Xuebing Du
$LAYYYTER
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Misplaced Lens Cap
Andulka
DEAR READER
will byers stan first human second
Stranger Things
JBB: An Artblog!
tumblr dot com
occasionally subtle
YOU ARE THE REASON
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
almost home
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
cherry valley forever
styofa doing anything
h
seen from Chile
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Austria
seen from T1
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from Australia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from Netherlands
seen from T1
@peromy-march
Do you have an OC whose parents are both alive and good parents
Do you have an OC who's parents are both alive and are good parents?
I do
I do not
Ciaooo! 3, 6 and 16 for Niamh for the character asks? <3
Ciaoooo, ma grazie! <3
Tis the ask game
3. What was the first thing you decided on, the character's name, appearance, personality or their role in the story?
Appearance, roughly. Being a child it was easier, but I knew I wanted her with Cullen's curls. Aisling took a lot of effort in those curls. She said from the very first time they discussed actually having children that she wanted one with his curls. Curls she could have long and wild since someone else insists on cutting them. She got what she wanted. u_u Second thing was the name, I wanted something short.
I decided it 2 years before Veilguard, and when DAV companions were announced and we have a Neve... it was too late to change, LOL. I guess the Veilguard calls them "The Neevs" when they're together.
Thank you for the tag @greypetrel !!
I was going to do Trisme but… those questions don’t really apply 😅 so i thought I’d do Oddjack instead…
1. Why is your character's eye colour the way it is? Is it random or not?
- Oddjack’s eyes are beady and dark brown/black the majority of the time. He has a dark amber/rust eyeshine which is because a lot of animals have that color, that share characteristics with him; and it’s also a trait that people would find unsettling if they discovered it
2. Who gave your character their name?
-Oddjack briefly stayed with an elderly couple on a farm, they called him Oddjack - specifically, they called him “the little odd Jack,” because they identified immediately that he was some variety of fae, though they couldn’t quite figure him out
3. Does your character have tattoos? What do they mean?
- no tattoos, but he has some markings on his face and skin associated with young animals (like fawns, baby capybara, pigs etc) to demonstrate he’s kind of stuck in his development; and he’s covered in scars from any time he touched iron.
You’re a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I’m very fond of you, but you’re only quite a little fellow in a wide world, after all.
The Hobbit (1977) dir. Arthur Rankin Jr. & Jules Bass
alright gamers tell me: what’s the game that’s the equivalent of a weighted blanket for you. it’s not necessarily a good game or a fun game but a game that gives you a sense of peace and warmth
Ugly OC Asks
Let's get messy 🔥
Questions compiled with @monocytogenes. Reblog with your OCs tagged and enjoy the crunch!
(I'm not numbering these so people have to copy the questions into the ask box.)
😈😈😈😈
What is your OC petty about?
When's the last time your OC hurt someone emotionally? What did they do?
What's an unsavory detail about your OC or opinion they have (to a modern Tumblr audience)?
What's an unsavory detail about your OC or opinion they have (to their peer group)?
What does your OC's love interest dislike about them?
Is your OC ever wrong? Big ways? Small ways? About what?
What does your OC lie about?
In what way(s) is your OC bad at life?
What's the fatal flaw in your OC's relationship(s)? What could destroy those relationships?
What fills your OC with envy? Alternatively who does your OC envy and why?
What physical trait(s) is your OC insecure about?
What personality trait(s) or habit(s) is your OC insecure about?
What's a moment your OC is ashamed to remember?
What's your OC's biggest fuck up?
What unconscious biases or expectations does your OC have regarding other genders, races or sexualities?
What skill does your OC need to work on improving?
What uncharitable takes would your OC have about you if they met you?
What's the longest grudge your OC has ever held? Against whom and why?
In what way is your OC worse than you?
Have there been any horrible consequences to well-intentioned choices your OC made? How did they cope with that?
Who hates your OC? Why?
What do your OC and their LI fight about?
“average person eats 3 spiders a year” factoid actualy just statistical error. average person eats 0 spiders per year. Spiders Georg, who lives in cave & eats over 10,000 each day, is an outlier adn should not have been counted
#tapping the reblog button with utmost care because i’m handling a historical artifact (via @malarkiness)
holy shit OP is not only still active but is still making absolutely banger posts in this exact style 11 years later
A 2025 update
me: i wanna talk about my ocs
someone: ok tell me about your ocs
me, suddenly convinced that every single thing about my ocs is stupid and cringy and probably offensive: i. have them
…why is this f***ing app constantly calling me out?
Post game, whenever Niamh goes to Minrathous (some junior project in politics run by Dorian, no doubt), she works part time at the café Rook bought Lucanis.
She may be spoiled and a nepo baby, but her time with the Veilguard taught her something. So: she does work hard, is good at it -easy not to spill a thing if you can have it levitate before hitting the floor, but still. She's always employee of the month, whenever she's there!
Sure, the only other empolyee is Spite, and Spite refuses not to spit in the nasty client's orders, possibly when they're looking. There's not much of a challenge, but still.
Decided to tag myself @greypetrel!
GENERAL
Name: Trisme Baëta
Alias(es): Sparkle; Mags/Magpie
Gender: Cis female
Age: 16 during Veilguard
Place of birth: a village in interior Rivain; grew up with Luminous Omen (her mentor) in the coastal mountain range
Spoken languages: Rivaini, Trade, passable Antivan and Qunlat, Corvid (mainly the mountain Raven dialect, obviously, but one can’t help but pick up bluejay, and she’s almost fluent in jackdaw and rook).
Sexual orientation: Pansexual (but disinclined)
Occupation: Apprentice seer and general student of magic; makes decent money selling enchantments
FAVOURITE
Colour: bright colors, especially yellow and cyan
Entertainment: She’s enthralled by the excitement of city life, though she’s very much a rube herself. She loves exploring the cities and trying out the clothes and foods.
Pastime: greatly enjoys crafting and enchanting accessories; she’s writing that bird crime series; and she loves boats and cities
Food: she has a sweet tooth, but more than anything she likes novel foods
Drink: Pomegranate Gin Fizz.
Books: She and Figs got hooked on serial dramas, particularly if any degree of swashbuckling is involved. she fancies herself a writer as well - she is writing diligently in her travel journal; her seer research paper; and her series of crime novels featuring a handsome Raven and his Magpie sidekick
HAVE THEY
Passed university: No, but between Luminous Omen and Figs, she got a lot of education. And they’ll bully any board into accepting her credits from them XD
Had sex: I’m not sure…
Had sex in public: No
Gotten tattoos: she doesn’t yet since she can’t get one until after her first official Seer tattoo, but she has plans
Gotten piercings: always has big dangly earrings; and a discreet stud in her nose
Had a broken heart: no, she’s never really been in a relationship
Been in love: so many crushes; no real true love
ARE THEY
A cuddler: not *quite*. She’s a hugger and a hand-clasper, but she tends to disengage before it could count as “cuddling”
Scared easily: no. She’s actually very much like Baby’s Day Out, just fearlessly and happily walking into dangerous situations, confident things will work out somehow (generally Figs has a heart attack doing damage control). That said, she gets very easily upset when actual violence or screaming happens
Jealous easily: no. She’s just happy to be here.
Trustworthy: Trustworthy in that she’s never going to lie or betray you, absolutely! but, should you trust her to be mature or take something seriously? Perhaps not...
FAMILY
Sibling(s): No, unless you count Figs
Parents: Figs and Luminous Omen found her wandering alone a few miles from a destroyed village… Gramma Lu raised her ever since
Children: oh dear, she hasn’t given that any thought at all.
Pets: she’s had dozens of animals as temporary pets over the years… Figs and Luminous Omen have managed to rehome or release them all, but once she turns 18 she’s been told she can have a kitten. Figs still thinks Lu should clarify, “a kitten of *which* species”
if your ocverse was like a published media which character of yours would be interpreted by the fandom in the most horreeendously incorrect ways possible
Band called ship of Theseus who replaces one of their members with every album release
Celondim ✨
Episode 9 is up, with @peromy-march's lovely story! And @miurgen's moody art!
It isn’t immediate. Thaniel may be restored, but healing is a process.
Nature is, famously, red in tooth and claw; and Thaniel is no stranger to violence and death. But it’s the lack of balance that takes him longest to recover from. His lands have been all death, all sorrow, all suffering, for too long.
But nature is eternal. Thaniel can be patient. He curls beside Art and focuses only on stability, steadying himself, recalling who he was and who he remains to be. And then… when he feels ready…
The land blooms.
---
When it happens, it happens all at once:
The sky, blue again after a century of starless black.
Trees, the bark transforming from the spongy rotten mold into solid wood again, leaves full and green and rustling in a breeze that sweeps away the poisonous air.
The green grass seems to simply burst out of the soil, covering the landscape, growing soft and fast over the remains of the battlefield, growing around and over the long-dead skeletons like a blanket, welcoming them at last to the natural cycle of the earth. Climbing vines grow swiftly over statues and buildings, the huge life-bringing magic enveloping all and covering the dark sins of the town with bright flowers and swaying stems of grass…
The remaining shadows of the town, the cemetery, the Tower, fade into the earth with a sigh. Whatever remains of the souls they once were, release their sorrows in the shining sun and return themselves to the universe.
But not all of them.
In the House of Healing…
------
The sisters fold where they stand, sinking to the ground with weary sighs. Their work is done, their time is done. At last.
Anna Lidwin, who retained slightly more of herself than the other sisters, feels the gentle tug. It doesn’t hurt: a vague sense of pleasant surprise. Having seen so much death… how nice to imagine that it’s like this, a gentle call to lay down upon the earth and sleep. She hopes it was like that for all the ones she was unable to save… the sorrows she carries.
But-!
As she gives herself to the earth, with what’s left of her soul, she sees!
The patients she’s recently toiled over – the poor injured things she’s tried and tried to help!
She sees them, blinking, holding their heads, sitting up – healed.
Sister Lidwin can no longer speak, can no longer touch. The pull is still gentle but urgent; she is leaving this world. As her sorrows release from her, tears drop from her ruined face.
They’re saved. Her dear patients, they’re saved.
She dies, then, in a pool of sunlight, as Komira and Locke stand, radiant with life.
-------------
They cling to each other, baffled and sobbing, unable to comprehend what has happened…
It doesn’t take long for their minds to return sufficiently to realize one important thing is missing. Arabella.
They race … well, stumble, on legs wobbly as a foal’s, out of the House that’s rapidly filling with flowers and the first notes of birdsong.
No Arabella in sight… but they barely have time to panic before a different, unfamiliar child appears.
A bizarre feeling that they don’t manage to pin down until later: this child is their lifebringer.
“Arabella left with Halsin and Tav,” this child says, and their scattered minds recall these names from the Grove.
The child gently takes their hands.
“Come on. let’s get you back to the others.”
---
Because others had stood again as well. Those recently fallen who were not corrupted by the curse or destroyed utterly by the wrath of the aasimar… all were pulled up from the ground along with the trees and the grass, given life again.
Most sit, dazed, wherever they came back, and gradually, bewildered and clinging to each other with confused memories… they make their way to the Last Light.
Thaniel doesn’t make much effort to explain. Perhaps he can’t. perhaps he only finds their confusion sweetly amusing.
His companion, who is visibly fading from life even as it flourishes around them all, offers his best guess.
“Pretty big magic involved in resurrecting an entire land,” Art Cullagh says, looking at them with curious but exhausted eyes. “Guess it scooped you all up with it. Thaniel’s… truly an amazing person.”
He doesn’t look envious, or awed. The man looks only tired, and mostly contented.
The way Anna Lidwin had looked, if they’d been able to recognize it in that moment.
Thaniel sits beside Art, playing with the buttons on his Flaming Fist-issue jacket on the back of the chair, or the strings on a lute nearby; and brings the man water and acorns and interesting stones.
---
Some stay.
The lands are unoccupied, and have been cleansed of any remaining shadow entirely. Big magic, indeed.
There is a town that is empty, fields that can be worked, shops that can be opened. They had nowhere else to go, so why not stay? The Harpers who have remained, offer their assistance, and are very confident that Halsin will return soon.
Komira and Locke leave, accompanied by Asharak.
Baldur’s Gate is so, so close – one feels they can almost hear the clamor of the city from here.
Arabella’s there, Thaniel’s said, and so they turn their feet to the road west, walking under green trees alight with birdsong and new life.
I feel like this really could have benefited from some more editing… 😅 I wrote something for the Zevlor Sleep Stories. In which Zevlor goes on a meditative journey of healing to the Rosymorn Monastery.
--Zevlor, Afterwards: a Sunrise Meditation —
After everything that’s happened, for better or worse, I find myself with more free time than I ever did in the last two years. My broken oath freed me from many obligations. Certainly, there will always be those who need aid, tasks that need doing... But I’ve learned to take less upon myself. To take more time to simply walk, and reflect. Part of my reflection – per a suggestion from one of the monks who sheltered me afterwards – is to simply allow my feet to carry me where they may. To trust in my own mind to take me where I want to go.
And so I find myself here, gazing across the landscape of the Rosymorn Mountain Trail. It’s where my mind led me. A familiar stretch of beauty, though we couldn’t pause to look at it before.
I take a deep breath in, hold it… two, three, four… let it out. There is no before. Only now. Only this moment. In this moment, everything is calm and safe. I can linger, and look, and let myself take it all in.
The mountains rise all about me – from here, I can see miles of beauty and wonder. I have arrived here, fittingly, at dawn: the sky flecked with fading glints of stars as it brightens from nighttime indigo to morning’s eggshell blue, crowded here and there with great rolling clouds. Beneath the sky, I can see the plains unrolling in the distance, a rumpled blanket of landscape glowing beige in the sunlight. Tiny dots travel in a loose constellation across the fields: wild horses, probably. I try to picture them: coats of dusky satin, chestnut and cream and champagne and amber, feathered manes and tails training behind as they lope across the endless grassy expanse.
I can see three rivers shimmering in looping lines across the plains, their waters twinkling as the sun begins to reflect on them. They meander up to the edge of the cliffs and become waterfalls – from here, the rivers appear to be tumbling lazily down, in no hurry, and the mist rises just as slowly. The sound of falling water is muted to a quiet background hum.
The plains, the rivers, the mountains – all brushed over with the same rosy hue. Even the dusty trail and green leaves seem softened somehow, frosted with the pinkish haze of the early morning sun. The leaves rustle softly as the wind gives them a voice: a quiet susurration that blends in with and overlaps the waterfalls.
The centerpiece of this splendid view is Lathander’s Beacon of Hope, a truly wondrous monument to the dawn: built into a natural stone column rising out of the river, the blessed star symbol proudly faces the sun, its design elegant and soothing at once. The rising sun shines off the monument, making it appear to glow in the soft warm dawn.
I take a moment and hold that image in my mind: the holy star of Lathander, a god of optimism and hope. A gentle and kind figure, smiling as he greets the world. His star has eight points. I decide, during this journey, to look for eight things that give me hope.
The first is easy: the exquisite natural beauty of this mountain pass. If anything, the overgrown plant life has only enhanced the elegance of the ruined temple. As though the monastery is softly insisting that hope *is* eternal, no matter what may come.
That can be the second thing, then – a gentle message from ages gone by, speaking to me today.
Before I leave the scenic overlook, I admire the view of the monastery. Even from this distance it can be seen, a vast structure emerging from the overgrown trees as though it has always been a part of the mountain. The stones of the monastery are the same soft rosy color of the mountains and the plains, edges only seen by the soft blending of cool shadows and green foliage. The architecture is elegant and soothing, just as the Beacon is. As I watch, two large eagles leap off the roof, taking to the sky and soaring, wild and proud, across the mountain pass to the plains beyond.
A little cable car is nearby – I remember, it was a simple contour of rust once, resting like an old soul soaking in the sunshine with little inclination to ferry about, but it’s been repaired since then, looking a bit livelier. A third message of hope, perhaps? That an old and tired thing can come back with a measure of triumph?
The walk to the cable car stirs scattered birdsong from avian inhabitants, curious to see what manner of being is strolling through their neighborhood. I don’t see many of them up close, only little scurries of flight through the brush, trembling the branches flowered with bright pearls and gems, some plumed with soft feathers of grassy seed heads. Many colors have slipped in from the wild flowers over the years, but there still can be seen many colors saluting the sun: saffron and scarlet, cinnabar and amber, ochre and carmine and primrose and gold. A garden planted with intent, perhaps.
Number four: a garden planted with intent.
A jay paints an errant brushstroke of sapphire across the rosy glow – he lands on a nearby branch, a handsome little fellow in his cloak of blue, a jaunty cap of feathers poking up. He grumbles at me, low and croaky, and I hear them before I see them: the soft peeping of baby birds. I spare a glance in the direction and see the tiny, fuzzy, smoky grey round heads with wide yellow beaks.
I continue past without peering any closer – it’s a hard thing to be responsible for tiny lives, and I shan’t trouble Papa Jay any further.
Number five: harried father figures trying their best to guide and guard their collection of tiny peepers. I wish him luck and continue to the cable car.
The wheel spins easily, and the car moves smoothly and with only a whisper of noise as the cable guides me across the wide ravine, past the magnificent Beacon. The sun is higher in the sky, illuminating more of the mountain pass, which seems almost to be radiant in this light – as perhaps was intended, for the Rosymorn Monastery to be its most beautiful at the first touch of Lathander’s gentle and hopeful sunlight.
A rustle and then a murmuration, across the ravine. A great cloud of starlings emerges with only the softest sigh of sound, briefly dancing and swooping in shifting contours of shape before departing for their daily business. I’ve never seen a flock of starlings in the morning before.. this walk has shown my old eyes a number of new marvels.
The cable car lands softly at the far end, and I behold the monastery up close. The stained glass windows catch my attention first, as they’ve impressed so many over the years: tall and splendid columns of crimson and scarlet, rays of gold spread over the rounded top: sunrise depicted on glass. Marble columns absorb the warmth of the dawn, glowing pinkish like all the rest. Mosaic murals still decorate the walls – suns, radiant and warm; soft clouds drifting across the peaceful stone.
Centuries later, it’s still clear that the masons who designed this monastery wanted to convey beauty and love with the building itself – the beauty of a new day, the love of creation – the domain of the Morninglord.
Number six: the urge to create something beautiful, inspired by awe and love.
The Morninglord himself is represented as a statue on the pavilion before the monastery. It seems courteous somehow, to pay respects to this god who was so beloved by so many who walked here. The sculpture of him shows a kind face, holding the newborn sun aloft. There are a number of coins and letters and trinkets at the base of the statue, gifts left by pilgrims and worshipers.
I reach into my purse for a coin to add to the gifts, as I think over the last two things that give me hope. It’s been a soothing meditative exercise so far – I like to think the monks back in Baldur’s Gate would be pleased with my efforts.
I toss my coin, and notice that someone has left a small gift of a ring on a string – it reminds me at once of the little scamps from the group. “Ring of the Lekinesus” – there’s the copper ring, gleaming with an appropriate reddish-orange, tied to a pebble with a length of fishing line. It’s wrapped around a loosely scrolled sheet of paper. “Thanks for the sunrise!” scrawled childishly large.
Perhaps they’ve come back here to visit, as well…
Number seven, then: the hope that the children will thrive. And number eight can be this, all of this: the dawn. The hope that comes with each new day.
I look up to the statue of Lathander the Morninglord, radiant as he smiles gently in the dawn. This, then.
“Thank you for the sunrise.”
