The best notes written in manuscripts by medieval monks
Colophon: a statement at the end of a book containing the scribe or ownerâs name, date of completion, or bitching about how hard it is to write a book in the dark ages
Oh, my hand
The parchment is very hairy
Thank God it will soon be dark
St. Patrick of Armagh, deliver me from writing
Now Iâve written the whole thing; for Christâs sake give me a drink
Oh d fuckin abbot
Massive hangover
Whoever translated these Gospels did a very poor job
Cursed be the pesty cat that urinated over this book during the night
If someone else would like such a handsome book, come and look me up in Paris, across from the Notre Dame cathedral
I shall remember, O Christ, that I am writing of Thee, because I am wrecked today
Do not reproach me concerning the letters, the ink is bad and the parchment scanty and the day is dark
11 golden letters, 8 shilling each; 700 letters with double shafts, 7 shilling for each hundred; and 35 quires of text, each 16 leaves, at 3 shilling each. For such an amount I wonât write again
Here ends the second part of the title work of Brother Thomas Aquinas of the Dominican Order; very long, very verbose; and very tedious for the scribe; thank God, thank God, and again thank God
If anyone take away this book, let him die the death, let him be fried in a pan; let the falling sickness and fever seize him; let him be broken on the wheel, and hanged. Amen
an abbot is the head of a monastery so it just means âfuck my bossâ basically, an abbreviation of âO damned fuckin Abbotâ. this is what it looks like:
getting lost in boston is fun because I turned around on a street corner three times and some guy yelled "hey stupid! the bus is that way!" very helpful interaction and accurate insult, 10/10 no notes
one time I walked around a building a couple times looking for a bathroom and this guy went "this bitch thinks she's on a merrygoround, where the fuck are you tryna go? bathroom? one floor down to the right behind the door that says bathroom."
My very first time in Boston. I was absolutely miserable, trying to drag my giant suitcase up a lengthy set of stairs in the pouring rain. This guy who had already reached the top looked back at me with the most pure expression of disgust Iâve ever seen in anyoneâs eyes, marched back down the stairs, grabbed my suitcase, carried it to the top, left it there for me, and walked away without ever saying a word. I think about him often.
For the people in the notes going "why is Boston like this": a) the insults are a way to show you have no ulterior motives when helping someone (and don't need to be thanked or repaid), and b) Boston was settled by the Irish
also the Italians. mixing Irish and Italian sociocultural attitudes had the effect of multiplying the Sass Levels by the power of infinity, in the sense that you get all of the clever dry wit of the Irish and all of the bitchy gossipy condensation of the Italians rolled into one very stereotypically overly-friendly American package.
also worth noting that who you are to them doesnât matter. theyâll talk to strangers like that and will also talk to their best friends like that. theyâre just Like That.
I have seen a lot of muttering about if shipping these characters is appropriate, namely the confusion around Hornet calling Lace âchildâ.
The short version: yeah itâs probably fine.
The long version: Team Cherry inserted that change in dialogue as part of an arc that tells us several things about Hornetâs character.
First thing: Hornet is OLD. She is older than most NPCs in either of the games. She has outlived several lovers. And yet she is still easily mistaken to be a âchildâ herself, probably having the appearance of an elder teen/young adult. Hornet gives every sign of being isolated by her own longevity as well as the various tragedies surrounding her.
Second thing: Hornet has a rather proud and imperious manner to her. She does not like being patronized to. Pharloom is largely preoccupied with Hornetâs maternal/Weaver heritage, but Lace does not seem aware that Hornet is also a half-wyrm demigod. Thus the two characters have an ego clash wherein they both perceive the other as naive and in over her head (and they are both simultaneously right and wrong!).
Third (most interesting imo) thing: Hornet realizes that Lace is a homunculus from the start, and this reminds her of her siblings. (I also think âpale oneâ, an epithet frequently given to Ghost/the Knight in game one, is a deliberate emphasis on this). Hornet pities Lace, because she knows that a lifeform made to serve anotherâs purpose can only have a very limited scope of the world. Hornet is thinking of Ghost and the Hollow Knight when she acknowledges Laceâs personhood, but laments that Lace is still the pawn of a higher being.
In closure, if I had to guess, both Hornet and Lace physically appear the buggy equivalent of 19-21 (despite both being functionally immortal for different reasons). Hornet calling Lace âchildâ isnât just smack talk, but more a statement on Hornetâs feelings re:the vessel experiments. A sentiment of âyou are Alive, but [like my siblings] you never really got to liveâ; a parallel that feels especially clear in the Sister of the Void ending.
Ship discourse aside, we get a compelling window into Hornetâs inner worldâ she was and still is deeply emotionally affected by her siblingsâ fates, and feels both grief and anger over how they were wronged. And if LaceNet is read romantically, the aforementioned SotV ending fully realizes Hornetâs arc: closure with her family, and the end of her isolation via a partner that matches her lifespan.
Sup. I don't really expect anyone to give a damn about this but fuck it I'm posting anyway. Here's my new D&D oc for a curse of strahd campaign I'm doing!
I attempted to render an image I originally made using @maetheellen's picrew. Rendered version is first, original image is second.
Summary: John has been lost in the Lonely, and only Martin can bringing him back.
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After walking in the fog for what felt like hours, Martin finally found it. His chest heaved, his body was soaked with sweat, and his joints ached, but he kept putting one foot in front of the other. As much as he wanted to fall to his knees, he had to keep going. After empty beaches, lighthouses, and forests, heâd finally found a large, desolate looking manor. The windows were all black - it wasnât clear if it was through darkness or to cover them up - and the brick was a dull grey. Martin felt as if his body had become triple its weight, as he put one foot on the front steps, and kept pushing himself upwards. Those three stairs felt as if heâd pushed himself up a whole flight. Finally, he got to the door. The cold brass knob on the door was damp, making it difficult to grip, but when he covered his hand with his jumper and turned it he almost stumbled at how little resistance there was. When he entered the hall, he blinked quickly - thrown by how colourful the inside was.
So far, everything in the lonely had been dank, lifeless, and empty. This house was⊠Different. The walls had scenes painted on them, on the right there was a workman fixing a grandfather clock, on the left was five children chasing each other. On the far wall was a door frame looking out into the kitchen. Martin expected warmth and noise from the appearance but he received the opposite. There was colour but no life, and it took a moment to realise but the faces his brain had almost filled in werenât there. The children had no features, neither did the workman. The house was brutally silent, he couldnât even hear the false wind from outside.
âJohn?â Martin called. He took a few tentative footsteps forward, his voice didnât echo through the house. It felt as if heâd thrown noise into the world only for it to falter and not travel anywhere. All that was there was silence. Oppressive, gigantic, silence. âJohn?â He repeated as he entered the kitchen. Or what the paintings said was a kitchen. There were no units or furniture, they were all painted on the walls. By the image of a stove was a stern looking older woman with grey tight curls and a familiar looking frown. He shook himself and looked again, there was no frown, of course there wasnât.
Martin turned away to see in the far corner, something heâd almost missed as a painting itself, a small, fragile man sat cross legged on the floor, his hair hanging in his face. âJohn!â He exclaimed in relief. This one John finally seemed to hear, he looked up with a blank, distant expression. His eyes were half lidded and unfocused, he frowned a little as he took in Martinâs appearance.
âWho⊠are you? Did grandmother invite you here?â John asked, his voice small and far younger than his appearance suggested.
âYour grandmother?â Martin asked, he swallowed around a knot in his throat, trying to make the stabbing pain in his chest from how much not being recognised ached.
âYes. Sheâs cooking right now. But Iâm sure sheâll see you in a moment.â There was something off about Johnâs voice, it was younger, but also so formal.
âJohn. Where are we?â Martin desperately did not let his pain seep through into his eyes and voice. Instead he tried to stay grounded, John needed him not to fall apart right now.
âWeâre⊠at my house?â John looked at Martin with a look of alarm and concern. âAre you alright?â
âAnd thats your grandmother? Are you sure?â
âOf course Iâm sure.â
âBut her face-â
âSheâs just angry. Sheâs always angry.â
âItâs just⊠Does anything seem strange to you?â As Martin said this, John looked over Martinâs shoulder, who followed his gaze. The woman by the stove had moved slightly, using a frying pan now, but her face just as blank and she was still utterly silent.
âLike what?â
âWell, has she said anything to you?â
âNo. She never does. Sheâs punishing me for something. Sheâs always silent when sheâs angry.â No matter how fake this scenario was, John thought it was real. And hearing such pain coming from his heart made Martinâs own chest feel as if his rib cage was stabbing through his skin.
âWho else is in this house?â Martin asked, pushing through the hurt all the same.
âThe children from next door. Mister Preston has come to fix the clock.â
âHave they said anything to you?â
âNo one talks to me. Iâm annoying. I just bother them.â
âIâm talking to you.â
âYes. Thatâs whatâs so strange. WaitâŠâ Johnâs brow furrowed for a moment, a slight hint of colour in his face for just a second before it left again. âWho are you?â
âIâm Martin.â
âMartin. Martin. Iâve never heard any-â Martinâs breath stopped for a moment as he heard John say his name as he always had. John stopped talking and his eye widened. âWait. Yes I have. I know that-â The recognition left. âNo, I donât.â
âJohn,â Martin began, his tears filling his throat. He struggled down onto his knees, he forced himself to look John in the eye no matter how painful. âJohn. You do- you do know me. Try- try to think about how you got here.â
âI⊠Iâve always been here,â John answered but less certain this time.
âNo. No you havenât.â
âI- I donât understand. What do you mean?â
âI- I know.â Martin reached into his pocket and relaxed when his fingers touched a tape recorder. The spiders always watched out for him. He took it out and hit play, a statement Martin was taking - it was slow and harrowing and John stared at it baffled by what was happening. Finally however, it happened. Martinâs voice was interrupted by a knock, and in came Johnâs voice. The spoke a little, it was ⊠Friendly, almost. It had been a year ago, before things got too difficult.
âThatâs me,â John finally said in a small voice. He cleared his throat. âThatâs me,â he repeated voice stronger and firmer. âYou⊠I⊠I know you. I know you.â
âI know. I know.â Martin finally let the tears fall down his face as John got onto his knees and wrapped his arms around Martinâs body. He clung to him tightly, terrified that he was just going to turn into fog. Just as it felt the illusion was breaking, there was a click behind them, similar to the sound of a stove turning off. The first sound this house had made, followed by footsteps. âWhat⊠whatâs that?â
âGrandmother- No. Not⊠That- that thing. Itâs angry. We need to leave. Now.â John and Martin both clumsily rose to their feet, and when he caught a glimpse behind his shoulder he saw that the figure was barely an inch from his face. The thingâs face wasnât blank anymore. Now it was made of dense fog, it was no longer silent but roared like the fake wind outside.
- The real story owners Layan , Sarah and Adam.. This photo is from when they went to school despite the war. Here is also a full post about that with all the photos.
- I also share with you this drawing that my daughter Laian drew. -
đ Our Story in Short...
We are a family of six, living through war and simply trying to survive.
Despite all the pain, weâre still standing, thanks to you and your generous donations.
đ We launched this campaign to secure our childrenâs education, so they donât lose another year to this ongoing war. They deserve a future, not just survival.
đ Thanks to your support, we were able to rent a safe home instead of living in a tent on the street, surrounded by rats, insects, and fear.
Today, our children feel safe again. They finally have a clean place to sleep, study, and live.
đ But all of this depends on you staying with us.
Please take a moment to read our story with care. Imagine our children as your own.
Donate with love and sincerity, and pray that we stay safe.
Letâs close this campaign together with your kindness and compassion. đâ€ïž
So far, weâve raised âŹ3,714 out of our âŹ6,500 goal. No matter how small, your donation can have a big impact. By giving, you're not only helping usâyouâre inspiring others to do the same. Donate now with love, and imagine these children are your own.
New day new grind:
Goals for today, in the order I plan to do them:
- Complete the knowledge check from last time
- write two discussion board posts 0/2
- Complete a Different knowledge check for more recent classwork
- work on the seven overdue assignments 0/7
- Write two journal entries
- complete notetaking for some past classes and work on some exams
idk what I'll do to reward myself after I complete the tasks but I'm gonna start a load of laundry and see what I can get done before it finishes. Will update then.
This is Cassiopeia. (left image colored by me, right made entirely by a friend on discord, though I donât know if theyâre active anymore).
Heâs an immortal who can shapeshift into owls, as well as make himself look like any human he wants, with the drawback of aging up or down makes his mind regress to that age. Currently heâs somewhere in his mid twenties.
He started off as a sona I had been somewhat grandfathered into having and evolved over the years into the man he is now, and I love it. Currently his voiceclaims are Peter Bramhill and Logan Cunningham (I canât pick which sounds better.)
Currently Iâm using him in a story with a friend of mine set in the world of Baldurâs Gate 3, in which he falls in love with Astarion and helps him to change for the better. He is not wholly âfixed,â but thatâs not the point.
I love them both dearly.
This is Taiâluen, a trans masc Drow character I recently made for the story mentioned above.
(I made the image of him with MaeEllenâs OC Creator on Picrew. The only change is that I edited the eyes slightly to make them pink.)
Heâs one of my newest ocs: a former cleric of Lolth turned gunslinger masquerading as a bard. (Mostly because the meme of having a person play a little ditty on a flute before taking out a gun and shooting someone is hilarious to me.)
He is also the son of the biggest manwhore of Menzoberranzan/j, Jarlaxle Baenre.
Texasâ HB 3399 bill will kill people if it passes. It will make hormone therapy illegal. For all ages. Period. This was never about womenâs sports. It was never about bathrooms. It was never about âprotecting the childrenâ. They want us dead. If youâre a fellow trans person and you live in Texas, I strongly urge you to be ready to move somewhere safer.
I forgot to add this: you can use Resistbot to find and write to your state or federal officials, so this is a great tool if you don't know how to go about doing that. If you're a Texas resident, a quick message to your state reps asking them to vote against HB 3399 would be very helpful right now.
Text RESIST to 50409 to contact your federal, state, or local elected officials; create movements; and more. Over 30,000,000 letters deliver
Remember to be polite, even if you don't like your official. I usually leave a nice note thanking their staff, too.
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