[scalierpepper]

I got commissioned to paint griddlehark imagined as a classic romance novel cover, which needless to say is one of the greatest commissions of all time and I had an absolute blast.

Per the commissioner's request, I've also uploaded this art to INPRNT (link here).

Art without typography and a mock-up for fun under the cut!

[averagefairy]

being at work while your personal life is falling apart has to be among the top 3 worst human experiences. You’re at your absolute lowest and someone wants to circle back on an email…… unreal

[lifetooshortlovetoolong]

Nona as a character is so fascinating to me when you consider her as a foil to Alecto’s history. Because, when you get down to it, Alecto was Nona all those thousands of years ago.

Consider Alecto, who rose from the shattered remains of the Earth, whose body was new and massive and unwieldy, who only existed because of her creator’s cosmic overindulgence and still knew love. Love!! Knew it so well that she chose it, even to her detriment, every single time. In response, the world around her —the Lyctors especially— rejected her for it because they saw her devotion as stupidity. And Jod, who claims to love her, locked her away, entombing her because he saw his love as a weapon to be used against him. And from what we see of Alecto when she’s awake in the Locked Tomb (especially when she bites Harrow) she’s grown sharper and crueler because of these rejections.

Similarly, Nona, having been slammed into a body that was not hers, with no memory and no faculties ALSO chooses unyielding love. But where Jod and his disciples rejected such “foolishness,” Cam, Pal, Pyhrra, and Nona’s Gang all accept it with open arms. They plan a birthday party for her and make silly jokes and check in on her and always say “I love you” back. They spend every day nurturing her the best they can.

Even in Nona’s final moments, these people tell her, “we love you. We will always love and remember you. That’s what matters.” And that’s what gives Nona the strength to make it to the Body, to do an act so terrible it will erase her. She does it because she is loved.

And now Alecto lives, ancient, undying, and so unloved.

[mortimermcmirestinks]

recommending The Locked Tomb to people is so funny because like okay bear with me. the first book is like this cool adventure sci-fi fantasy story about these two extremely intense lesbians from Pluto who hate each other, right. reading this first book, if it works properly, will make you 100% obsessed with the intense and deep interpersonal dynamic between these two specific people in this specific location with this specific supporting cast. anyway the moment the first book in the series ends you're never seeing any of that shit again ever

[hark-the-harrow]

I love that each book is completely unique, my favorite moments from gtn are so dramatically different from htn and ntn. Muir isn't repeating the same formula it's an entirely new and fucked up equation each time.

[bloodbroox]

when she’s emotionally unavailable AND a lesbian

[smvj57erkx]

Statue of Joan of Arc (Jeanne d'Arc) Museum Rouen, 📍Paris

[incorrect-house-of-nine]

I honest to god thought this was Cam with Giddy's sword for a hot sec until i scrolled further. n I was like Damn. the tlt artists be wildin

[sprainedankle15]

tamsyn wrote, "and then they kissed" after every homoerotic griddlehark scene and then laughed and deleted it

[mjec]

she basically said this on a panel

[frankiedowntherabbithole]

You saved yourself. I would think that is the most important adventure of all.

Seanan McGuire, Adrift in Currents clean and clear

[sonacava]

my first ever harrow 🤲

[snailsandpuppy-dogtails]

Penelope Garcia : You should worship at my throne, Luke Alvez.

Luke Alvez : Oh, but I do! I do! You know I do. Is it like this, Luke?

Is this it?

I bet it's like this.

Psst, Luke Alvez has a replica of Stephan Sinding's 'Adoration' in his apartment and it reminds him of Penelope Garcia. Pass it on.

[darcyfangirlsfrequently]

Penelope: I have decided that I am, in fact, a snack, it's just that no one is hungry

Luke: *under his breath* I'm starving

[slightly-awkward-sunshine]

‘God of Arepo’ Fan-made graphic novel part three (End) 

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Read the Original Story Here

[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 be 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.”

[alphacrone]

harrowhark nonagesimus is one of the closest we've ever come to a real tumblr sexywoman. mean little catholic rat lesbian and everyone wants to fuck her????? inexplicably?????

[aegnor29]

[transfemininomenon]

the princess bride is exactly what a dnd campaign would look like as a movie like? the delightfully weird cast of characters with their own quirks, the strange pacing and narrative that still Works, the absolute absurdity of it all, the jumping back and forth between wanting to be serious and it being really funny, hell its even Told like a dnd story through the use of the grandfather being the one telling the story

what a fantastic fucking movie

[transfemininomenon]

also like the character backstories are SUCH dnd backgrounds like? “im out for revenge for my father who was killed by a guy with six fingers on one of his hands” “i bumped into a band of pirates and their leader liked me so much he ended up having me take on his title to retire”

that is the Exact shit that people come up with for dnd characters

[transfemininomenon]

DM: having narrowly escaped Humperdinck, you find yourselves in the dangerous Fire Swamps

Westley: do I know anything about this area? Any danger?

DM: roll a history check

Westley: 15

DM: you know of rumors of giant rats in the swamps, as well as quick sand

Westley: what do I know about the giant rats?

DM: roll nature

Westley: [nat 1] …… rodents of unusual size? I don’t think they exist

DM: hey what’s your passive perception-

[date-a-jew-suggestions]

If you would report an undocumented immigrant to ICE you would have reported me to the Nazis and I don’t fucking trust you

[prismatic-bell]

A note:

I live in a state where you “have to” report anyone you suspect of being undocumented (that wonderful hellhole of Arizona). Now in practice this law has fallen far short, thank goodness. But if you live in such a place and they start enforcing it, here is how you get around it:

Assume everyone who doesn’t speak English is visiting.

Never ask about their job, because if they tell you they work here then you know they’re not visiting. You see them a lot for several weeks or months? Hm. Someone in the family must be ill. That’s terribly tough. They always dress in old, ratty laborers’ clothes? I feel you, my dude, I can’t afford new clothes either, and my dad has the fashion sense of an aardvark, so sometimes it’s not even about “affording” them. They say they’ve been here for years? You must have misunderstood. Spanish isn’t your first language, after all. First and last name? It never came up, or you don’t recall–you meet a lot of people.

And then, if you’re asked: no, you haven’t seen anyone residing illegally in the United States. Just people visiting.

[date-a-jew-suggestions]

Very good very important addition