Il y a toujours un lendemain

She/her. Quarter of a century (aw yeah!). Queer and polyamorous. Dancer. English MA and working on Celtic Studies BA. Reading addict. Canadian. Language lover (currenly knows French, Spanish, and bits of Dutch, Italian, Old English, and Irish). I post whatever catches my fancy, which currently includes YOI, anything Shakespeare or fairytale/folklore, language facts.

[greelin]

$50,000 immediately dropped into my bank account wouldn't improve EVERYTHING but boy it sure would be a grand, sexy little start to a good, happy life path, don't you think

[meilintheempressofdreams]

Reblog for unexpected $$$ dropping into your Bank account.

[symbolblue]

uhh did i forget how time works or was the first post in december 2018 and the second in august 2018

[greetings-inferiors]

Reblog for time travelling $$$ dropping into your Bank account.

[writing-prompt-s]

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

[sadoeuphemist]

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.

[sameenbyhat]

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.”

[stu-pot]

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.”

[corancoranthemagicalman]

I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.

[threefeline]

[writing-prompt-s]

This is amazing!

[the-grollican]

working in an office is just like being in a horse movie except the horse is a printer. im the only one in the office who can make it work and its because the printer and i have a special bond. its a wild and untamable spirit and we are going to win the big race

[prokopetz]

Consider:

Victorian England: 1837-1901

American Old West: 1803-1912

Meiji Restoration: 1868-1912

French privateering in the Gulf of Mexico: ended circa 1830

Conclusion: an adventuring party consisting of a Victorian gentleman thief, an Old West gunslinger, a disgraced former samurai, and an elderly French pirate is actually 100% historically plausible.

[medievalpoc]

It really just comes down to whether a given individual or group is looking for reasons to include, or reasons to exclude. Hypothetical groups like these can go a lot further than this, too.

[spader7]

OK I WANT THIS REALLY BAD SO I MADE THIS REALLY QUICK

[invisiblemelonmoose]

As much as I absolutely adore this, you’d probably have to come up with a fairly good reason for them to all meet up together in the first place. I mean, MLK and Anne Frank were born in the same year, but they lived on different continents and had no opportunity to meet. I’m not saying these cross cultural interactions are impossible, but choosing a certain region with an era isn’t necessarily exclusionary. It just doesn’t occur to people (or rather most writers in general) how well these eras matched up or how to connect these extremely varied backgrounds.

just make it a fighting game and ur good tho

[prokopetz]

I didn’t pick those roles at random, mind. All four of them are outlaws of some description, and thus have incentive to travel outside their native range - and in particular, all four of them would have any number of plausible excuses for ending up in San Francisco during the late 1860s or early 1870s. Once you’ve got them within shouting distance of each other, getting them in the same adventuring party is a simple matter of Plot.

[invisiblemelonmoose]

I feel dumb for not picking up on that. :B I’d definitely be curious to know just what kind of hijinx they’d be getting themselves into (I can already imagine an Ocean’s Eleven-esque heist).

Out of curiosity, why San Fran? I’m a west coaster myself, but I usually picture New York when it comes to historical fiction.

[prokopetz]

1. San Francisco in the early 1870s is both very prosperous and a wretched hive of scum and villainy.

2. It’s more plausible for a vaquero and a ronin samurai to meet there by chance - New York is on the wrong coast entirely for that.

3. Emperor Norton.

[lizzibennet]

i am once again asking you to watch the 2019 shakespeare in the park production of much ado about nothing

[counterpunches]

#signor bene D I C K

[nehirose]

oh shit that is glorious

[memeuplift]

[delphinidin4]

Tons more at the source!

[byjove]

I like stories where a normal human child is being raised by a sinister supernatural being who is totally malevolent except when it comes to their kid. Those are so much better than the “kids are scary” changeling type horror movies.

[byjove]

Like a perfectly well-adjusted well-mannered friendly child that is like “This is my dad, Surazal. He comes out of the mirrors in dark rooms. He makes really good blood pudding but he’s bad at playing catch. Most people can’t see his corporal form but I can because he says I have special eyes.”

[byjove]

“Mom says that you can stay over but you have to promise not to leave my room between midnight and 1 am. You can play Mario Cart with me! But you have to knock on every closed door in the house before entering just because dad might be in there and if you look upon his visage without drinking the holy fruit juice, you might go crazy or something. Also dad is really excited I have a new friend and he’s going to to make hardtack and mystery stew for us! You’ll love it!”

[byjove]

In high school the kid gets a friend that is an amateur demonologist who initially befriends them in hopes of exorcizing their house but ends up becoming buddies with Surazal too because they crave parental affection.

[byjove]

Surazal stands at the end of the vast dark hallway and says “You Too Have Special Eyes, Little One. You Can See Me Without Being Taken By The Madness. Within You, I Sense Great Turmoil And Sadness. In My Younger Years, I Would Have Exploited The Sadness As Weakness In Your Very Soul. I Would Have Worn Your Skin Like A Mask And Run Through The Village Streets, Supping Blood From Every Man I Encountered. But Now I Have No Use For Woe. Perhaps You Would Like To Watch Beetlejuice In The Family Room With My Daughter While I Prepare Cupcakes. I Am Sensing You Have A Fondness for Red Velvet.”

[rotationalsymmetry]

Monsterfucking is out. Monsterparenting is in.

[fierceawakening]

Why would you hide this in the tags

[redgoldsparks]

Self Care Tips From Tumblr: When you feel like everyone hates you, sleep. When you feel like you hate everyone, eat. When you feel like you hate yourself, shower. Someone out there feels better because you exist. 

instagram / patreon / portfolio / etsy / my book / redbubble

[dduane]

When you see something sensible; Reblog it. :)

[viktor-sbor]

Emancipated duels. Photo by Pavel Kurmilev

Baroness Lubinska who presided over the famous duel between Princess Pauline Metternich and the Countess Kielmannsegg in 1892, insisted that the duelists remove their clothing above their waists to avoid infection in the event that a sword pushed clothing into the wound it caused. Being a doctor, the baroness had seen many instances of septic infection in soldiers for this very reason throughout her years of medical training.

[samanthaswords]

“The cause of the duel is reputed to be an argument over arrangements for the Vienna Musical and Theatrical Exhibition.” - I like these ladies.

[m-azing]

I arrive at the duel 

sword: sharpened

sepsis: prevented

tits: out

[a-second-roomba-approaches]

Reblogging this before tumblr takes it down

[antique-scarecrow]

i thought this was a lesbian wedding

[olderthannetfic]

I have no doubt that, had these ladies gotten married, they would have also fought a duel over the musical accompaniment to that.

[zaruba-needslove]

Due to recent issue with some people arguing about how ‘AO3 should have algorithm’ and such… I feel like these tweets need to be shared out more. Saw this tweets thread by chance and I had to admit it’s a great advice esp on fic writing or fanworks in general.

[Edit] Also since I noticed this post blowing up, if anyone ever tell you that AO3 doesn’t have a function to RECCOMMEND fics you like to others or read other people’s fic recs on the site point them to this post.

[Edit 2] Check source for the original tweet.

[Edit 3] Not OP, but usually when ppl talk about ‘rude or demanding comments’ it usually refers to those that tend to message fanwriters to write according to what they want to be either on the flow of the plot, shipping, etc to the point of harrassment/toxicity. And that would make writing not be fun anymore for some. 

[iguessweallcrazyithinktho]

[hotteaandhistory]

This hit home, and I think it will resonate hard with all my creative friends, here. You are amazing and brilliant and I BEG YOU to keep creating!! ❤️❤️❤️

[lemon-embalmer]

fantasy characters: “Geez”

me: who the fuck spread Christianity there

[lemon-embalmer]

this two-years-old shitpost just gained a hundred notes who the snickerdoodles dug it up

[she-who-fights-and-writes]

W H A T

[slumpyspaceprincess]

@rogha

[thewhisperingescapes]

[mirkwoodest]

In moments like this I always fall back on the fact that they also aren’t speaking English because they don’t have England or the many languages and conquering peoples that contributed to the creation of the English language and therefore the work musr be a translation into recognizable terms in our world’s terms. Call that Tolkien Brainrot.

[lurkerwithcomputer]

It’s called “Translation Convention” but “Tolkien Brainrot” is funnier.

[millennial-review-deactivated20]

[bryanrl]

[ninjaeris13]

That little girl is going places

[redpillwolf]

I know more about economics than AOC and my knowledge on economics is on a high school level. Its actually embarassing how little she knows about this shit. But hey, expecting a socialist to know about economics is like expecting a fish to know what a desert is.

[donutcourse]

Much of the ocean is a desert

[an-aura-about-you]

You know what? Let’s use the allowance example again to make it even clearer.

Let’s pretend we have an allowance tax bracket with a 70% tax on money received after a certain point. To keep things simple, we’ll make the limit $90.

If a kid does chores and earns $10 in allowance, they get $10. They’re not going to be affected by the 70% tax.

If a kid does chores and earns $50, they get $50. They also aren’t in the 70% tax bracket, even though they make five times as much money as the kid making $10.

If a kid does chores and earns $100 in allowance, then they’re in the allowance tax bracket with the 70% tax.

$100 minus $90 is $10. This is the part that’s going to be taxed 70%.

70% of $10 is $7.

So the kid getting $100 in allowance will have $93 after the 70% tax takes its share.

Now, I’d never impose such a thing on actual kids. All of this is a thought exercise.

But if it were real, the kid making $10 and the kid making $50 would probably be kind of mad if the kid getting $93 was bitching about being short $7.

[spookyfbi]

Also, can we talk about how taxes are used to pay for things for the benefit of society - roads, schools, libraries etc. so to further the above example, the parents aren’t just pocketing that money themselves just to be mean and selfish, they might use it to pay for a Netflix subscription that the whole family can watch.

[hiveswap]

PROGRESSIVE TAX ISNT FUCKING RADICAL we study it in highschool economics class for fucks sake

[thisisnotjuli]

Goncharov score masterpost

I want to make a post to keep track of all the Goncharov score that’s been uploaded to tumblr, so I will link to all the one’s I’ve found so far and update with any new ones that come up (if you know any I’m missing please share the link!)

Main Theme uploaded by @caramiaaddio

Main Theme (End Titles) uploaded by @if-only-angels-could-prevail

The Bridge Breaks uploaded by @nicewizard

The Clocktower uploaded by @dungeonmastersconsortium

Farewell Scene uploaded by @levuna (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

Tempus Fugit - “Clock Theme” uploaded by @trupowieszcz  (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

Goncharov Theme in Minor uploaded by @mapplejuice  (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

Katya’s Leitmotif (Vinyl Rip) uploaded by @unscharf-an-den-raendern  (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

Andrey’s Theme uploaded by @the-frosty-mac (pointed out to me by @muzic4sewerratz , thank you!)

It Is True (Extract) uploaded by @hex-of-els (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

Memories Of Water - Goncharov Soundtrack uploaded by @rismrus (pointed out to me by themself– please do feel free to toot your own horn!)

Katya’s Sonata uploaded by @arcanistvysoren

“For My Love” Andrey’s Serenade uploaded by @shits-getting-weird (pointed out to me by themself)

Stolen Time uploaded by @avatar-of-the-vast (I lost track of who pointed this one out to me I’m sorry but my notifications at the moment are A Lot, so thank you to whoever it was and I’m sorry I don’t know who you were)

Sharing A Dance uploaded by @the-frosty-mac (pointed out to me by themself)

In The Boathouse uploaded by @madame-karenina

What Was And Will Be uploaded by @piano-flute​

Overture on the Clocktower uploaded by @dead-minecraft-fandoms​ (pointed out to me by @mccoppinscrapyard, thank you!)

Privyet Goncharov uploaded by @rismrus (pointed out to me by themself)

Dockside #2, one of the unreleased tracks, uploaded by @reptilemodernism

Bonus:

Cover of the song Goncharov (2010) by @idiopathicsmile  (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

At Goncharov’s Gate (PC Version), song written for the PC game with a Super NES port released in 1994 for PC-DOS, uploaded by @badgraph1csghost (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

[adampvrrish]

they'll reboot everything else but they won't do a merlin spinoff with the original cast set in modern day when merlin finds arthur again but this time it's a political drama and merlin is arthurs assistant and arthur & morgana work for their father (who holds an important political position) and arthur slowly regainins his memories and merlin & arthur kiss with tongue