❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Keni
JVL
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Three Goblin Art
Product Placement
art blog(derogatory)
noise dept.
styofa doing anything
trying on a metaphor
@theartofmadeline
todays bird
tannertan36
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Cosmic Funnies
Kiana Khansmith
Misplaced Lens Cap
Show & Tell
★
Stranger Things
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Morocco
seen from France
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Rwanda
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Indonesia
seen from Ukraine
seen from Malaysia
seen from Belgium
@ironyrebels-blog
I apologize for my absence! I’ve been playing Fire Emblem and it has all the good ingredients to make me binge. I have like 7 chapters to go and a few extra things to do tho so I should have it done tomorrow?? Hopefully. By Sunday I’ll be active again.
your page says he likes st agatha best, but why? isn't her struggle more catered to women?
You would be right!! She’s also the saint of bells and putting out fires along with what you’re implying (it won’t be mentioned here bc it’s potentially triggering).Whether specific saints existed or not, there are instances where pagan gods had their identities associated and eventually assimilated with Christian characters. St. Agatha is the Catholic face of the goddess of home and hearth, of fire, Gabija. This was the goddess who blessed him when he was very young, that he was able to see up until he learned to read and the faith of his people began to change. He also relates to having an important part of who he is imprisoned, mutilated and disrespected. Sometimes all you can do is persevere through the storm until either circumstance or god releases you.
I would always rather be happy than dignified.
Charlotte Brontë , Jane Eyre (via wordsnquotes)
Old garden urne
I was too young to know how to love her.
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince (via wordsnquotes)
“You know, I still don’t understand the purpose of celebrating a birthday. Throwing a party for each time the Earth has completed a full rotation around the sun since you’ve left your mother’s womb… Is that really so fascinating?”
“I wouldn’t know…”
“I take it that you’re someone who doesn’t have to think of time.” he smiles a little, obviously endeared by the concept.
“They also use it as an excuse to celebrate each other and their friendships.”
mėnulis festivalis// mirajane
They find her washed up on the riverbank, and call her a spirit, a daughter of Menuo. Her hair is white, beautiful, and while the language barrier is nigh unbreakable they remain friendly and do their best to cater to her needs. The village is small but lively, with a horizon of the sea to the north and framed otherwise by forest. It's chilly with light snowfall, but the women provide her with skins and a fire. The men offer her a drink that warms and tastes like honey. They make gestures at the sky, outlining a large circle before pointing to her hair. They speak of the moon, pour their drinks into clay pots shaped like crescents, offer bread and animal parts to a masculine totem they've created out of clay.
They seem to be preparing for something.
Nearly three days have passed. He is boyishly handsome, with strong shoulders and soft eyes. The older women seem excited when he approaches Mirajane, but he's never too pushy despite their urging. He brings her wreathes of flowers, a dress his mother made for her, a necklace of amber and sea shells. Sometimes his younger sister will accompany him, trying her best to chatter Mirajane's ear off, pulling her this way and that. If she attempts to leave they will let her, but insist that someone soon coming will be able to help. They draw her star calendars in the earth, point to what was presumably that specific day and then to something less than a week away.
It's like a dream. Who knows where the instruments came from, but they're played joyously. A huge fire is lit, and a strange ash is thrown in that makes it change colors. Evening draws nearer, and the fire more brilliant. It is fed the roasted game and beer they dine on along with fresh branches. Oranges are peeled and set into recognizable and not-so-recognizable shapes on platters, served with cool water from the nearest river. He comes to her one last time, hand outstretched; he points to the people dancing around the fire, giggling and perhaps a little drunk, but very happy. He seems sober enough himself, and his eyes ask shyly if she would join him.
@modestumdaemonium
トーリス Pixiv ID: 5094696 Member: NekoiF （NF）
This official picture alone should be enough to say: No! Russia and Poland push him over the edgeplenty of times. There’s a reason Lithuania tells Prussia “Russia loves guys who laugh and cry easily.”
[ anon ]
phantasmagoria //wd gaster
Voices. Their source remains undetermined by the casual observer, highlighted only by flashes of light, familiar smells, silhouettes and--at times--distinct memories that were easily associated with each being. This place doesn’t feel real; maybe you ate something you weren’t supposed to.
“Well, the creature isn’t mine, and those to the North won’t claim it.” a shadow, a thief in the night, suddenly the sound of a creaking house. There’s an irked cackling that follows, ominous and drawing forth a childish fear of the dark.
“Quiet, Rugutis. It makes mentions of a ‘Hive’--Bubilas?” The smell of beasts, old hay, a figure carrying a massive, horned creature over its shoulder.
“I’ve already cleared that up. None of the Mothers know it. Have you asked the East?” warmth, buzzing, the taste of honey. Its voice is soft but regal, charming respect from those who hear. Home.
“They say it must come from some cave called Hades in the warmer South. I must admit, it looks like one of Giltine’s servants-”
“SILENCE!” lightning; being pulled apart by wind, ships crashing into waves. This voice is unmistakably masculine, and becomes the most demanding, clear presence in the void. A goat trots past, headbutting whatever part if you it can reach before disappearing.
There is a period of quiet after the squabbling begrudgingly fades; storm clouds open, and suddenly light pours forth. It mutes all else. You’re left with a fire before you, crackling and alive with color. Looking elsewhere results in discomfort and even blindness, as everything beyond has become white.
A newborn’s screams. Arrogance, feeling lost. ‘Why does one exist?’
“What say you, then?”
The fire flickers, host to the only voice present now.
“You are no human, and no ember of mine. You are allowed one last plea; I will decide then what is to be done with you.”
@scirephysica
give the trees names and they will protect you
(approaches random tree) punch that bastard for me, krunglefuck 9600. punch him real good
I will always feel things more fiercely than anyone or anything ever could under every circumstance. I am a soft soul with a hard, motivating intention. Test me.
thealienminded (via wordsnquotes)
not quite the round table
❝One have I seen - that other, our liege lord, The dread Pendragon, Britain’s king of kings, Of whom the people talk mysteriously, He will be there - then were I stricken blind That minute, I might say that I had seen.❞
Arthur flipped to the next page, letting out a contented sigh. Really, when he first entered the store, his mind had been on books of strategy, battle tactics - even magic, perhaps. All ways that would be of possible use in an attempt to leave this city and return home. One title, however, had led to another, and he had to admit that, while unhelpful for creating an escape scheme, rereading an old favourite was certainly helping in its calming effects. In fact, with the increasingly apparent reality that this city was too powerful to let them go as they pleased, perhaps this was even a more fruitful way of reconnecting with his homeland than any research could ever be. Ignoring the slightly pessimistic thought, he turned the page again.
So immersed in the story was he that even the dull sounds of books being dropped in his vicinity - usually a strong enough noise to catch any war-weary Nation’s attention - didn’t alert him. It was only when he heard his name spoken by a nearby voice (though one that he couldn’t exactly claim to have heard often enough to call ‘familiar’) that Arthur looked up.
Huh.
When he had first seen Alfred in this city, he had been… well, primarily shocked, but there was also an undeniably strong sense of relief at seeing a familiar face amidst a strange situation. And then there was meeting Francis, which really wasn’t as surprising as he later thought it should’ve been. But seeing the Lithuanian Nation was different - for starters, he didn’t know the man all that well, and there was something just a bit more surreal about meeting him somewhere like this, instead of in a conference of some sort. Arthur paused, blinking for a few seconds in a manner that could be construed as surprise, when really he was just trying to match a name to the face that had appeared before him.
“Ah, not at all… Toris, was it?” Hopefully the other didn’t think too much into the hesitance; situations like this were only embarrassing for both parties. He looked around slightly, mindful they were not only in public but also a quiet bookstore, before continuing in a lowered voice, “I… I didn’t think you’d be here as well.”
Though it likely wasn't masked to begin with, the hesitation isn't lost on Toris. Living underneath Ivan's thumb taught one to catch most subtle non-verbal responses, mostly because he often said one thing but meant something totally different. Or worse, he said one thing— and meant it—only to decide later that his mind had changed. He has to agree that this isn't the time or place too, because he couldn't exactly blame someone like Arthur for the courtesy and his own mild-mannered persona wasn't all farce. Toris knew how to pick his battles, and those meant to sate his pride weren't worth the trouble. He also didn't want to make trouble for the cashier; they seemed very nice.
Despite his low expectations, it makes him pretty happy when the name is remembered. Toris smiles gently and takes a seat across from him. He opens the sizable tome on the plant district's treasures, leaving the other two neatly stacked to his right.
“I can't say I expected to see any of us here.” the statement is quiet but firm, intended to iterate the fact that he was just as likely as any of them to have been relocated. It wasn't exactly a privilege to guard and he may have misread the other's tone, but it was a decent enough counter to such a strange observation.
“U-Unless you meant here—in a place like this, I mean. It's quiet, and reading is a good way to pass time otherwise left idle.” nostrils flare and his attention is suddenly caught on the spine of the book Arthur is reading. Was that...no, it was. Lord Tennyson, even. He beams a little bit at such a surprise.
“I remember I didn't like how Vivien was written very much in that one—did you ever know the author?” he can’t help but ask, green eyes bright with a giddy interest he was trying very hard to tone down.
“Young people supporting each other in love...how cute.”
I don’t want a never ending life. I just want to be alive while I’m here.
The Strumbellas, Spirits (via wnq-writers)
