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My vision is augmented. My sense of humour is not. My emo is to the extremo.

[soulren]

“Ghosts are real” I can see how you could believe that

“Ghosts aren’t real” it’s very fair and rational that you believe that

“Ghosts aren’t real anymore” I’m about to hear a poem or very sad story

“Ghosts aren’t real yet” the fuck are you going to do

[sosuperawesome]

ohwelladays on Instagram

[opinionscanbewrong]

Princess Mononoke Script (Part One)

Keep reading

[anam-mana]

It fascinates me that Alistair gets lumped in with the “Chantry Boys” in discussions about Dragon Age Archetypes because it’s just. Very untrue. But it’s an idea the text actually pushes you to connect with in a way I think is purposeful.

This guy introduces us to the lore of the Blight by asking if we want “the chantry version or the truth.” If we ask if they’re not the same thing he smirks and says with some attitude “they rarely are.”

He sums up his religious beliefs saying he’s “not especially” Andrastian, and that “believes in the Maker well enough.”

He’s actually LESS religious than Zevran, who describes himself as fully Andrastian with a regular prayer routine in optional conversation branches.

The things that people use to categorize Alistair’s supposed “Chantry Boy” boy status all have non-religious motivations.

For example, the big one, his virginity, is because 1. He’s nervous around women, which is the gender he finds most attractive 2. He’s actually the youngest Party Member, being freshly 20 years old. 3. And most importantly, he correlates sex with love and was brought up to see them as requiring the other and so feels uncomfortable having sex without what he sees as “true love.” And he just hasn’t been in love yet.

Another example would be his reaction to the Urn of Sacred Ashes. He reacts with wonder akin to Leliana where many others react with a contrasting blasee attitude. Even the Andrastian Zevran.

But you gotta read between the lines here. Zevran doesn’t hold remains as sacred. He’s an assassin. So his prophet’s body is in that urn. It’s a body. The least remarkable and most mundane, perhaps even the hardest to swallow, thing she could ever be to Zevran is a corpse. Kinda takes the wonder out of faith for an assassin if she dies and rests just like any one else.

But Alistair is fascinated, in awe. 1, probably because the Chantry he doubts so much now has some kinda proof that something they said was true, unlike what he previously believed. 2, Alistair is WAY more patriotic than he is religious and we gotta remember that the Fereldans pride themselves on Alamari heritage, and Andraste was probably the most powerful and influential Alamari person to ever live. 3, he’s actually a giant history buff. He info dumps history on you often, with the memorized readings of whatever question you ask. If asked about the King and Loghain before the betrayal at Ostagar, he shows respect for Loghain’s service in the War for Independance, and knowledge of his tactics. And when speaking about his time in training with the chantry as a child, he says the education was actually what he liked most. And a lot of his gifts are things like replica soldiers, Fereldan historical things, maps, (along with his interest in magical artifacts but that’s for another day.) etc. Given his patriotism and love of learning history, yeah, the Urn is a big deal to him.

I have more things I could say, but really, I just find Alistair to be one of the most misrepresented by fandom characters. His character has a TON of subtext that challenges you to look beyond what others represent him as and the low opinion he holds of himself.

The perception of him as Andrastian and devout is one pushed on him by people like Morrigan (and others to some degree) who fights Alistair more like a straw man representing society than she engages with him as himself. She sees him as a Templar even though he left the order specifically because they abused him And he fundamentally disagreed with their practices, The Harrowing specifically being what pushed him to fight to leave.

There are, textually, two ways to interpret Alistair. Through face value aesthetics and symbolism pointing to association with the Chantry and by observing other’s opinion of him. Or through actually listening to what he says and watching what he does.

And it’s just interesting to me that a lot of people get caught in the trap of what he represents aesthetically rather than who he is.

[juubli]

I’m about to beat the game for the second time and I’m still completely taken by #Astarion’s arc. 🥺

Wish there was even more back ground lore exploring the characters lives before the events of the game.

This is how I imagine Astarion spends his night in the city before getting tadpoled and finding a moment of respite.

I made this one available as a print if people are interested!

https://www.inprnt.com/gallery/jasminel/astarions-night-in-baldurs-gate/

[namig42]

I absolutely adore this piece, so much so I bought a print to hang in my office and stare at everyday. I ended up staring at it and being inspired to write a short one shot, so please enjoy my take on Astarion's last night in the city before being taken by the nautiloid.

Last Night in Baldur's Gate

Read it on Ao3 too!

Another night in the streets of the Lower City. Lights flickered in windows, conversations over dinner in homes and in taverns rang through open windows, and the streets were quite empty save for one person: a beautiful white-haired elf that made the moon pale in comparison.

That’s how Astarion would describe himself, at least, as he strolled through the streets.

It was another ordinary evening for the people of Baldur’s Gate, all except for the one unfortunate soul that would face a tragic end at the hands of Astarion’s charms tonight. Astarion was on another hunt for Cazador, expected to bring some unlucky wretch back to the Szarr palace before dawn. If Astarion didn’t… well, he preferred not to think about the nights where he came home alone. Days left in the kennel and the screams that rang from him while Godey, that damned undead psychopath, laughed that shrill, raspy laugh of his…

Astarion would not fail tonight. He would bring home some drunk that fondled his perfect body, then fall asleep in the dormitory, curling in on himself and being glad that the worst thing he faced tonight was an unwanted touch. Just as long as it wasn’t Cazador’s touch, he would be grateful.

200 years of torment as a vampire spawn under Cazador’s thumb, that was how long Astarion had lived so far, and every day he had to bury the hope that something may change, that some stroke of luck or work of a god would give him a chance at freedom. Unfortunately, none of his prayers were ever answered, and so he buried any sense of hope down in order to endure his reality. Freedom was not something he expected anymore. The closest he had to it now was nights like this one, when he left the palace on a hunt and had that brief moment alone to himself as he strolled the streets, heading to wherever his destination was that evening. He often took the long route to wherever he planned to go, each step slow and lingering as he enjoyed the brief moment he had to himself. Cazador’s command to obey and bring him a victim was always present, even in those moments alone, but this was the only time Astarion could push away the compulsions and pretend to be something more. Someone that wasn’t a slave. Someone that just so happened to enjoy moonlit strolls and savoring the dark purple sky that shined with stars above their home.

Tonight, Astarion planned to hunt at the Blushing Mermaid. It had been some time since he had brought home a sailor, and so less people were likely to recognize him from his last visit. What was more important to him though was that he got to walk through the square at the base of the Lower City wall on his way to the salty saloon, the one where Sorcerer’s Sundries sat with its beautiful stained glass roofs. 

Astarion enjoyed passing through this square in the evening and savoring the sights of it all; the dim lanterns that lit the fountain in the center of the square, the faint glow inside those stained glass domes on the magical store that revealed stunning, vivid colors like the flowers found in the daytime in a fine garden, and the view of the ocean that could be seen looking down the few avenues that were connected to the square sparkling from the moonlight. It was a truly beautiful part of the city.

He couldn’t take the time though to sit and enjoy the silence of the empty streets or the faint light illuminating the colors of the stained glass that one could see easily during the day. His body physically wouldn’t let him rest until he made it to a tavern due to Cazador’s commands. However, he could still linger. He could take his sweet time with each individual step, savoring the surroundings and enjoying the false sense of autonomy that he had while alone here. For the brief moment where he stood in the square, Astarion could pretend that he belonged to no one but himself and the night sky. Then, after a moment of stillness, he began walking once more because he had to, not out of any desire to leave this momentary peace that he had managed to find.

For the last 200 years, Astarion’s mind wasn’t his own, and neither was his body. He had no say in what his life had become. Everything he was, everything he had been, it all belonged to Cazador. It was molded by his master, and every day was a reminder that nothing but an act from the gods would free him from this curse. From the day he rose out of his own grave, he belonged to Cazador, and every night like this one, his body belonged to whatever conquest he lured home. Then, before Astarion had any chance to reclaim any sense of self during the encounter with his target, Cazador would always come back to reclaim his precious spawn and whatever prize it managed to drag back to that gaudy boudoir.

But the moments like this, here in the square, under the moonlight, savoring the sounds and the sights of it all, he could almost pretend that he had some sense of control of his life. If he could still manage to appreciate something beautiful in this accursed world, then he had not given in to Cazador. No matter how many times his spirit was broken by the bastard, Astarion would never allow his master to take complete control. He refused to completely break under Cazador’s grip. Sometimes, he thought that maybe he had already been broken, sometimes even more than once. It had been so long since his mortal life that he couldn’t remember anything before the hell Cazador trapped him in. He may have had no memories of what he had been like before being turned, but Astarion, whatever version of himself he was now, still managed to be defiant despite all that he had suffered. It often worked against him though, making him Cazador’s favorite toy to punish. Still, it was better than being the perfect pet like Leon or Violet. The thought of serving the monster like the perfect dog filled Astarion with disgust.

No, this was the hell he chose. If he was to suffer through it, he would do it on his own terms, or at least as much as Cazador’s compulsions would allow.

As he walked past the square and down the street leading to the Mermaid, Astarion’s skin began to crawl. Seeing the glowing entrance to the tavern was a reminder of what he was out here to do. Any sense of pretending disappeared the closer he stepped to the door. He sighed, staring at the moon one final time and cursing Selune for her lack of help all these years before making his way inside, ready to be a tool once again.

Wouldn’t he know it though that tonight, on his way back to the palace with a drunken fisherman, a new hope would show itself in the form of a tadpole.

[juubli]

You’re amazing!!! This is so cool in written form! I always have had a hard time articulating my thoughts in writing and you wrote the feeling I was trying to capture perfectly!! Thank you

[convelocity]

It's Tara. Of Waterdeep.

[prinnay]

Mercury☆

[staaaaaaaaaa]

Seungmin x Chaumet

[hyunpic]

hyunjin — skz code ep. 69 [the ultimate skz code recap #1]

[wolfchans]

STRAY KIDS ♡ SKZ 5'CLOCK (250216) translation credit

[250318]

[yougetsu]

Day 13 - Song that makes you emotional

Coyote and Kodou are top on my list, but since I’ve already mentioned them. I will talk about 螺旋虫 because it has a beautiful imagery and symbolism, I feel it as a threshold to other world. And It contrasts the happiness that should be felt in a place like an amusement park with the nostalgia and loneliness that sometimes inherently unfold from us. A scene that can work as a metaphor for different life experiences. Besides, the recurring elements in Sakurai’s lyrics like the night, the moon, stars, never fail to capturate me. 

The lyrics fit with sound and atmosphere of the song so well. 

I tend to connect  螺旋虫 with Luna Park, Yokan and Yume (probably, I’ll approach those two in future posts) because they share similar imagery. Love them all.

As usual, I have to mention more because they carry a personal meaning:

月下麗人

Illusion

太陽に殺された

禁じられた遊び -ADULT CHILDREN-

無題

[mudkipful]

CAN YOU DRAW LITTLE BLOOKY PLS YOUR BLOG IS SOO CUTE AAAAAAAAAAWWWWW

0′:

[cyberpunkes]

LEE JOO YOUNG photographed for ACE FACTORY | JUNE 2022

[half]

lee joo young (이주영) ⌁ harper’s bazaar ‘20/03

[half]

lee joo young (이주영) ⌁ elle ‘20/07

[hellyesjohnsteinbeck]

Commonly misquoted:

“Socialism never took root in America because the poor see themselves not as an exploited proletariat, but as temporarily embarrassed millionaires.”

As quoted in A Short History of Progress (2005) by Ronald Wright, p. 124; though this has since been cited as a direct quote by some, the remark may simply be a paraphrase, as no quotation marks appear around the statement and earlier publication of this phrasing have not been located.

This is likely an incorrect quote from America & Americans, 1966:

“Except for the field organizers of strikes, who were pretty tough monkeys and devoted, most of the so-called Communists I met were middle-class, middle-aged people playing a game of dreams. I remember a woman in easy circumstances saying to another even more affluent: ‘After the revolution even we will have more, won’t we, dear?’ Then there was another lover of proletarians who used to raise hell with Sunday picknickers on her property. "I guess the trouble was that we didn’t have any self-admitted proletarians. Everyone was a temporarily embarrassed capitalist. Maybe the Communists so closely questioned by the investigation committees were a danger to America, but the ones I knew—at least they claimed to be Communists—couldn’t have disrupted a Sunday-school picnic. Besides they were too busy fighting among themselves.” (source: Wikiquote)