Jules of Nature
occasionally subtle
Stranger Things
Today's Document
if i look back, i am lost
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
$LAYYYTER
trying on a metaphor
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Product Placement
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
we're not kids anymore.
Janaina Medeiros
Keni
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AnasAbdin
d e v o n
will byers stan first human second
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
seen from Italy
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@buchergenuss32
I really wish I could just delete this blog without losing my sub-blogs that I use for gaming and fandom. I’m giving serious consideration to making a new account, transferring control of the sub-blogs to it, and just abandoning or deleting this one.
All right. After thinking it over, I’m doing it. I’ve made a new blog, transferring control of my sub-blogs to it, and abandoning this one. If you want the new blog url, message me.
I really wish I could just delete this blog without losing my sub-blogs that I use for gaming and fandom. I’m giving serious consideration to making a new account, transferring control of the sub-blogs to it, and just abandoning or deleting this one.
All right. After thinking it over, I’m doing it. I’ve made a new blog, transferring control of my sub-blogs to it, and abandoning this one. If you want the new blog url, message me.
I really wish I could just delete this blog without losing my sub-blogs that I use for gaming and fandom. I’m giving serious consideration to making a new account, transferring control of the sub-blogs to it, and just abandoning or deleting this one.
All right. After thinking it over, I’m doing it. I’ve made a new blog, transferring control of my sub-blogs to it, and abandoning this one. If you want the new blog url, message me.
Mary Anning (1799-1847): the Princess of Paleontology
TONS more detail available at the main site entry (click right here). Art notes and the like behind the cut.
Keep reading
I’M NOT CRYING YOU’RE CRYING
This dead made me cry tho
Oh wow.
I’d never heard of her and I got more and more shocked as I read on. The sheer number of brilliant people in history who’ve gotten no respect or recognition because they aren’t well-off white men. What a massive loss to us all.
Me, a humble draugr, quietly minding my own business in my barrow tomb, doing my daily chores (lighting the candles, taking the frostbite spider for a walk, making the large swinging axes swing in the corridor of large swinging axes), having a sleepover with the lads in the deathlord’s chamber
YOU, loud, alive, obnoxious, barging into our tomb eating an entire wheel of cheese, making a mess, plundering my life savings from my burial urn, setting fire to frosty (the frostbite spider), re-killing me and the lads, WAKING the deathlord
My bad, I’ll leave…I just need to read this wall…
So I’ve been watching a lot of the new series The Magicians, and an offhand mention of somebody needing six fingers to perform certain spells just sent me on a flurry of worldbuilding.
So under this new magic system of mine, magic usually (but needn’t always) involves a gestured component in addition to whatever other reagents may be necessary. However, not all magic gestures involve five fingers, fewer may suffice in some instances, while other spells need more. Some may not require fingers at all, instead being performed by moving one’s eyebrows or writhing one’s tentacles. In general, more powerful spells require more complex gestures.
Humans in this setting have the usual complement of five fingers. Elves, on the other hand, have six, while Dwarves have only four. Thus, even the most accomplished human magician will find the more potent Elven spells beyond their grasp. This also explains Dwarves’ tendency toward more physical forms of combat, and their traditional dislike for magic.
Dragon claws are, of course, not suitable for fiddly gestures, so their magic is instead performed with their complicated array of facial muscles and ridges. Physiognomancy, as this branch of magic is called, is also able to be practiced by other races. So if you see a magician making strange faces, they’re probably warming up for a fire breath spell. Run.
Dwarven wizards are able to take advantage of their species’ dexterous feet to perform their own unique spells, primarily geomantic in nature. These spells have another advantage: most people don’t look at other people’s feet. Thus, there’s a good chance that they won’t see Vrock’s Seventeenth Kick of Justice coming until it’s too late.
And of course, tentacled species such as Illithids, Aboleths, and other such eldritch creatures have their own brands of magic, totally distinct from those of the finger-having races. What mortal man could hope to understand the intricate writhings required to perform the Squamous Susurration? No one, that’s who, and that’s why people are terrified of Illithid magic.
Irish people; The faeries aren’t real
Irish people; No fucking way will I go in that faerie ring
#look#you don’t go in a fairy ring and you don’t fuck with a stone in the middle of a field#these are just facts#nobody does it#fairies will fuck you up#Ireland#folklore#fairies (Via @false-dawn)
Look, I don’t believe in God, but I will not disrespect the Good Gentlemen of the Hills. That’s just common sense.
Between this and the Icelanders with their elves I do not understand what is going on above the 50th parallel.
My general rule of thumb: you don’t have to believe in everything, but don’t fuck with it, just in case.
^^^ that part
This is truer than true. Especially the Irish part.
Let me tell you what I know about this after living here for nearly thirty years.
This is a modern European country, the home of hot net startups, of Internet giants and (in some places, some very few places) the fastest broadband on Earth. People here live in this century, HARD.
Yet they get nervous about walking up that one hill close to their home after dark, because, you know… stuff happens there.
I know this because Peter and I live next to One Of Those Hills. There are people in our locality who wouldn’t go up our tiny country road on a dark night for love or money. What they make of us being so close to it for so long without harm coming to us, I have no idea. For all I know, it’s ascribed to us being writers (i.e. sort of bards) or mad folk (also in some kind of positive relationship with the Dangerous Side: don’t forget that the root word of “silly”, which used to be English for “crazy”, is the Old English _saelig_, “holy”…) or otherwise somehow weirdly exempt.
And you know what? I’m never going to ask. Because one does not discuss such things. Lest people from outside get the wrong idea about us, about normal modern Irish people living in normal modern Ireland.
You hear about this in whispers, though, in the pub, late at night, when all the tourists have gone to bed or gone away and no one but the locals are around. That hill. That curve in the road. That cold feeling you get in that one place. There is a deep understanding that there is something here older than us, that doesn’t care about us particularly, that (when we obtrude on it) is as willing to kick us in the slats as to let us pass by unmolested.
So you greet the magpies, singly or otherwise. You let stones in the middle of fields be. You apologize to the hawthorn bush when you’re pruning it. If you see something peculiar that cannot be otherwise explained, you are polite to it and pass onward about your business without further comment. And you don’t go on about it afterwards. Because it’s… unwise. Not that you personally know any examples of people who’ve screwed it up, of course. But you don’t meddle, and you learn when to look the other way, not to see, not to hear. Some things have just been here (for various values of “here” and various values of “been”) a lot longer than you have, and will be here still after you’re gone. That’s the way of it. When you hear the story about the idiots who for a prank chainsawed the centuries-old fairy tree a couple of counties over, you say – if asked by a neighbor – exactly what they’re probably thinking: “Poor fuckers. They’re doomed.” And if asked by anybody else you shake your head and say something anodyne about Kids These Days. (While thinking DOOMED all over again, because there are some particularly self-destructive ways to increase entropy.)
Meanwhile, in Iceland: the county council that carelessly knocked a known elf rock off a hillside when repairing a road has had to go dig the rock up from where it got buried during construction, because that road has had the most impossible damn stuff happen to it since that you ever heard of. Doubtless some nice person (maybe they’ll send out for the Priest of Thor or some such) will come along and do a little propitiatory sacrifice of some kind to the alfar, belatedly begging their pardon for the inconvenience.
They’re building the alfar a new temple, too.
Atlantic islands. Faerie: we haz it.
The Southwest is like this in some ways. You don’t go traveling along the highways at night with an empty car seat. Because an empty car seat is an invitation. You stick your luggage, your laptop bag, whatever you got in that seat. Else something best left undiscussed and unnamed (because to discuss it by name is to go ‘AY WE’RE TALKING BOUT YA WE’RE HERE AND ALSO IGNORANT OF WHAT YOU’RE CAPABLE OF’ at the top of your damn lungs at them) will jump in to the car, after which you’re gonna have a bad time.
If you’re out in the woods, you keep constant, consistent count of your party and make sure you know everyone well enough that you can ID them by face alone, lest something imitating a person get at you. They like to insert themselves in the party and just observe before they strike. It’s a game to them. In general you don’t fuck with the weird, you ignore the lights in the sky (no, this isn’t a god damn night vale reference, yes I’m serious) and the woods, you lock up at night and you don’t answer the door for love or money. Whatever or whoever’s knocking ain’t your buddy.
^ So much good advice in this post right here
I live in the south and… you just… don’t go into the woods or fields at night.
Don’t go near big trees in the night
If you live on a farm, don’t look outside the windows at night
I have broken all these rules.
I’ve seen some shit.
If it sounds like your mom, but you didn’t realize your mom is home…. it’s not your mom. Promise.
One walked onto the porch once. Wasn’t fun. But they’re not super keen on guns. Typically bolt when they see one.
You think it’s the neighbor kids.
It’s not the neighbor kids.
Might sound like coyotes but you never really /see/ the coyotes but then wow that one cow was reaaaaaally fucked up this morning. The next night when you hear another one screaming you just turn the tv up a little more. Maybe fire a gun in the air but you don’t go after it. If it is coyotes then it’s probably a pack and you seriously don’t want to fuck with that and if it’s the other thing you seriously REALLY don’t want to fuck with that.
So in the south, especially near the mountains, you just go straight from your car to inside your house, draw your curtains and watch tv.
If you see lights in the fields just fucking leave it alone.
Eyes forward. Don’t be fucking stupid. Mind your own business. Call your neighbors and tell them to bring the cats in. There’s coyotes out. Some of them know. Most of them don’t.
Other than that everything’s a ghost and they died in the civil war. Literally all of everything else is just the civil war. We used to smell old perfume and pipe tobacco in the weeks leading up to the battle anniversaries.
Shit’s wild and I sound fucking crazy but I swear to god it’s true.
Every time this post comes around, it’s my favorite to open up the notes and read the stories. Probably shouldn’t have since I’m sleeping alone tonight, but you know, it’s fine. 😂
Austrian girl here who has lived in Ireland for 5+ years. This shit is LEGIT. I’ve seen it with my own two Catholic eyes.
Sure, visit during the day. That’s alright as long as you’re respectful. But you couldn’t PAY ME ENOUGH to go there at night. These are also the last places where you wanna start littering.
I grew up in southwest Pennsylvania which is a weird mixture of American cultures and environments. I was in the heavily forested mountains (northern Appalachia) but had lots and lots of corn fields and cow pastures. Like the Smoky Mountains and fields of Kansas combined. And being so cut off from a lot of the world, we had our fair share of ghost stories.
We had ‘witches’ in the mountains (more like ghost-women who will snatch you up by making you wander in a daze around the forest like the Blair Witch before killing you or letting you back out into society but you’re… different). Or devils in springs or abandoned wells (don’t look too long into one or something will follow you).
But we also had the cornfield demons. I’ve witnessed this many times. You’ll be in the passenger seat looking out the window and see red glowing eyes in the cornfield. No light shining in that direction. Just two red dots a few inches apart faintly glowing in a pitch black cornfield. They’re not the glow of deer eyes in the headlights. More like the embers of a dying fire. Sometimes, as you drive away, you’ll look out the back window or side mirror and you can see the eyes have moved to the edge of the corn field, still watching you. If you bring it up with the driver, they’ll call you paranoid, but grip the wheel a bit tighter and driver a little faster.
I was walking to a friend’s house one night. It was about 20 minutes down a dirt road with forest on one side and a cornfield on the other. I’ve walked past it many times and wasn’t really concerned. My main worry was coming across a skunk or porcupine. I didn’t have a flashlight because the moonlight was bright enough and I knew the walk really well. Then I saw the eyes. I immediately averted mine (because for some reason that’s how to not annoy it) but they kept wandering back. They were still there, watching. I heard rustling and saw the eyes come closer and I took off running. I got to my friends without a scratch, but I was terrified. I mentioned it to my friend and that’s when I found out it was A Thing. Her parents agreed and shared their stories. I brought it up more and almost everyone knew what I was talking about. It was a phenomenon a lot of folks around town experienced but never mentioned. To this day, I don’t linger around poorly light cornfields at night.
Faeries and Wee Folk and Liminal Spaces, oh myyyy…
I just…yes. This. All of this. And then some.
You don’t have to understand it. You don’t have to believe in it.
But if you know what’s good for you, DON’T FUCK WITH IT.
I was born and raised in the city. My grandparents lived in the outskirts, but then decided to move back to a small mountain town my grandmother’s family used to live in. By small I mean it has less than 20 houses, and everyone knows everyone. It is an old little place, perched on the side of the mountain, with buildings made of stones. Right under it, there are fields, and then the woods.
The first time I visited (more or less 7 years ago) my grandomother was very careful to warn me not to go out when it’s dark. She’s the same woman who taught me about myths and legends, and told me that there are things wandering around. We don’t know who they are, or what they are, but they like to stroll through the town when they know it’s quiet. Usually they are calm, but sometimes they try to get people to come with them back into the woods. They make you see things, imitate noises and voices. They won’t let you come back.
I was skeptical, but I obeyed.
Fast forward to 3 years ago.
I was spending the month with my grandparents, and it was only the three of us since my family decided to stay in Rome. One day around 9 pm (the sun had just set) I was in the kitchen on the second floor, reading at the table, when I my grandmother called me from the garden. The window was open, so I clearly heard her shout “Giorgia! Can you come down a second?”
It wasn’t the first time it had happened: my grandmother had a dog who was pretty old and had trouble walking, so she’d call me down into the garden from time to time to help her move him back inside. But she never asked me to go out at night.
“Is everything okay?” I yelled, still sitting at the table “You need help?”
“Can you come down a second?” she repeated.
I just thought “Meh” and stood up to go downstairs to the lobby and reach the garden-
-and I met my grandmother in the hallway.
I asked her “You don’t need help anymore?”. She just stared at me, so I explained that I heard her call me from the garden.
“You didn’t look down from window, did you?”
I shook my head, and she calmly walked into the kitchen and closed the window.
“You shouldn’t go out, it’s dark.” she told me, getting a bottle of water from the fridge. Like nothing had happened.
“But I heard you call-”
“It’s dark, Giorgia.”
That’s when I fully realized that it wasn’t my grandmother who tried to get me to go out in the night.
And that’s why I don’t fuck with the unknown.
Local legend time.
Here in Central Indiana, there are two local paranormal sites less than ten minutes from my house. The first is Sunken Road.
Sunken Road is this little, one-lane dirt road that runs between two country roads. It runs through a relatively low-lying area that floods a lot, and is pretty marshy in general, covered in this patches of scraggly marsh-forest (a horrible description, but you know what I mean). At one point in the road, it drops down real sharp about five feet, levels out for maybe fifty yards, and goes back up. There’s where the problem is: way back when, they were trying to build a bridge over this dip, because it especially floods. No ones ever said why- I myself probably think it’s an Indian curse, as related to the second legend- but A LOT of people died trying to make this damn bridge. Horses and men drowned or went missing, to the point that they gave up building the thing. You don’t go down this road on a full moon; personally, I think moonless nights are just as bad. People say, on the right night- Halloween, the solstices, New Years, it varies depending on the version- you can still hear the horses scream as they or their masters sink into the muck.
The other legend is Thirteen Graves. Long story short, back in the 1800s, the locals hung a bakers dozen of Indians. Instead of handing the bodies back to the tribe, they buried them in unmarked graves in this local cemetery; I’ve been here only because some of my ancestors are buried there, and Tobago was in broad daylight. Anyway, when they buried these guys, they put these big slabs of rock- limestone or concrete- on top. Can’t remember why, but I’d guess it was to prevent either the locals or the tribe digging them back up. One of the graves particularly is special. Walk along and count them, and you’ll get thirteen; turn and walk back the other way, and you might only get twelve. Supposedly, this one grave, it the right amount of moonlight, gives off a certain glow, though none of the others do. I wouldn’t know; when my friends dragged us there one night, I never got out of the car, and made sure to lock the doors.
Okay look, people always say “Let’s go to Bali for a holiday”, but Bali isn’t known as the Island of the Gods for nothing. Those candle offerings you see next to statues all over the road? And next to trees? They contain beings that you MUST be respectful to. I have heard so many stories of people snuffing candles out, only to accidentally end up in a hospital one way or the other.
Point is, don’t fucking mess with the other side, and be respectful for cultures and old myths even if you don’t believe them.
There’s places in Connecticut where the graves are from the 1600s, and trust me, perfectly fine during the day, but people want to try and be hot shots and go to them at night.
You don’t go to those cemeteries at night. People have been grabbed and shoved to the ground by nothing. You lose your way when you JUST saw the exit and spend the next three hours stumbling through trying to get out and praying you won’t get caught by police or worse.
Then there’s the reports of people sneaking into Norwich State Hospital and being picked up, thrown across the room and waking up hours later and their friends have been trying to wake them up.
Lake Erie has a Nix like spirit called the “Stotm Hag” thats supposedly responsible for all the boats that have sunk in an area of the lake called Misery Bay.
A LOT of boats sunk in that lake, a lot of people gine missing in that lake still.
The only ghost/other worldly thing I ever experienced was the Black Dog. Basically, I was driving out to Mohave desert. It was roughly 2am. I’m tired from work with my coffee cup empty. My eyes are heavy and the road started to shift. First it was the road swaying to the right then the left. As I cleared my eyes to see straight again. I saw this two red dots appear. Glowing a dark red. Almost like a ember ready to catch again. I get closer almost within range of my head lights. A slight figure begins to come out, shape of a dog with those glowing red eyes. Now I know what’s gonna happen after that. I either die in a Caiden’s and dragged to hell or I end up killing someone else with my truck. I immediately pull over. Hit my hazards, leave all my lights on and I went to sleep for an hour or two. Wake up and the dog was gone. Scariest shit i ever experienced.
I’ve had my fair share of run ins with things people tend not to speak openly about. But I just keep seeing this one thing and its always in the same way. I live in Texas and tend to drive through the evening/nights. Fill the seats, turn on a podcast, and keep going as fast as legally possible. But whenever I’m driving through the plains between Lubbock and Junction, or the roads north of Lubbock in the flatlands, you see them. You only see glimpses of the four legged things, running across the fields and letting out screams that sound *just* a bit too much like someone you knew once. Their eyes are always red, a pale glow you might mistake for the car you just passed on the highway, but they’re out in the fields. They’re always out there, and on full moons you can see them more than ever and see their horrific, twisted bodies as they gallop along the roads. They tend not to go into the hill country, but between Kerrville and Junction are things worse, lurking in the hills and around the corners.
http://www.lorepodcast.com/episodes/?offset=1431949862776
Episode 5: Under Construction
Tells a nice little story about the elves that inhabit some stone in Iceland iirc…
Each if these stories gives my soul new strength.
I took this picture in Ireland. This does not look like a space meant for humans. Other creatures, though….
ive had my same fair share of runins in southern texas forests.ive find the remains of bared wire fences imbedded into the overgrown brush, iron stakes bolted into oaks, the remains of hideouts and blinds with faded camouflage and weak supports. i know better to climb them, to try to remove the wire, and touch the stakes.
ive had no one to tell me the rules, but ive learned them myself though trial and error. never look out windows, broken or not. dont look in the deer’s eyes, dead or alive. take every bone you find, but do not keep it for long. never drink the water. the wild snakes only watch, and never strike unless you see their tails shake. you will hear sounds that do not sound animal or human, and if that happens you should always go in the opposite direction. never climb in the brush. respect the oak trees.
I’ve never had much of a ~big scary~ experience, but we have fairies who latched on to us when we lived in central New York and i swear to god either they’ve followed us to florida and now to kansas, or they’ve got a phone chain and they keep each other updated on where we are.
and, to be honest, that MIGHT be because while we might be like “goddamn it” when they fuck with our shit, it’s only fond exasperation, and we’re otherwise very respectful. They’ll take things, for whatever reason, then when they realize we’re looking for it they’ll put it back. but almost never where it was left, but in a place it should NEVER EVER BE. I’m talking like. Something from downstairs being found sitting alone in the middle of the bed sort of shit, or the middle of the floor, or on an otherwise empty flat surface we’d ALREADY LOOKED ON.
I think the most in-your-face they’ve ever been, though, was one time I must’ve forgotten the wireless mouse I was using with my laptop, because Birdie and I were driving away from… i don’t even remember where, and all of the sudden my mouse materializes above my head, falls past my face, and lands in my lap. I almost crashed the car from how startled I was. And Birdie SAW IT. There was no way this was a case of “oh it just fell off of something”, there was a) nothing for it to fall off of, it being a computer mouse and me being in the driver’s seat of our car, and b) It dropped straight down and nothing was above me but the ceiling.
I have tried and failed to come up with a non-magical explanation for that, but considering I thought it was IN MY BACKPACK ON THE BACKSEAT and it DROPPED INTO MY LAP OUT OF LITERALLY NOWHERE, I’ve not had much luck.
So we cuss mildly at the fairies from time to time, and then leave out the occasional bread and honey and milk.
Boring old werewolf instincts:
Sexual jealousy
Constant aggression
Rigid hierarchy
Must win sports
Homophobia And Sexism Is Normal™
Eat people
Cool new werewolf instincts:
There is no five second rule
Corvids are friends
Hang out as a pack
Karaoke
Gotta pee
Also consider:
Separation anxiety
Unconditional love and loyalty
Being able to sleep in almost any situation or position
Irresistible urge to chase squirrels and rabbits
Hating the vacuum cleaner
Wanting to do everything with friends
Loudly and repeatedly announcing to housemates that someone is at the door
Long, shouted conversations to other werewolves across the neighborhood (bonus points at 2am)
Taking advantage of any and all free food
Werewolf-vampire solidarity
Fighting any animal that trespasses into the backyard
Boundless energy
Too much energy
Eating out of the trash if it smells tasty
Being bad at sports because you don’t want to let anyone else take the ball from you. Then destroying the ball in front of everyone because you want to make a point
Trying to fight things 10x your size like a fucking idiot
Being unable to hold a grudge for more than a few hours
Trying to make people feel bad for you over mundane things that aren’t actually that bad. And somehow succeeding.
Snoring
Needing to try a bit of your friends’ food, even if you’ve tried it 5645674 times before and have never once liked it
Getting way too friendly with random strangers
Being in a love-hate relationship with water
Digging. For no reason.
Thinking you’re a badass despite being a hyperactive ball of emotions and hedonism
Loud sobbing while pressing yourself up against the sliding glass door at your friends who locked you out because they were tired of your bullshit and wanted some goddamn peace and quiet
Okay this one is a gem:
“ Loudly and repeatedly announcing to housemates that someone is at the door “
“Thinking you’re a badass despite being a hyperactive ball of emotions and hedonism”
-literally me
I’ve had the idea for a werewolf/monster story bouncing around for a while now, so I must save these.
@commander-butchbear
I’ve got a serious soft spot for modern occult detectives. Investigating things that go bump in the night with a bit of first-person snark and a hefty dose of old-fashioned detective tropes? …
I accidentally spent three hours writing an essay about lady occult detectives instead of…writing my story about a lady occult detective.
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.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
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.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The 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. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s 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. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s 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 Arepo’s 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.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
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. Arepo’s 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 Arepo’s 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, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
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.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The 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.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
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.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
Reminder
NO ONE CAN TELL ME WHERE THE GIANT PRIMORDIAL NORSE COW WENT
STILL
WHERE THE HELL DID SHE GO?
looking for other things to lick, obvs
She went into the universe. Why do you think we call our patch the Milky Way. Follow the Milky way and you find: her.
Licking things
Auðhumla presumably still exists in Ginnungagap, licking things and spontaneously generating life from her primordial tastings.
so like lemme bring this back ok
there is a giant cow out there
licking shit, possibly bringing other giant beings into creation
and like no one ever thought to mention it?
Odin’s just chillin in Asgard thinking “Yeah…look at her go. Doin’ what she does best. Thanks, grandma.”
My name is Cow
And in the gap
My busy tung
Dus lick and lap
My huf is strong
My horn is curld
I wandr round
I lik the world
#StraightOuttaTheProseEdda
ek heiti kýr falla frá mér allar árnar sem eru hér. en þó at tungan mín nú frýss, nú stend ek hér.
ek sleiki ís.
_______
Rough translation:
My name is cow from me ther flow all the rivers down belo. and tho my tung do pay the price, now i stand here.
I lik the ice.
i think tumblr’s idea of boys is utterly misguided at times.
boys are just as deserving of love as girls are. a woman fighting to break down a man’s walls is not “a waste of time”, a woman being concerned of a man’s mental health/feelings is not wrong. i think tumblr constantly spreads the idea that men are not worth women’s time and that their emotions are somehow less valid than women’s, and it’s just not true. at least not in all cases.
good young men who are struggling with mental illness need to know that they deserve happiness and that their feelings matter. if we constantly dismiss men’s emotions and act like they’re not worth our time, we’re just encouraging ideas of toxic masculinity.
I don’t know the source but amazing advice.
Inflexible Yogis on Instagram! I follow them. They’re awesome.
Thank you for the source! That page is wonderful.
We as a community need to recognize that as far as story writing goes, Infinity Wars was bad
Loki, trickster god, dying because his ‘sneaky machination’ was literally just a frontal stabbity assault on a guy with two Infinity Stones? Bad. Valkyrie just straight up not existing? Bad. Gamora being tortured and abused by Thanos her whole life, only to be killed at her abuser’s hands because he ‘really loved her’ in order to give her abuser “'complexity’”? EXCEEDINGLY BAD. Said ‘love’ and ‘grief’ being the reason the closest attempt at stopping him fails? Salt on the wound, super fucking bad. Wanda letting Wakandan soldiers give their lives to stall and risking the fate of Wakanda as a whole and trillions of other lives across the universe because she doesn’t want to POSSIBLY kill her Mark Hatsune boyfriend? HIGH TIER IMMERSION-BREAKING BAD. Thanos just, in general, having years to formulate a plot and deciding that killing off half the universe was what was going to save it instead of using infinite power to provide resources or stability that he was worrying about or just really doing anything else with THE POWER TO REMAKE THE UNIVERSE that wasn’t absolutely moronic because of different repopulation rates in species and the fact that a randomized 50% kill snap could end up destroying people who want to help maintain the universe and letting those who want to actually harm and harvest it flourish and just, like, it was so stupid there was absolutely no reason that his choice stands up to his under any amount of rational thought and it was just done to make their villain seem Deep and now has allowed reddit eugenicists to crawl out of the woodworks in support of this moronic choice? Really. Fucking. Bad.
Infinity Wars had some good humor but God damn the story writing was so fucking bad and we need to admit that
