I'd rather be in outer space đ¸
Not today Justin
Keni
YOU ARE THE REASON
pixel skylines
sheepfilms
Sade Olutola
Kiana Khansmith
Origami Around
Game of Thrones Daily
ojovivo
Stranger Things
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will byers stan first human second
we're not kids anymore.
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RMH
KIROKAZE
Product Placement
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@circlingravens
Writing Masterpost: Links Just going to be titled by character name, for now, because I have no titles :)
Kien: https://docs.google.com/document/d/16FSK4oNygFAtHn3iX0hqad2gQkhpXtLfqMq66FhoJfs/edit
Maeve: https://docs.google.com/document/d/175J-b8UamVIXZBW860tQVIsVc7Qws3-3wOrEq9Cizho/edit
Needless to say, I am HORRIFIED.
âAll that you need to know about boars can be summed up in the fact that if you wish to hunt them, you must have a specially made boar spear. This spear has a crosspiece on it to prevent the boar from charging the length of the spear, driving it all the way through his own body, to savage the human holding the other end.â
-Boar and Apples, T. Kingfisher
fuck OFF
Note that pigs are also HUGE. So, yes, they ARE slightly larger pigs.
So I grew up in the city and have never seen a pig in real life and I just googled it and WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS
I thought they were like labrador sized, like, fat labradors, not mini-cows.
every time I see this post there are more people discovering how fuck off huge pigs actually are and I love it I thought this was a thing everyone knew but clearly not and Iâm laughingÂ
This is me with our Tamworth boar, a heritage breed closer to their wild cousins than the Yorkshire above. I am a fully grown, average sized human. He was a gentle sweetie who, sadly, is no longer with us. His name was Mr. Big.Â
FUCK OFF
Forever laffinâ at people who donât understand how enormous, terrifying, and tenacious wild boar are.Â
Theyâre like if bears had knives protruding from their closed mouths and Didnât Know When To Quit. Their survival instincts when theyâre wounded arenât ârun away and minimize injuryâ itâs âtake the thing that hurt you down with youâ They also make sounds like someone crossed a pig with an alligator.
Their head and neck alone can be like the size of an entire human torso.
Also forever laffinâ at people who think pigs are tiny, âcause we designed those things can get in the neighbourhood of a thousand pounds in ideal circumstances.Â
Itâs like when people assume Tuna must be small because theyâve only ever experienced them in hockey puck form.
Like seriously why the fuck y'all think everyone FREAKED THE HELL OUT when Dorothy fell into the pig pen in Wizard of Oz? Itâs because pigs are HUGE and weigh a shitton and would crush her in an instant.
also dont they eat like, basically anything?
YUP. Pigs will eat people, if given the chance. They dgaf.
Thatâs why boar hunters use a team of very tenacious dogs to hold the boar so they can be speared without fucking you up. The dogs wear body armour.Â
Iâve heard stories of people shooting boars, and if it didnât kill them, it just pissed them off.Â
how the hell did we ever domesticate these things?
âŚâhow the hell did we ever domesticate these things?â
Very carefully, I would imagine.
WIld boar babies are rather cute, like living humbugsâŚ
âŚbut the adults and their ferocity have been associated with warriors for thousands of years, from Mycenaean Greece (a helmet made from sections of boar tusk)âŚ
âŚthrough Celtic Europe (reconstructed carnyx war-horns and standards)âŚ
âŚAncient Rome (the crest of Legion 20 âValeria Victrixâ). A couple more legions also used a boar as their crest - I wonder did they squabble over which was the ârightâ one the way a couple of Swiss cantons had a little war over whose bear was bestâŚ?
âŚthen Anglo-Saxon and pre-Viking helmet crestsâŚ
âŚright up to the late Middle Ages (here the white boar badge of Richard Duke of Gloucester, later Richard III of England)âŚ
âŚand the blue boar badge of the Earl of Oxford, more usually represented by the De Vere arms, quarterly gules and or, in the first a molet argent.
After Richard was defeated at Bosworth in 1485, there was a run on blue paint as inn-signs were changed to reflect new loyalties since Oxford was on the winning sideâŚ
And pigs will definitely eat people.
It gets mentioned in the movie âSnatchâ, the book/movie âHannibalâ and the webcomic âLackadaisy Catsâ, among numerous other fictional sources, and IRL itâs suspected to be the reason why numerous missing persons have stayed missing.
More here (another comment to this same OP) and here (slightly different).
Hereâs some boar-hunting armour for dogs, ancientâŚ
âŚand modernâŚ
âŚand the modern one looks very like a simple style of ancientâŚ
So when Odysseusâs old nurse recognizes him by the scar he got from the boar-tusk slash that almost killed him⌠now you get the resonance.
This postâŚit just really went places on me.
What if when we were born we were each assigned a Wikipedia page like a social security number would that be fucked up or what
do you mean a wikipedia page about us? or do you mean some baby is arbitrarily given the rights and responsibilities to update the paramecium article?
ok I did mean a Wikipedia page about us. But keep talking I like where youâre headed
What's your government-assigned Wikipedia page? (No rerolls. I am in charge of "1929 in Wales" now. Not a great year, some bad floods in November.)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDU_Txk06tM
made this, feel free to use it
Kestrel, Wick
TW: Implied abuse, blood mention, choking mention
Taglist: @killtheprotagonist
"Good morning, Leigh. Next time you come home injured, please give me some kind of warning, because finding a trail of blood leading to the bathroom was the scariest experience of my life.â
12 Days of Whumpmas - Day 7
Fandom/universe: Generic Whumpee
Warnings: homeless whumpee, death mention, fear of hypothermia
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There was supposed to be a Christmas party tonight. Christmas Eve. The whole team was gonna get together, gather at headquarters where thereâs a blue and silver tree set up, twinkling with white lights, and relax for once. Laugh and talk and eat tons of warm, delicious food. Whumpee canât exactly cook anything, but the team had let them get away with volunteering to bring the chips and drinks.
But itâs been cancelled. Snow is coming, and Leader was worried about people getting trapped at the party, unable to get home. Itâs the first snow of the season, and itâs supposed to be a big one. Headquarters is locked up tight now until next week - Whumpee checked earlier, just to be sure.
Thatâs okay. They were looking forward to the evening, but they understand. The last thing they want is for their teammates to miss out on spending Christmas with their loved ones.
Taglist: @silverdarlin, @quirkykayleetam
Started adding a taglist! Please message me if you'd like to be added!
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They were outnumbered two to one, at best. It wasnât that the force of Shifters was particularly large-- simply that there were so few of the elves. Despite Kienâs experience with battle and bloodshed, he couldnât help the chokehold of panic that settled over him. Afterall-- he was injured, and had never seen any of the others fight. Despite the few blows heâd exchanged with the General during their brief sparring exchange, he had no idea how well-versed they were. Even if they could all fight well (Moraâs casual grace suggested she could handle herself, and all of them were definitely practiced in their reaction to the flock of birds), they likely had a fighting pattern with each other, and Kienâs presence would simply get in the way.
Even still, he drew his sword, jaw clenching. He knew how to fight, and he could work through the pain. Even if heâd passed out before, he refused to acknowledge that possibility now. There was no other choice. It was fight, or die, and his own spite towards this entire situation refused to let him die.
It was the first of the arrows that perhaps saved him from exerting himself to the point of sweet, blissful unconsciousness. For now. As the whistling sound filled the air (a notch had been cut into the arrowhead to cause a fiercer hum), instinct deep within snapped.
A single, hissed word slipped from the Princeâs lips, and those odd, electric eyes filmed over with gold.
The arrow fell from the air, clattering onto the cold, hard ground below, as though itâd met a solid wall. In the same moment, blood began to drop from the elfâs nose.
The other elves in the small group twisted to eye Kien, for a moment, before Valen whispered, âBlood magic.â For a second, both groups were still, before the General muttered, âTold you.â Mora swore softly, and, with that, she leapt, fire flaring bright into both hands.
Though her movement had been met by the entire gathered forces erupting into fighting, Kienâs gaze remained with her, for a moment. Yes, she certainly knew how to fight-- both fistfuls of fire had been tossed towards intended targets, and she now wielded duel knives, slipping close, slipping a knife between the ribs, and away again before her opponent could react.
His attention was forcibly snatched away by a deep chuckle from behind him. He spun, sword coming up into an easy guard, eyes already touched once more by the color that warned for his magic.
The shifter whoâd laughed simply grinned at the Prince, all pointed teeth and overly sharp fangs.
âWell, well,â they purred, an ear twitching as amusement crept across their face. âI didnât expect to find royalty out here, and you, no less-â their words were cut off by a snarl as Kien threw himself forward, disregarding all intelligent thought of avoiding further injury or fighting from a distance with magic. No-- he was as good as dead either way, because if the other elves heard, the King would kill him just the same.
So it was fear that drove the gentle Prince, and the first of his blows thrust out with the full power and intention to kill. Normally, his first few strikes would be warnings-- a display of the power he could wield, but intended to disable, not end. But no, he couldnât afford to let this shifter talk, so he attacked without mercy.
His blade met only air, and a flurry of feathers caught his attention from his peripheral vision.
âToo slow,â the shifter teased, a chiding smile on their face. âHonestly, Prince, I expected better from you! Arenât you the golden child? The chosen one?â Their voice was singsong, eyes alight with a cold mirth.
Even fearful, angry, Kien was no fool. But still, he struck again. The same feathery flurry of action, but Kienâs blade had already twisted to meet it, and cold steel slashed across a physical form. Again-- he was no fool, he wouldnât have tried the same thing twice.
A squawk of surprise, and pain, but the shifter had taken their true form again, and was still grinning, despite the bloody slash across their upper arm. âWell, well, it seems His Highness-â they paused, blinking down at their opponent.
Their kneeling opponent. Kien had collapsed, the twisting motion of his second blow having been too much. One wouldâve thought heâd have figured it out by now, but no. Heâd fallen forward, on to both knees, both hands on the ground, one still enclosed around the hilt of his sword.
âDisappointing,â the shifter drawled after the moment of surprise had passed. Soft steps thudded on the ground as they advanced, and long, cold fingers curled under his chin, nudging Kienâs head forcibly upwards. Heâd not yet fallen unconscious, but it was clear the Princeâs mind was far off, somewhere to escape from that pain, from the glazed look in his eyes.
Metal flashed at the shifterâs side as they drew a dagger from some hidden sheath, clicking their tongue.
âWell, that was easier than I expected. Really, Iâm quite sad,â they pouted, staring down at the fallen prince. âVery well. Bye-bye-â
They froze, mouth agape, and their head slowly lowered, the hand under Kienâs chin coming up to their stomach, where a long spearhead protruded. With a silent âoâ, they stumbled a pace to the side, dagger falling forgotten to lay besides Kienâs sword.
âDonât,â Leon snarled, his normally gentle face contorted in anger. âYour groupâs taken enough from us.â
A wet cough was the only answer he received from the shifter, whose hands both pressed below the weapon still skewering them. Their lips pursed together, as if to whistle, but only a wet gurgle could be heard. Leon paled, jaw tensing, but turned away, fists curling as he stood in front of Kienâs collapsed form. His weapon was gone, but he was ready to fight bare-handed to defend the young elf if needed. As the shifter slowly sank to the ground, the sounds of the surrounding clash dulled. The other shifters had backed away from their fights, despite having more or less surrounded the elves. As one, they shifted, mostly back into the same flock theyâd come as, but one taking on the shape of a small wyvern. With a hoarse croak that belonged more to a crow than the fierce creature whose appearance theyâd borrowed, they took to the air, curling up, then landing near to form of the shifter who Leon had impaled.
The elves made no move to interfere, given it seemed the enemy was, miraculously, leaving. Even as the wyvern scooped up the injured shifter with its back talons, spear and all, and took off, they did not stop it.
A rough, disbelieving laugh was the first sound that broke the new silence. From Valen, of course, who trod over to Leon, patting him heavily on the shoulder. âCongrats, healer, you just saved every single one of us from certain death.â Various murmurs of ascent came from the others, who slowly lowered their weapons, all covered in blood-- both their own, and their enemies. Left on the ground were four utterly still bodies. And Kien, who they all noticed again at once. By now, heâd slipped from wakefulness. Back to unconsciousness, which seemed to be his most predominant state these days. Leon sank to his knees besides the Price, reaching out with gentle fingers to feel for a pulse.
âSleeping beauty, much?â The joke fell flat, colored by concern. âIs⌠he alive?â When Leon affirmed he was, Valen nodded sagely, as if heâd known. âGood. I need him to bet on. Even if heâs not a thief.â He said no more, though, simply folding his arms.
Silence reigned once more, for a long minute, before Leon murmured, âSo, who wants to help me carry him to the medical tent?â And with that, a quiet, âAgain,â was added from everyone simultaneously, and shoulders relaxed all around. This fight was over, and despite the injuries sustained, none of those bodies were elven. Even their new soldier had survived.
Whumpers! Do you like it when they're evil? Do you like it when they think they're doing something good? Do you like it when they're just doing their job? Do you like it when they're just having fun?
Evil, evil, all the way. I hop happily with pretty much any evil character, mMGH.
I think there's potential for very interesting plot when they're just doing their job, so that'll probably be a close second.
Having fun and thinking they're doing good is also super interesting for me to read, though I'm not sure if I could ever extensively write that.
For anyone youâd like: What is your character's trigger point? What makes them angry, sad or makes them go off?
Answering for Kien! I think it depends on the stage of his life! During the time where the King is still alive, he's very careful to never express negative emotions relating to him, because he's frankly a bit worried of what will happen.
Once the King is gone, however, anyone that reminds him of the King, whether it be by cruel word or action, he will not put up with. Though he's not a 'loud angry' type, the point where he might yell is if he sees someone being unnecessarily cruel/manipulative/just a cold bastard in general.
Reblog if I'm allowed to send you in character asks even if we have never talked before.
you are dangerous
I am very dangerous, anon. You cannot fathom the things I have done.
New Ask Game: anonymously tell me why you think I should be contained in a maximum security prison! â¤ď¸ :)
today I have aged
Honest War
For @whumptober2021 Day 13: Burns
CW: War whump, mustard gas burns, burned skin, vampire, drugging of sorts, whumper pov, sadistic whumper, cold whumper
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October 4th, 1918 -Â Argonne Forest, France
When Auri Saathoff was young, there was no such thing as mustard gas.
Wars had been more honest, then.
They remember with nostalgic fondness the sight of men charging on foot or on horses, the sounds of catapults from some small distance perhaps giving a whistle of wind before they slammed into fortress walls. The deafening roar of shouting men, houses in villages aflame while women, children, and the elderly did their best to run for hte hills.
That was an honest war, where men must face each other, where they must face the truth of these sad singular deaths. Or at least it had been more honest, in any case.
Really, there is no such thing as honest war, and the closest you get is a duel. This whole thing would have been best handled that way, Auri thinks sometimes. That would be honest.
This, thoughâŚ
This is not a war, they think as they carefully step over and around bodies both dead and dying. This is a charnel house, men fed into a line like cattle to the slaughter, cut off in their prime for a few hundred yards of wasteland shredded to emptiness before the battle every truly reaches it.Â
There was a forest here three weeks ago.
Now⌠it is a corpse, a huge wound on the body of the earth, and they are still fighting. As if it matters. As if it ever mattered.
Shells burst and shriek overhead, a deafening roar that will shake their nerves apart if they allow it. Instead, they focus on their mission, on the next step, and then the step after that, and after that. Barely audible in the fractions of moments between the artillery are the cries of men dying in droves, choking on mustard gas that burns and blisters every inch of exposed skin inside and out.Â
A shell flies overhead like a terrible great bird, burying itself in the ground, crushing a man who might have survived otherwise beneath it. The ground gives a shiver, as if it would spit the shell back out if it could.
This is a mortal wound, this war, written across the land. The trenches bleed water from the earth like blood, filling up with those suffering a far worse damnation than Auri themself ever will. Men scream, and they shoot each other, they die.
They die and they die and they die.
For nothing.
Because some wealthy man with medals he hasnât truly earned told them to, a hundred, a thousand miles away.Â
The deaths Auri gives, at least, give nourishment to a stronger creature, as nature intends.Â
Keep reading
Give Way
For @whumptober2021 day five: betrayal / misunderstanding
CW: War whump language barrier, brief WWI-appropriate xenophobic language, death threats, referenced vampirism
Follows directly after this piece. Special thanks to @boxboysandotherwhump for helping me with the German here.
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1918, the Western Front of World War One
Shouts filter through the air from somewhere nearby, still distant enough that Tristan canât tell if theyâve been seen or not, but close enough that heâs sure there are three or four different voices, speaking to each other.
âPlease-â
Johann hisses, and the vampire boyâs mouth snaps shut again.
He swallows, feels the slight prick of the metal against the place his pulse would be if he had one, and fixes his gaze on something just off to the left of Johannâs eyes. Itâll look like heâs looking right at him, or close enough.Â
Nerves and the need to move spark and dance under Tristanâs skin like buzzing electric lights. It takes everything in him to stand so perfectly still.Â
Johannâs eyes have narrowed until only a bit of the dark brown color of them is visible. âHast du sie alarmiert? Aber wie ist das- Ist das Ăźberhaupt mĂśglich?âÂ
Tristan just stares at him, none of the words mean a thing except that heâs pretty sure that âduâ means âyouâ. âI, I, I have no idea what, what youâre, um, saying to to to to-to me.â
âScheisse,â The German mutters. âIdiotischer Amy.â
Tristan wrinkles his nose. âI, I think youâre, um, insulting me, arenât-⌠arenât you?â
âGot the scent!â A voice yells, and itâs familiar, but Tristan canât place it. âSomething over here!â
âIch sollte dich umbringen und rennen,â The German says, looking over his shoulder, but something seems to be keeping him from moving. Then his eyes drop, and the vampire realizes itâs because he doesnât want to leave the body of his friend.Â
âHeâs, heâs dead either way,â Tristan says softly, knowing that the man canât understand him and probably wouldnât listen even if he could. âYou should-⌠shouldnât stay.â He shakes his head a little, trying to look pleading, to look soft and scared and harmless.Â
Except that this man just saw him with his teeth buried to the gums in the veins of his dying friend, the body of whom is still just beneath them. Tristan could nudge the corpse with his boot without moving an inch.Â
The bayonet breaks the skin as the German pushes it just a little further, and Tristan feels a droplet of cooled dead blood roll slowly down the side of his throat, to soak into the lapel of his uniform. It smells just a bit like the dead man did.
He closes his eyes.
âHalt! Fass ihn nicht an!âÂ
Keep reading
Ich Bin Johann Albach
For @whumptober2021 Days 4 and 17: Do You Trust Me / Dread. Also, special thanks to @boxboysandotherwhump for helping me with the German here!
CW: War whump, Side character death and referenced war deaths, vampire whumpee, whumpee turned caretaker, use of venom as opiate, taken captive
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1918, the Western Front of World War I
The gray-green fog rolls through No Manâs Land, thick and soupy, the breeze blowing inexorably towards the trenches where the soldiers huddle, gas masks on, praying that the masks will be enough. Living medics and dog handlers curl around their canine partners, who wear their own gas masks, whining softly at the tension they feel from the men around them, unable to pant.Â
The silence weighs heavier than the artillery barrage had an hour before, it feels louder than the gunfire just after the shells stopped falling. The men wait, their own breathing audible through the mask, their blood rushing in their ears, for the gas to dissipate.
While they wait, the undead army does their own darker work.
In the fog, these phantoms move with purpose. A hint of the white armbands they wear might show through here and there, but they are little more than shadows. Some of them have the cross marking them as medics, others have a simple square to mark them as supply and logistics. Every single one, though, has the glaringly obvious, bold V.
They find men who are choking, drowning in their own lungs, and decide who will live and who will die here, in the field of battle. Those whose lungs have a certain thick rattle are dispatched quickly, with mercy - those whose lungs may recover are carried off the field. They give the men water, take their deathbed words to send back to those who love them and have been waiting for them to come home.Â
Tristan moves quickly, just another vampire in the pack of those enlisted by force, offered a chance at being seen as something akin to human if they serve honorably until the war is done.
The gas is slowly settling around him, the wind blowing it away, and the fog thins. He doesnât have to breathe and so the poison canât get inside him to do its damage. Mostly it just stings his tongue, makes it feel slightly numbed. He can see the skeletal stumps of trees, and steps carefully over bodies of those who have already gone still.Â
It feels like an awful waste of what was vibrant, beautiful life.
âSurvivor!â An undead medic calls, their voice filtering thinly, barely audible. Tristan pauses, listens until he hears a second voice call a confirmation and knows someone is coming to help. Then he turns and keeps moving.Â
The quiet is soothing, after the noise that rattles the vampire boy apart. His hands are still shaking as he checks body after body for a pulse and finds none. The roar of the shells still rings in his ears, and the methodical nature of his work is all that keeps him, he thinks, from simply shaking to pieces.Â
He loses track of where he is in the battlefield after a while, so intent on checking the dead that he stops noticing which side of the battle the corpses he touches are on. It begins to rain, soaking into his wool uniform slowly, making it heavy and awkward. His hair sticks to the nape of his neck and against his forehead, and he has to shake it out of his eyes, over and over again.Â
Thank God, he thinks, for the rain - it washes the last of the gas away, and No Manâs Land clears into the strange unearthly hellscape heâs used to. Heâs checking yet another dead man when he hears a scraping sound that makes him jump.Â
He looks up, blinking rapidly against the raindrops, and then goes very, very still.Â
Heâs on the German side of the battlefield, and thereâs a German soldier in a gas mask looking right at him, rifle raised.Â
@orange-cheetah said:Â #KICKS AND SCREAMS#idk enough to yell in depth#but i sure am yelling
Listen that is exactly the reaction I am going for here
Send one of my whumpees a description of what you would do to them if you could
