THIS IS MY GREAT, TERRIBLE DESPAIR

𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙴𝚇𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴, 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙱𝙾𝚁𝙽, 𝙸𝚂 𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝙷𝙾𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁.

[cigydd-a2]

this blog is now an archive, follow the new blog here

[cigydd-a2]

this blog is now an archive, follow the new blog here

[cigydd-a2]

this blog is now an archive, follow the new blog here

[cigydd-a2]

this blog is now an archive, follow the new blog here

[cigydd-a2]

[cigydd-a2]

not to freak y’all out but sometimes i think about going back to using mads as a fc like i did at this blog’s inception

[naragun-deactivated20161113]

I highly recommend you follow the person I reblogged this from.

[cigydd-a2]

the gradient text is cute and it’s not a problem for me when the gradient is along pretty similar / low contrast hues, but in general could folks not use it when we’re writing together / in meme replies / threads with me  ---  for some reason it seems to aggravate my dyslexia / causes a lot of visual stress, to the point where i have to reread things three or four times to get it or highlight the text to be able to read it if it’s a longer phrase or sentence

[cigydd-a2]

every time a character in a video game does that sliding-down-the-ladder-with-feet-on-the-outside thing i think about the time my high school gf broke her finger doing that in the reading room of the boy’s campus library

[cigydd-a2]

clearing my inbox because it’s madly but cluttered but, as always, it’s nothing personal and pls don’t be discouraged to send in new things <33

[preciouscisco]

my kink is fictional couples protecting each other not because one is ‘weaker’ (ie the female character) but because they’re both completely equal and their first instinct is to protect each other

[cigydd-a2]

listen i want threads i have two (2) but literally at least 80% of the starters i write go unanswered and that’s not a big deal really because i get it i’m the same but overall it’s a big struggle for me to write them in the first place so ?? why bother. what i’m going to do is turn some meme responses people have written me into threads over the next few days and we’ll see how it does

[cigydd-a-deactivated20191016]

anyways if you think that yen laughs sadly at geralt’s fantasy of their domestic life in a secluded country home because she’s cruel or dismissive or ‘too ambitious’  —  realize that no one knows geralt the way that yen does, no one sees him as clearly, even /he/ is too self-segregated to acknowledge his motivations, and she laughs sadly because she knows that it’s a lie he’s told himself, that he isn’t ready for that life, that he isn’t capable, that he couldn’t do it. she knows that he wants it because it’s the opposite, the furthest from himself, that he can imagine getting and the only way he can picture the idea of peace is to turn black to white in total subversion and she knows that he wants that impossible concept with her but she also knows that one day he would leave for the market and never come home, she knows that he’d catch himself staring down the road, that he’d sit too long by the river, that he would break his own dream in his own fingers and sneak away with that metaphorical blood on his hands because he /cannot/ keep from fulfilling his own fears.

[anyzek-deactivated20191114]

LIKE / REBLOG  if you are interested in interacting with a book-based and heavily headcanon-influenced writing blog for   THE VAMPIRE EMIEL REGIS   of the witcher saga. game-plot friendly / mutually exclusive. follow link in desc for rules / pages.  WRITTEN BY KATIE.

[cigydd-a2]

real talk cigydd is welsh for butcher, representing the elder speech, but i also have rzeznk / rzeznyk saved, which are intentional misspellings of the polish word for butcher so

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

“Every day includes much more non-being than being.”

— Virginia Woolf, from “A Sketch of the Past,” Moments of Being (Harvest Books, 1985)

[cigydd-a2]

IS IT EVEN YOUR BLOOD? HOW CAN YOU TELL?

  THE WITCHER CANNOT ALWAYS TELL.  His world is flooded full with blood, with its pressure, its density, its speed. He cannot escape the sound, the smell, when he passes through the city.  The blood of lords and peasants, dogs and horses.  Black blood from the sickbeds and scaled blood drying on the flagstones, the thin blood of the starving and that robust, red blood of the working woman who cries out skillfully for her patron. He can hear her across the river. He can smell her aromatic cypher when he passes beneath the window.

   In an instant, the blood of the strzyga overflows his mouth again. By the time he releases her throat, she has retracted to the form of the cursed child, the little girl, eyes blue and pearled with pain. Bleeding. The bruxsa, the bożątko, the singing rusałka with her pale arms whose illusions fade in death to reveal her broken jaw, her shattered cheekbone, the burns from the ropes she was bound with. What of the blood of the bandit princess  —  running down her beautiful thighs?  White as snow.  And his hands that had parted them only the night before, his fingertips, his tongue. What of his blade that parts them now?

   The blood of the Witcher, draining down into his own eyes, drawn by a hail of stones, and the cries of the townsfolk. The stones  ---  a hail of thrown stones.

   When the Witcher passes by the front gate, the dogs in the yard recoil in fear. It is the death-scent heavy on him, his blood-scent.  Blood and blood and blood and blood.  The blood of monsters, the blood of beasts. The blood of men and corpses. A processional of murdered things has followed him since his second birth, bleeding all the way. The first in the line is him. Tubes tied into his veins  ;  seven days bound at the wrists and ankles on a rack, passing in and out of consciousness as easily as through a sheet of softly yielding rain. From one pain to another, screaming, weeping, seizing violently. A boy of ten, for seven days, flushed clean, replaced.  Is it even your blood? How can you tell?

   The answer is clear and keen as daylight. Keen as daylight, it cuts him  :  You should have let them stone you. You should have let them stone you to death.