ostentenacity

they/them; what even do i put here

[shizukateal]

The thing about the Witch Hat Atelier world is that the magic system sounds great until you realize it's essentially programming and that sobers you up immediately. Sure, maybe you reach the level of skill needed to draw perfect curves, straight lines, and circles without looking down, but after that you still need to be able to logic out which combination of sigils will actually give you the desired effect, and if you misplace a single line it all goes to shit. Add to that the inclusion of effect-altering inks and you start to understand why Olruggio is Like That.

[yokolate]

Brushbuddy (フデムシ) Witch Hat Atelier - 1x04 (2026) Kamome Shirahama

[important-cat-pics]

[kefka]

prog my ultimate, boy

[softichill]

I loooove ominously giggling when I'm getting my friends into smth new. They ask me a spoilery question and I get to do this

[figgyroo]

Not dead I promise ☝️ Here is an old erenville and cahciua

[transcarcinization]

try a Tangbyrd from Super Princess Warrior?

[meandthewhitelash-blog]

Visit Original Link

Sumer is icumen in - performed by the Hilliard Ensemble.

[Harleian MSS. 978. f. 5.]

Sumer is i-cumen in,  Lhude sing cuccu! Groweth sed, And bloweth med, And springeth the wde nu: Sing cuccu! cuccu!  Awe bleteth after lamb, Lhouth after calve cu; Bulluc sterteth, Bucke verteth, Murie sing cuccu! Cuccu, cuccu!  Wel singes thu cuccu, Ne swik thou nauer nu! Sing cuccu nu! Sing cuccu!

Canon

[shredsandpatches]

Perhaps my favorite thing about this wonderful old song is that the last lines of it urge the cuckoo: “ne swik thu naver nu” – don’t ever stop singing.

It’s been seven centuries and he never has.

[ostentenacity]

me, describing my copy-editing process: "now, normally, when i see an uncontracted form of the verb 'to be', i'm like GET THEE TO AN APOSTROPHE, but--"

[saintessinthegutter]

Ladies of Dol-Makjar <3

[unidentifiedspoon]

my turn at this one. ART is the feed? no. ART is the frame

[uovoc]

They say it's still out there, roaming the unaffiliated zone, waiting to sideswipe the unwary traveler…

[mintmatcha]

love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...

[mintmatcha]

you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.

you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.

When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.

"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.

"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.

"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.

"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"

"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"

Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."

That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.

"Until next time."

He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.

"Until next time," he repeats back.

[mintmatcha]

In his absence, he sends gifts. They are tiny things, sweets and oiled combs and scented oils and a porcelain figure of a cat, aimless in their direction towards you. Just simple niceties he could give to any woman in the world. You imagine he sends one to the lovers he has in every city as well.

(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)

none of the gifts come with a note.

one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.

the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.

-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.

The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.

"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."

You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.

-Dearest husband,

Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.

Your patient and thoughtful wife

A second letter arrives within the week.

-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?

The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.

-Dearest, sweetest husband,

A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.

Your less than patient and less than adoring wife

The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.

tortured wife,

I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.

your loving husband

[creekschaoscorner]

If I may ramble for a moment:

I love cosmogone. I think it has to be my favorite Neathbow color. Because it’s the color of remembered sunlight, and it’s yellow. When you think about the sun, when you think about sunlight, you think of it as being yellow. But it’s not! Sunlight is actually almost pure white. But that’s not the way you remember it. And so the light of the Parabolan sun is cosmogone, and it is sickly and golden and nostalgic but never quite right. And that’s just sooooooooo

[katmegere]

Ping!

I don’t know, y’all

[inwytt]

No bb, that’s what therapy is for 👏

[crowboy-bebop]

unauthorized fucking thing!!!!!!

(warning: loud chirping throughout)

source: hellgate osprey cam

[curlicuecal]