headcanon the black family as an ancient chinese family of pureblood wizards and witches who, when they immigrated to britain, anglicised their name from 黑 (hei) to black (relies on the internationality of the custom of atypical names for wizards as this isn’t a common chinese surname).
bonus headcanon sirius black writing dual language notes in english only to the marauders but in chinese if intercepted by other wizards which sucked when that too-good ravenclaw chang boy translated one about snape for a professor
bonus bonus headcanon draco malfoy as a half chinese wizard with blond hair ok
but headcanon cho chang who speaks mandarin, cantonese, japanese, korean, thai, indonesian, and malay so when people asks where shes “really from” she smiles and answers in one of the above langauges. bc she aint in ravenclaw for no reason
Compassion knows no bounds, schoolchildren in the northern Indian city of Mathura take part in a prayer for victims of the Taliban attack on the Army Public School in Peshawar.
Image credit: REUTERS/K. K. Arora
but headcanon cho chang who speaks mandarin, cantonese, japanese, korean, thai, indonesian, and malay so when people asks where shes "really from" she smiles and answers in one of the above langauges. bc she aint in ravenclaw for no reason
headcanon the black family as an ancient chinese family of pureblood wizards and witches who, when they immigrated to britain, anglicised their name from 黑 (hei) to black (relies on the internationality of the custom of atypical names for wizards as this isn't a common chinese surname).
bonus headcanon sirius black writing dual language notes in english only to the marauders but in chinese if intercepted by other wizards which sucked when that too-good ravenclaw chang boy translated one about snape for a professor
bonus bonus headcanon draco malfoy as a half chinese wizard with blond hair ok
Inspired in part by that post about Cullen being the father of a little girl but this went way off track from there.
TW for major character death
When Cullen returned from a mission late at night and did not find his daughter in her bed, he was surprised, to say the least. When he heard from a guard that she had made her way to the Inquisitor’s chambers, he found he could not raise his eyebrows any higher than they already were and made his way slowly to her rooms.
“Is my child…” Cullen hesitated breathlessly, and the guard outside Ena – the Inquisitor’s chambers nodded. The guard knocked for him and pushed the door open. Cullen was not prepared for what he saw.
“Cullen?” the Inquisitor’s voice, thick with sleep, sounded more Dalish than usual. His name pronounced in such a way sent shivers down his spine.
“Inquisitor, I, sorry, I have just returned from…” The back of his neck prickled hotly.
“Enasal,” she murmured breathily, “please, we are not… working right now.”
“Enasal, then.” The Inquisitor – Enasal – blinked slowly at him though her ears twitched upright. Had he pronounced it wrong?
“The da’len is sleeping, though only just, she was very worried about you.” Enasal’s brow creased, shadows moving dramatically across her face in the dim light and changing the shapes of her vallaslin. She raised an arm, beckoning for him, Cullen approached her numbly and crouched, only half feeling the searing pain through his side. Warm fingers traced the side of his face and his eyes fluttered closed. He could be at peace here, on the cold stone floor, kneeling in blood, with nothing but his Inquisitor’s hand on his face. Then she pressed on his temple sharply and he jerked away from her hand at the bright pain that flared across his vision. “You’re hurt, ma vhenan’ara.”
Green light spun dizzily from her finger tips and swarmed towards his face, and the dull ache that had previously been overshadowed by the sharp pain in his side until she poked his face, disappeared. Not calling them back, the tiny green sparks dispersed throughout the room randomly, casting a soft green luminescence that brightened the dim light emanating from the small bedside lamp. His breath rattled in the silence of the room. There was only so much she could do – they both knew.
Her face, in the soft glow, lost the sharp angles it normally contained. Her eyes were yearning, loving, their pale colour lost in green light. Her lips, parted slightly, were so divinely curved they looked as though the Maker himself had shaped them in kindness.
Here she was: Inquisitor, Herald, woman, elf. A creature taken from loving her family and who had opened herself to loving another. Loving those who did not ask for her love, were not worthy of the love that she gave. Her heart seemed to swell with love for the outcasts, for those whom the warmth of Andraste’s love did not reach, and for those who could not feel Andraste’s love though they basked within it.
Cullen knew the Maker did not turn his back on them because of anything besides love. When they learnt how to love again, he knew the Maker would return to them. But watching the warmth of Enasal’s love for his child, he was content with how much love existed now. Knowing his daughter would never for a moment in her life not be loved, made him almost unbearably happy. In his quiet joy, Cullen bent his head and pressed his mouth to Enasal’s, then pressed a kiss to the crown of his daughter’s head.
When the Inquisitor’s hand touched the side of Cullen’s face again, it was to guide him back to her, to welcome him home, to celebrate his life, to share her love with him. Cullen felt her joy, her love and knew: the feeling of loving another was what kept pain at bay. If the Inquisitor loved him, even his death would not hurt because he was loved and he would be loved and never forgotten. He knew he had atoned for his sins. He had done good things, for his Inquisitor. He had fought the right war, done the right deeds, and he could see by the love in Enasal’s eyes that Andraste would welcome him home with open arms.
As he slumped over the edge of the Inquisitor’s bed, he pushed a bloody hand through his daughter’s hair, and watched the tiny green lights fade away to the sound of leaves rustling, “dar’eth shiral, Cullen, Falon’Din will keep you and guide you, ma vhenan’ara.”
Meet the faces of the “I’m Sorry” campaign, a group of Christians who go to Chicago’s pride celebrations every year to apologize for their past hateful actions against LGBT people. The group started in 2010 and has since moved to other cities across the world. This is what love looks like. (via the Advocate)
i love this so much.
THIS is what true Christianity is - reaching out in the image of God’s love and compassionate mercy to the groups that have been hurt and wronged, to minorities, to those who are isolated or fearful, to everyone. Acting in LOVE and not hate. This is beautiful.
Possibly one of the saddest legends of Brazilian mythology, The Little Black Herding boy is an African-Christian tale of the southern region, popular in the 19th century to defend the end of slavery.
Although the tale is older than that, it was first published by writer João Simões Lopes Neto, and tells the story of a very small enslaved boy, an orphan who believed himself to be the godson of the Virgin Mary. His master was an extremely cruel and rich estancieiro who had the habit of punishing and torturing him. Once, as he fell asleep after being harmed by him, he lost his owner’s horses, and was beaten mercilessly. He found the horses and slept for a second time, and again the animals were gone. This time, the master not only tortured him, but threw his moribund body over an anthill, leaving only after the ants covered the young boy.
Three days later, the estancieiro returned, and no more he saw the youngster suffering. He was there, but his skin was healthy and soft, his wounds had been healed, and the last ants were leaving his body. Virgin Mary was by his side, indicating his death and the divine compensation for his pain.
Oral tradition gave the boy immortal life and supernatural powers, turning him into some kind of a popular saint with devout followers, who believe he can find lost objects if you light a candle for his Godmother.
On another note, the patroness saint of Brazil is Our Lady of Aparecida, after a statue found in 1717. The Virgin became very popular with Afro-Brazilians for being a black Madonna, and because one of her first attributed miracles was freeing an enslaved man called Zacarias.
Sources: Wikipedia | Jangada Brasil | Universidade Federal de Pelotas
When asked whether he has gotten any offers to venture into Hollywood during his 20-year career, Jung Woo Sung replied, “Going abroad should not be an actor’s ultimate goal.”
He added, “Of course, filming foreign projects is up to the individual, and they will have a reason for doing so.” Then he frankly stated, “Hollywood is a white-dominated industry, so unfortunately the main character has to be white. But I want to be a main character.”
He further explained, “I’m not sure why Asian actors must make it their goal to enter Hollywood, if it means that they will end up playing villains and supporting characters.”
south korean actor, jung woo sung, speaking frankly about casting and job opportunities in hollywood. (x)
