag turn its horns upon an intruder, or the wolf flee if found without his companions. The question was: which was he?
❝ I do not understand why therefore you would come. ❞ The words are spoken coldly, plainly, but there is no doubt that they are honest. Eyes beset by long lashes linger momentarily upon the raised fist, then drift over Emet’s shoulder towards the town that mourns. Indeed he would stand between this being and the souls farther down the hill if need be. While Anaar himself had not the privilege of encountering the likes of this wanderer before, his brothers had, and as a story-weaver himself, he could not ignore the potential way this could spiral. His gaze refocuses, sharper. ❝ You are death-bringer -- yet you tell me there are none here deserving of such a fate. Why, then, have you come? If they are undeserving, then you should not be here. Does that not go against your purpose ? ❞
[ ROLAND. ] ||
The exoteric sensitivity of finding a familiar, familiar aura whence traipsing is as natural as a ripple inside a crystalline pond, and dost Roland squint; the blare of the high, Summer sun warm and bright above his head, and dost he raise his hand to shield his eyes from it.
The long, white hair, and the markings ‘pon the exuberant face is a sweet glimpse to the call of his name, and with the folly of root-tripping, and dost Roland pause stoutly. He squints hard: astounded.
“… Faeron!” shouts he, loud enough to scare the birds in the scattered pine trees. “My Gods and High Glory! Is it me!” repeats he, shouting in ebullience and throwing his hands high. “Faeron, is it thee! How come by thee, how art thou!” And he laughs, high and bright and nearly crazed, sun-sweated and so spontaneously happy.
LIPS DRAW BACK TO REVEAL the brilliant set of enamels hidden beneath, a broad, beaming smile offered in response to the elated confirmation of his assumption. Indeed it were Roland ! the one and only, an elated voice carrying polite, boisterous inquiries of faring that evidently put the birds to shame ( for such songs of theirs held no light to the joyous raucous of friends reuniting, one has been told ). Thus does he approach closer, head bobbing in affirmation of his own identity in turn, and further as acknowledgement to the questions he has been asked.
❝ Yes ! I am well, I am well -- ❞ he smiles a little more, then recalls another thought, which has a free hand gesturing to the satchel he carries. There the plants he’d been collecting hang out about the edges, knocked askew from his near-miss tumble. ❝ I have been scavenging for more medicine. Thus I am here ! At the Graves, no less. A most wonderful break from the Plains, I do confess. ❞
A touch of colour softens his cheeks as he catches his own rhyme, a happy mistake for one who did not speak Common as a first language. His eyes gleam as he observes his compatriot, momentarily lapsing into habitual questions that he might otherwise ask a patient. ❝ What of you? How have you been faring? Are you well? If there is anything I might offer, please, do not hesitate to ask! ❞
[ ROLAND. ] || @eritvita
BY HIS VERY NATURE DOTH THE UBIQUITOUS make himself known, yet never a moment too soon. Nay, his arrival is perfect: it is wholly welcomed. The familiarity of such a countenance is sight for sore eyes, as is the recognizable gait of the man whose body it belongs. Such people are oft prone to reside deep within the hearts of those they touch, carving out an ache of absence that may go unnoticed at first, but a chance reunion might fill as a basin. Thus, would it be that Faeron halts in his collecting, tossing a satchel of medicines and herbs awaiting to be dried hastily over his shoulder so that he may lop forward across the soft grass. An arm extends, waving:
❝ Roland ! ❞ An exclamation sure to garner embarrassment, were it not he whose name was called. A glimmer of doubt ( was it who he thought ? ) is enough to cause the elf to stumble in stride upon a stray root, but verily he collects himself -- hopefully -- before the blunder is perceived. ❝ Is that you ? ❞
Death and the Maiden 1900 (detail), by Henri Lévy.
[ LADY COMSTOCK. ] | @sanctamater
UNEXPECTED IS THE ARRIVAL of her benefactor’s wife upon the threshold of her new workshop. Had Lady Comstock been more assertive in announcing her arrival ( rather than the ever polite, yet unobtrusive rapping upon her door ), Rosalind might have heard her earlier and been timely about answering the call. As it were, a chance glance out the window had caught the glimpse of a walking skirt and the dark-haired woman to which such garments belonged, thus ricocheting a flush of embarrassment straight to the physicist’s cheeks. Hurriedly, she had swept her hands clean with a rag lying upon a desk -- still awaiting to be moved into its proper position within the living room -- and, finding no time to slip on gloves, for her visitor had waited much too long already, she glided to the doorway with a haste most unbecoming of high-society women.
Huffing out a small breath, Rosalind composed herself to the best of her ability before unlatching the lock and opening the door. A stray strand of copper hair fell daintily from her up-do here and there, but for the most part she looked presentable enough -- to the average working woman, that was. Under the scrutinizing gaze of Lady Comstock however, there was much to be longed for.
❝ Lady Comstock ! ❞ an exclamation of sorts, accompanied by a small smile that felt just a touch too forced, too ill-fitting upon a visage whose expressions frequently bounced between frustration and concentration as default states. ❝ My apologies for keeping you waiting. The machines, as you may be aware, can be dreadfully loud. I am afraid they drowned out the sound of your knock. Oh ! but please -- do come in. ❞
