im always up at ass o clock doing god knows what
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@fifiisbored
im always up at ass o clock doing god knows what
i know tamsyn doesn't think harrow is conventionally attractive but i base my belief system on what's funniest and what really makes me chuckle is the idea of harrow being chronically pretty faced. like walking around drearburh with a DEADLY face card under all the paint. BEAUTIFUL deep dark eyes, canonically thick eyelashes and very clear skin. bone structure sharp enough to KILL SOMEONE. the ninth house hasn't served like this since the days of matthias nonius. and that fool nav is so completely blinded by rage and resentment that she literally has no clue
Reblogs in a chain now get their own notes
The reblog chain is one of the things that makes Tumblr unlike anywhere else. All the notes on reblogs are attributed to the original post, no matter which branch people actually liked or reblogged. We want to keep encouraging conversations, and give contributors the recognition they deserve.Â
Soon, you'll be able to like, reblog, or reply to any part of a reblog chain, and that note will go to that reblog's author. Each reblog will have its own counts, instead of one aggregated number from every version of the post. And yes, youâll be able to like multiple posts in one chain.
If a reblog doesn't add anything, the love flows up to the last person in the chain who did. Your post doesn't lose notes just because people spread it quietly.
Past notes will stay on the original post â we're only changing what happens from here on out. Retroactively re-attributing all of them would be... a lot.
This is just the beginning. More changes are coming as we keep building this out â stay tuned!
Let's talk about reblog notes.
We rolled out a significant change to how notes work on reblogs, and the reaction has been strong. We're not going to pretend otherwise.Â
First things first: We're reversing the change. Your feedback in comments, emails, and especially reblogs, made clear that the rollout created problems we need to address before moving forward. We also should have communicated this differently from the start, and we didn't.
We still believe there's a better version of how reblogs can work. One that gives every voice in a chain the credit it deserves. But we want to get there with you.
In the coming days we'll share more on how we plan to do that, including ways to work directly with some of you on this and future changes before they ship.
Keep an eye on @staff for updates to come soon.Â
Genuinely thankful that staff is taking the backlash into account. I hope whatever changes are made are improvements.
I think I speak for a lot of people when I say that our biggest concern is how this change would have affected the ability to track and curate interactions with our own posts. This change could have emboldened the worst impulses of this website.
All this said, the idea of having a little reblog button for each addition to a post is not a bad idea, and makes it easier to reblog long posts with potentially unwanted additions. My only concern is clearly marking where a post "ends" but this is just a visual quibble, a far cry from the sweeping fundamental change to Tumblr that was originally proposed. Looking forward to a version of this that works for everyone.
harrow is aware she is only attracted to women but is also a nun married to The Virgin Mary so she regards the idea of being in a relationship with a real human woman with almost as much fear and trepidation as she does the idea of being in a relationship with a real human man. gideon is firmly under the impression that no one has ever been attracted to men ever, not even once, not even to the nice ones, not even by accident. nona is fairly unfazed by the idea of men being sexually interested in her but personally she's mostly into women and/or flowers. ianthe is definitely into women but she might be willing to have a go with a guy as long as a) it was politically advantageous to her and b) he didn't enjoy it that much. camilla is ace in that "has replaced her desire for sexual intimacy with something Worse" kind of way. corona is bi but that on its own would simply be too easy for her so additionally she's unrequitedsexual. palamedes likes women so much that it loops back around into most people initially thinking he's gay. not all of the lyctoral squad were bi to start with but they sure were by the myriadic year of our lord. ortus is a unicorn.
What you just said about Palamedes is what happened my whole life until I transitioned
nods. paul.
"HaRroW LoBotOmiZEd hERseLf"
Yeah boi, she absolutely did, valid crash out. If my only friend and my first [non-hallucinated] love and my cavalier and my only sense of joy in the world jumped on a fence post because she thought it would HELP ME, I think I might just do the same thing. There wouldn't be anything left to remember that would have me regretting the decision anyway, right? Life theoretically would be better but learning from Harrow, no, it absolutely would not. Memory isn't just in the mind, yo. The void is the void and the void remembers. The void is also the nervous system.
So yeah, valid crash out, Harrow, I support you babe â
I canât even blame Cam for immediately attacking when she sees Gideon on the stairwell for the first time.
Youâre telling me that you are standing in a dim room with 2 exits, one of which is locked and covered in blood, and you hear a shuffle behind you. You turn and all you see is this 6ft, boxer build, skull painted, black cloaked figure crouching on the stairwell, blocking your only other exit. And on top of that, when you look at her âeyes,â you only see your torch light and your own reflection?
I would be shitting bricks but thatâs just me.
The "Crazy Princess" Ianthe: Actually makes a sane plan, follows every step, and does what she needs to do to ensure success.
The "Emperor's Reason" Palamedes: "SO! I'm gonna give a demigod turbo cancer, then I will FUCKIN DETONATE MY OWN BODY, hoping it will kill the demigod, THEN following a completelly untested theory I shall make a bubble in the River, trapping my soul in it, then anchor it to the remains of my body, and just hope it won't fail."
Please make a post about the story of the RMS Carpathia, because it's something that's almost beyond belief and more people should know about it.
Carpathia received Titanicâs distress signal at 12:20am, April 15th, 1912. She was 58 miles away, a distance that absolutely could not be covered in less than four hours.
(Californianâs exact position at the time isâŠcontroversial. She was close enough to have helped. By all accounts she was close enough to see Titanicâs distress rockets. Itâs uncertain to this day why her crew did not respond, or how many might not have been lost if she had been there. This is not the place for what-ifs. This is about what was done.)
Carpathiaâs Captain Rostron had, yes, rolled out of bed instantly when woken by his radio operator, ordered his ship to Titanicâs aid and confirmed the signal before he was fully dressed. The man had never in his life responded to an emergency call. His goal tonight was to make sure nobody who heard that fact would ever believe it.
All of Carpathiaâs lifeboats were swung out ready for deployment. Oil was set up to be poured off the side of the ship in case the sea turned choppy; oil would coat and calm the water near Carpathia if that happened, making it safer for lifeboats to draw up alongside her. He ordered lights to be rigged along the side of the ship so survivors could see it better, and had nets and ladders rigged along her sides ready to be dropped when they arrived, in order to let as many survivors as possible climb aboard at once.
I donât know if his making provisions for there still being survivors in the water was optimism or not. I think he knew they were never going to get there in time for that. I think he did it anyway because, god, you have to hope.
Carpathia had three dining rooms, which were immediately converted into triage and first aid stations. Each had a doctor assigned to it. Hot soup, coffee, and tea were prepared in bulk in each dining room, and blankets and warm clothes were collected to be ready to hand out. By this time, many of the passengers were awakeâprepping a ship for disaster relief isnât quietâand all of them stepped up to help, many donating their own clothes and blankets.
And then he did something I tend to refer to as diverting all power from life support.
Hereâs the thing about steamships: They run on steam. Shocking, I know; but that steam powers everything on the ship, and right now, Carpathia needed power. So Rostron turned off hot water and central heating, which bled valuable steam power, to everywhere but the dining roomsâwhich, of course, were being used to make hot drinks and receive survivors. He woke up all the engineers, all the stokers and firemen, diverted all that steam back into the engines, and asked his ship to go as fast as she possibly could. And when sheâd done that, he asked her to go faster.
I need you to understand that you simply canât push a ship very far past its top speed. Pushing that much sheer tonnage through the water becomes harder with each extra knot past the speed it was designed for. Pushing a ship past its rated speed is not only recklessâitâs difficult to maneuverâbut it puts an incredible amount of strain on the engines. Ships are not designed to exceed their top speed by even one knot. They canât do it. It canât be done.
Carpathiaâs absolute do-or-die, the-engines-canât-take-this-forever top speed was fourteen knots. Dodging icebergs, in the dark and the cold, surrounded by mist, she sustained a speed of almost seventeen and a half.
No one would have asked this of them. It wasnât expected. They were almost sixty miles away, with icebergs in their path. They had a responsibility to respond; they did not have a responsibility to do the impossible and do it well. No one would have faulted them for taking more time to confirm the severity of the issue. No one would have blamed them for a slow and cautious approach. No one but themselves.
They damn near broke the laws of physics, galloping north headlong into the dark in the desperate hope that if they could shave an hour, half an hour, five minutes off their arrival time, maybe for one more person those five minutes would make the difference. I say: three people had died by the time they were lifted from the lifeboats. For all we know, in another hour it might have been more. I say they made all the difference in the world.
This ship and her crew received a message from a location they could not hope to reach in under four hours. Just barely over three hours later, they arrived at Titanicâs last known coordinates. Half an hour after that, at 4am, they would finally find the first of the lifeboats. it would take until 8:30 in the morning for the last survivor to be brought onboard. Passengers from Carpathia universally gave up their berths, staterooms, and clothing to the survivors, assisting the crew at every turn and sitting with the sobbing rescuees to offer whatever comfort they could.
In total, 705 people of Titanicâs original 2208 were brought onto Carpathia alive. No other ship would find survivors.
At 12:20am April 15th, 1912, there was a miracle on the North Atlantic. And it happened because a group of humans, some of them strangers, many of them only passengers on a small and unimpressive steam liner, looked at each other and decided: I cannot live with myself if I do anything less.
I think the least we can do is remember them for it.
someone described the locked tomb to me and i think i got everything
the "came back wrong" trope except like... they didnt. like this mad scientists wife died, and so he studied necromancy, brought her back, and she came back and it all worked. like she came back exactly the same as she was before with literally no difference. but the scientist guy is like "oh no... what have i done.... shes Different now!!!! she came back Wrong!!!!" and shes just like. chilling. reading a book. cooking dinner. shes just so so normal but in the guys mind hes like "oh shes soooo weird" but shes just normal
Peer reviewed tags from @somanyofthekids
NO its a JOKE and YOU DONT GET IT. ITS NOT THAT DEEP
While she was dead he put his memory of her on such a high pedestal that she could never live up to it alive
alternativelyâ she came back perfectly fine but he thinks she came back wrongâ because the tragic reality is that he never actually knew his wife
im going INSANE thats MY POST.
It's your post but the journey to posting it changed it to such a degree that even its closest intimacies are now foreign to you. Sorry dude.
Now THIS is art. đ
âWhen I first saw the original painting, I began to do some research on that little boy. I could find everything I wanted about every other detail in the painting, but there was nothing about him. No history. And so I wanted to find a way to imagine a life for this young man that the historical painting had never made space for in the composition: his desires, dreams, family, thoughts, hopes. Those things were never subjects that the original artist wanted the viewer to contemplate. In order to reframe the discussion, I decided to physically take action to quiet [and crumple] the side of the painting that weâve been talking about for a very long time and turn up the volume on this kidâs story. And thatâs the reason why I started that painting.â Via Artnet News 2019/03/27
We are literally on a floating rock. A speck to the greater universe, but some stupid old men need to make our short lives on our only planet a living hell what the fuck
if something fundamental in me wasnât missing i would be so fun to be around
"You learn to drink like you shoot â slow, silent, and with the memory of every man you didn't miss sat right alongside you. The bullet wounds heal cleaner than the ones in your head - they spider out like shattered glass." â Sgt. Elias Marrick, Broken Scope (1967)
I wonder if Harrow recognized the affection she had for Gideon before Canaan house. Like every time she thwarted Gideonâs escape, did she truly believe she was doing it just to hold onto her human punching bag? Or at a certain point did she realize that Gideon was the closest thing she had to a friend, and that she couldnât bear to let her go. Do you think she hated Gideon more for how much she loved her, in spite of herself? I think it mustâve kept her up at night, thinking about Gideon and all the things she couldnât undo
Sebastian Moran and the Ghosts Who Still Call Him âSargeâ.
Sebastian doesnât talk much about his old squad. Not out of secrecy , like with most things , but out of respect. Out of the kind of bone-deep loyalty that doesnât stop just because someoneâs gone. Youâll never catch him bragging about campaigns or telling war stories to impress anyone , at least not when he's good and sober. When he mentions âthe lads,â itâs brief, quiet, and usually followed by a silence that doesnât invite questions from any onlookers.
He loved them all , thatâs the simplest truth. In his own hard, understated way. The military turned camaraderie into survival, and for a man like Sebastian , who never really fit anywhere before or after , that was as close to family as he ever got - his own flesh and blood included. They were his people, his proof that he could belong to something bigger than his own damage.
He wasnât the loud one, or the funny one, or even the most likeable but he was the constant. The one who made sure everyone ate, drank water, packed right, and kept their kit clean. He barked orders, swore too much, and acted like he didnât care, but every single one of them knew: Moran would walk into hell for them without hesitation.
And he did, more than once.
He remembers them like flashes; sand in his socks, lingering smell of gun oil, someoneâs laugh cutting through the static of the radio. Thereâs one who hummed grating pop songs when they were waiting on orders; another who always borrowed his lighter and conveniently forgot to return it. There was the youngest - barely twenty one - who looked at him like he could fix anything.
Theyâre gone now, most of them. Accidents, bad missions, time. Sebastian doesnât say their names, but he keeps them alive in rituals: the way he cleans his rifle even when he doesnât need to. The way he never lets his boots go unpolished. The way he still uses the same call sign as a password on his laptop. These are small acts of remembrance, disguised as boring habits.
His attachment to his squadmates is entwined with the sting of survivorâs guilt. But thereâs a tenderness in it, too. A sort of reverence. He feels responsible - not just for the ones he lost, but for the ones who lived and eventually broke anyway. He keeps tabs on them, quietly, through the networks no one talks about. Sends money under fake names when someoneâs struggling. Never signs the messages, but they know.
He doesnât attend Remembrance Day ceremonies. He canât. The crowds, the speeches; it's far too polished and perfect in its procession for him. Instead, he goes early in the morning, before anyoneâs there or the damp fog has lifted from the autumnal streets, and leaves a flask and a crumpled cigarette at the base of the memorial. Says nothing. Just stands there until the light changes. Then walks away.
He doesnât like to admit it, but his dogs helped fill the silence. The discipline of feeding, training, protecting; it mimics command, a kind of care he understands. When they curl up beside him, itâs the same steady weight he once felt in the back of a transport truck - the warmth of knowing someoneâs got your flank.
What hurts most isnât that they died - that much is expected to some degree - itâs that he didnât. He was the one who made it out, the one who kept breathing, and heâs never really figured out what to do with that unwanted gift. Thereâs a photo in a drawer somewhere; him and the lads, filthy, grinning, sunburnt to hell. He doesnât look at it often, but when he does, he touches the edges like it might burn.
He never stopped being their sergeant.
Even now, he checks exits, keeps his back to the wall, scans crowds for danger. Thatâs not always paranoia: sometimes it's protection. The instinct of a man who spent years making sure everyone else got out.
And the cruel, quiet truth?
He still half-expects to hear one of their voices behind him. The banter, the laughter, the âSarge, youâre up too early.â when he's staring down the rising sun.
But itâs never there. Just the hum of the city and his own heartbeat.
He drinks to them sometimes. Never says âcheers.â Just raises the glass, a small nod. Because grief like that doesnât fade, it just gets folded into the rhythm of living.
Sebastian Moran doesnât talk about his squad.
He lives like theyâre still watching.
And in a way, maybe thatâs how he keeps them alive; one disciplined breath, one scarred hand, one quiet act of loyalty at a time.
Art done by Isabella Watling, shared by Rian Johnson