we're not kids anymore.
trying on a metaphor
AnasAbdin
noise dept.

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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
i don't do bad sauce passes

#extradirty
h

roma★
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

ellievsbear
wallacepolsom

@theartofmadeline

★
styofa doing anything
Today's Document

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TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Keni

seen from India

seen from Hungary

seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye
seen from Belgium
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Israel

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from T1
seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye
@racingtodawn
тιмє нαѕ ₍ ¢σмє ₎ ƒσя υѕ αℓℓ
тσ αηѕωєя тнє ₍ ᴄᴀʟʟ ₎
➹
♞—: I forgot to brush my beard today.
[ xeleutheria ]
▕ ⋨ ฬ ⋩—⇢ ੮here was nothing quite like the feeling of victory; that adrenaline that continued to burn through veins long after the battle was won. Maybe luck was simply on their side? Or perhaps they were doing something right? Either way, it was a battle that had left the English in a position where they could do nothing but plan the destruction of a now well-spoken of bridge. But it was that which fuelled his passion, that which kept the dream alive and burning. It kept him thinking. Kept him dreaming. Kept him on his feet and ready to fight for what he believed in. Not many had that willpower in themselves to take sword and stand. คnd Wallace had it in him to keep going. Even the English’ defeat at Stirling had not been enough to convince the English King into a form of submission. They were going to have to push on further; take the fight to the heart of the problem. Though William knew this was going to be difficult, no matter what way they went about it. So, of course this would lead to a lengthy discussion with the rest of the group. ςo here they were, sat round a crackling fire that provided the forest with a glimmer of light. The fallen pine leaves around them provided a warm cover for the forest floor that they sat on. Though, Wallace was sat out of the way a little. A few of the people he had been conversing with had ended up with a full-blown, rather testosterone-fuelled argument that he had no intention of partaking in because to him it seemed completely irrelevant to their current situation. They were making a racket but Wallace was hardly listening —— something about traitors and loyalty and jargon along those lines. While Wallace had his back against a tree, sharpening a sword that had experienced quite a grand amount of bloodshed. See. he was very much enveloped in his own thoughts, as per usually, and the rest of the folk surrounding him would tend to leave him alone like this unless they needed some snappy decision from him. But, this situation was short lived. Ice-y blue gaze flickered towards the surrounding vegetation as William picked up a hint of scuffling within the trees. Course, it could easily have been some type of animal; wild cat, mouse, bird, take your pick. He knew, though, somehow, that it wasn’t, and his eyes narrowed almost suspiciously as he lifted himself to his feet. A couple of his friends had noticed his unease and had broken away from the argument to glance around curiously, but Wallace paid them no attention. He had expected to have to go into the woods and search out the sneaking culprit himself, but that seemed no longer necessary when the stranger had revealed himself. Wallace took quick note of the height of the man, the scars on his face, and then his dress. Һe’d lifted his blade towards the stranger in a moment, hardly a second spared in hesitation as Wallace directed the tip of the sword towards the man’s chest; hardly intimidated by the height of him. A frown was expressed on his features as he studied the late night wanderer, a tilt of his head provided, and— ❝——עe better hae a good reason fer bein’ here so that I dunnae have t’run you through.❞ A little threat in hopes for a decent answer. He could tell this man was English just by looking at him, maybe the way he held himself, or maybe by simply the clothes that he wore. And there was nothing in Wallace that held any sort of lenience for someone with that sort of blood.
▪❚❘{♚} —— If this man believed that he was in any state to lift up a sword with his damaged and bloodied sword, then it was a sad one. The possibility of a fight rose dramatically, yet this forest was the place where the English traitor made his home -- fortunately, no one knew and even with the labored breathing of his heart, the earthy-colored armor and cloak he wore provided a great deal of camouflage in this terrain. Indeed -- Wallace had every right to hate any Englishman that came walking in his path; experience was life's greatest teacher and boy, do you learn from it. He had not blinked for what felt like an eternity: heart racing fast; the only sign of movement from him were his green orbs slowly darting from sword, to rebels, and to its wielder. Although he was not evaluating them by first glance, it may be taken as such and will definitely garner hostility like what his very presence is doing.
Maybe he should not tell Wallace crucial information regarding Longshank's army, its strength, and what he may be planning to do next? The Scotsman was highly reckless and yet possessed an unrivaled courage and bravery that he did not have himself. An unyielding soul that the Englishman made note of quite considerably. Unpredictable nature coupled with such transformed a man into a dangerous force -- one with a deep, profound love for Scotland. So far, he did a good job drawing straying eyes from his wound and it brought a moments notice of peace -- if he did not find the sword thrust through his heart.
❝Information on Longshanks' army and where they are most likely to attack.❞
It may seem suicidal to announce that he planned to turn his back on a King he once supported with the utmost loyalty, but Moran simply wanted His Grace to be put to justice. Now, there was no chance of being able to walk away without someone knocking him unconscious -- or one of these rebels carrying him back to England where he will be given the harshest punishment for treason. Wallace may not trust his word and believe what he speaks of is a trap; an obvious deduction of the famed Scotsman. You see, Moran had courage of his own, but will this man believe it?
Hawke has the body of a man but the mind of a five year old on most days. Would you agree?
❝He constantly whines and complains about me not getting food for him because he is too tired to stand up and walk around, so yes. I agree. My mind cannot wrap around the possibility of him ever acting mature in any situation.❞
Say you were with Hawke, though. What do you think it would be like?
❝Two full grown men arguing whose beard is better; one of them can be your great great grandfather and the other has not reached puberty yet.❞
▪❚❘{♚} —— The sanguine fluid poured freely through an open orifice upon his right shoulder, but risking capture -- worse than death -- was a fate deserved of for people like him. Metal rubbed dangerously against fragile, English flesh; lodged within its target and every movement brought a sharp pain the victim cannot afford to gasp between gritted teeth. Gruesome scars from a past battle wrought once fatherly visage to a [monstrosity]; the right eye was blind -- painfully so, with a bad itch that frequently came at the worse times. Humiliating, he calls it, to be stuck and oh-so dangerously close to a man notoriously known for his burning hatred of England. Even with the camouflage of many years of training and practice concealing him whilst he managed to keep his breathing down, ears straining to hear any words coming out of the mouth of Wallace and his rebels.
This was the exact same situation a couple weeks ago. It was almost unheard of for an Englishman to betray his peoples and side with the Scottish, yet the reverse was ever-so common with the King's bribes that merely strengthened with power as every hand shook. Back then, he felt young, but now he dangerously crept toward his mid-forties and he highly doubted that this war will keep him alive. Digits curled dangerously around the grip of a dagger; a feeble death-sentence against the behemoth of a sword Wallace had in his possession. He planned not to attack -- only if the man dealt the first blow -- and truly, a part of him wanted to join the rebels. The downside? Trust. It was hard to come by these days, especially with the King's rigid and cold policies against Scotland's peoples. Innocent people murdered and a rebellion started in the name of love -- Moran did not want to be loyal to a King who cared naught for the status of others. His betrayal of the English Crown had to already spread among those in England and Scotland alike.
[ Will he go back to his homeland? ]
Nay. He is chin-deep in the blood of his kin and still wanted to slaughter them if it meant driving England out of Scotland and letting the country finally experience peace. However, wars never brought a period of peace soon after. There will be suspicions toward outsiders, grieving, mourning, and many men and women wishing the same damage England dealt to them upon its people. Many thoughts continuously swam in a circle, already planning and guessing the Scotsman's reaction to his soon-to-be reveal. If he stayed and created noise in his hiding spot, he won't be able to move an inch before finding a blade through his heart. If he quietly stood up and revealed himself that way, then he assumed there will be less of a chance of him dealing with death. On the other hand, the wound in his right shoulder began to weaken one of his sword arm and some rebels would want to learn information regarding the English King's army, its position, and various other snippets that [ might ] play in his favor.
Moran went along with the latter option, silently drifting away from his hiding position in order to reveal himself in a way that won't warrant an arrow through his heart or a sword -- either way, he pushed past some bushes before emerging in full height, green orbs trained on Wallace's sword more than the man himself. He dealt with nothing worse than that; never mind Moran being armed to the teeth, but even he was aware of the stories surrounding the Scotsman's sword that forced him on edge. Whether the man decided to kill or capture him, the Englishman's lips remained sealed until then, only parting to let labored breath pass through.
[ wildhuntress-s ]
— { ➳ } || A faceless phantom. A hooded warrior.
A crack of light in the dense darkness. He had offered her his food. Uncontrolled surprise weightlessly hovered above her previously stoic expression. The hint of pure confusion bending her composed demeanor only for it to dissipate moments afterward. Gloveless hands reached for the bag before quickly retreating. Permanent doubt hung above her.
“ How do I know what you offer isn’t poisoned?”
Trust and distrust blended in an inseparable combination. Aquamarine eyes narrowed suspiciously, darting from the sack to the stranger’s concealed face. Restored composure enclosed every atom of her existence. Silver dust of winter frost paralyzing her features.
“ Try it.”
❝Poison will only exist on the edge of my blade.❞
▪❚❘{♚} —— Ah. . . He remembered the days of youth where he, too, was just as wary as the girl; during his prime. Generous -- hospitable even, and to witness such an expression upon the stranger's countenance was warming. If only she decided not to consume it all, then he will not have to hunt for himself.
With a nod, the Ranger stuffed his hand into the sack and grabbed a berry and piece of meat, pushing it past chapped lips and chewing on it with a ferocity suggesting that he had not eaten until now. Some poisons had an immediate effect -- some took days, months, or even years for the intended victim to fall dead. Minutes passed and nothing out of the ordinary showed itself, causing a faint smile to form upon lips whilst the Ranger's arms crossed over armored chest.
❝Not most would think of asking what you inquired.❞ He did the same thing whenever he found himself in an unfamiliar village or city, but someone his age would have already visited all Middle-Earth by the time they are 70. ❝Then again, most people in this world do not have a brain.❞
hawke/moran
ew / nonono / maybe / ship it / aww / otp / MY HEART
[ hawke is too busy being jealous of his beard. ]
[ fxnris ]
¬ An involuntary sigh of relief, almost inaudible, escaped chapped lips— women seemed to know this man, or maybe it was just his appearance that conveyed his intentions, however mysterious. And mysterious was something he had accomplished quite well. Hooded, but probably for a good reason, and with the confidence of a thief who’d succeeded at the heist of their life. Men who stood like that had a certain set to their shoulders, whispering of battles fought and watchful nights, which Fenris suspected the man was not unaccustomed to.
”I can see that.” He relaxed considerably when the last contact was removed, an analytical edge setting in now that he could think straight without the dull hum of Lyrium in his head. He had helped, this man, but favours were seldom given free. The elf was a stranger to the idea that men would help each other out purely for the good in it; Thedas was a very different environment than this place, he could tell. The drunkards on their barstools had an ease to their expressions that wasn’t just from the haze that mead brought, but from a time without war. He had lived like that, occasionally, but never did it last more than a week.
“And thank you, serah.” Viridian hues searched for some form of identification, an indicator as to who the person really was, but the act was in vain. The mystery would just have to wait; he had come to this tavern for answers, after all, not a new barrage of questions that were probably never going to be solved. Sometimes, one just wanted to enjoy a drink without a new issue being driven into the equation. Leaning forwards a bit, the fugitive lowered his voice in the slightest, if only for his own benefit.
”Could you tell me how far it is from here to Kirkwall?”
▪❚❘{♚} —— It truly should be he who possessed the questions, thirsting for answers that with every passing minute became increasingly straining to even comprehend. Although the knowledge was foreign to him yet, the Ranger had no qualms against Elven nor Dwarf kind. The latter forged his swords -- the former whose blood coursed through his veins. Blood of Man diluted his physique to appear more akin to his other half, yet there were Elven features that lingered on; excluding a longevity that most Men would kill for. Serah was not his name, but he guessed it was a title akin to Sir, M'Lord, or any variant of the mentioned. This place, on the other hand, was a hot spot for Dúnedain, who only came here for a quick rest or gather information and disappear into the wilderness.
Kirkwall? The name sounded foreign upon his lips, tongue twisting in an attempt to do the same. ❝You will find no one possessing the knowledge of this Kirkwall here -- even Galadriel herself has none. Not even the Istari.❞ Blunt and straight to hte point. The Ranger assumed that this elf would rather appreciate it like such than riddles he had already unknowingly slipped in. ❝I have traveled to every corner of Middle-Earth in my life time, but I had not come across someone with an inquiry such as yourself.❞ One of the same barmaids set a mug of mead in front of him and for what felt like an eternity, he stared into its murky contents. Pulling out a map from the confines of his cloak, the Dúnadan unraveled it and smoothed it flat in front of the other. ❝The Prancing Pony is in Bree--❞ A single, calloused digit pointed at their location upon the map.
At that point, he awaited a reaction before speaking up, but the level of his voice dropped to a whisper less he wanted to attract curious ears and unsavory travelers. ❝I can try to bring you to Lord Elrond of Rivendell.❞ An eyebrow rose whilst he took a small sip of his drink. ❝But is it sake for me to ask this: are you suited to long travel?❞
[ wildhuntress-s ]
— { ➳ } || Expectancy infiltrated her lungs. Remarkable universes collided in an inseparable embrace. A limited moment of excitement summoned a continuous chain of thoughts. Delicate, fragile anticipation. And there it was – the voice. Letter-bound syllables connected two entities – a bridge of language, a link between two instances. Unceremonious emergence marked the beginning of a new journey. How embarrassing. Hiding was never a choice, never until now.
Smooth, undisturbed countenance reflected nothing from the previously experienced emotions. Raw, almost glassy gaze stared at the nameless stranger. Lips rested one atop the other – unmitigated composure lying in the black line diving the two roseate folds. An extraordinary creature amidst the everlasting emerald. Wielding her bow in one hand, she remained utterly motionless.
“ Do not be fooled by my appearance, I am willing to defend myself if the occasion requires it.”
Such a brave comment coming from such a feeble being. Quite audacious, perhaps foolish.
“ Do you carry any food? ”
▪❚❘{♚} —— ❝Then it will be best if I remain cautious of you.❞
Green hood remained secure, concealing whatever trust that might surface once certain things of information might be revealed. He had far worse than an arrow lodged in his shoulders -- an orc's spiked club across his visage -- but it was a story he planned to keep under wraps for the time being.
❝Luck shines upon you -- I do have some food in my possession.❞
A small, leather sack containing berries, fruit, and some meat slipped out of the darkness of his Ranger cloak, opening it to reveal what was within. He, too, was hungry, but his body was used to deprivation of substance.
❝Here you go.❞
[ wildhuntress-s ]
+racingtodawn
— { ➳ } Uneasy glance peered at the dark, towering silhouette of a man. Vague intensity battered her senses. She — alienated from her own race — stared at this figment of her imagination. Yet he was r e a l. And he was standing just a few feet from her. Concealed by the everlasting green of the foliage, Aella was safe. A moment of disbelief. The meltdown of her reasoning. The destruction of her peace. Emotions — fierce, wild, explicitly clawing at the very core of her existence. Unhinged madness. H - E - L - P
▪❚❘{♚} —— The small dip of his head, followed by open palms displayng a dagger in each, can be enough for one to attack. He was a w a r e -- something, or someone, utilizing the green around him as solace. Emerald orbs drifted from every crevice in his surroundings, eventually landing upon the exact hiding spot where this woman(?) curled up within.
❝Hello. . .❞
Daggers sheathed onto belt around waist, the Dúnadan backed up a little in order to give this stranger space. Unaware of her state -- or if they are a woman to begin with -- a clearing of his throat followed the insufferable beating of his heart.
Do not bother.
❝I. . . mean no harm.❞
[ anyhelpfulflashesyet ]
Clad in leather armor and clothing that was obviously less for protection and more for movement — was that right? Hawke couldn’t tell — his supposed savior already had a bit of snark to him. Hawke didn’t care much about that either way, he was just tired of being confused and out of it for more than an hour at a time. He wasn’t even sure of the time or how long it took for the sun to move out of the sky, only to be replaced with the moon. He watched the man with cautious eyes and noted how he stared at the staff as if it were a blade rather than just that: a staff. He snorted slightly and fiddled with one of the pieces of red cloth tied off near the top. It held some sort of significance to him… Even if he couldn’t remember what.
When his question was answered the name rang no bells, reminded him of nothing. Frowning once more, Hawke titled his head back towards the sky and closed his eyes out of frustration. Grumbling under his breath and then looking down at his gauntleted hands, the man eventually just shook his head to clear his thoughts and focus. Now was not the opportune time to be falling apart. Maybe later when he didn’t have company. Or never. Never seemed to be better than falling apart in any circumstance at all. “You’ve seemingly bested me with your riddles of proper words and how to speak.”
He gave a large smirk in response to his own words. Sass was something he was good at. That could be a thing. “But I still have absolutely no idea where that is. And isn’t it a bit odd to be following a stranger around for hours on end? I mean— maybe it’s just myself and my own ideas, but that’s a bit… Hm. Nothing personal. But that’s a bit creepy. Oh, wait, maybe that was personal.”
Shifting his feet on the ground to sit more comfortably, Hawke was pleased to find that the gnawing pain had gone away almost entirely at this point, but now he felt bad for eating all of the man’s food. Either way, he was generous enough to offer up a meal to a stranger and for that he was grateful. Nodding slowly to reassure himself that speaking was not the odd thing to do, Hawke swallowed down any sort of odd… fear of conversing with the man sitting not three feet away. Or, was he crouching? Ah, that’s a dumb thing to wonder about. “Your generosity is appreciated, nevertheless.”
▪❚❘{♚} —— ❝I assure you, stranger, my words are nothing of riddles when compared to an Elf's poetic nonsense.❞ Push the right buttons and the Ranger's sarcasm comes forth, bringing an interesting (and light-heart) conversation to a table where caution still hangs above their heads. Finally -- a spark of fire appeared in the small pile of sticks and leaves he gathered from his make-shift padding; burning stick abandoned in the now small fire whilst he unstrapped his bow and quiver, setting them aside. ❝Is it now? I have a bad habit of following people around. It is in my nature as well as many of my brethren.❞ A smirk replaced the grim frown upon his countenance, a rare sight -- and this stranger should feel proud for eliciting such a reaction from him. ❝Then. . . I am sorry to say, but you will see more stalking from I.❞ Ah. . . Generosity and thanks. He never knew how to react in situations like this. Precisely the reason why he will never make a good leader nor a nobleman with decorum and education. Yes, he was well-educated in combat, tracking, hunting. . . Dúnedain stuff, that is all.
❝Some people would skin you without a moment's notice. My brothers and sisters might have left you for dead. Starvation is not a fate I would wish on anybody.❞ His stomach growled loudly and for a moment he almost regretted giving all the food to this stranger. However. . . He may had just gotten on the person's good side -- or, at least, not at the damaging end of his. . . staff. ❝Let me tell you: I would even lend you my cloak if it meant concealing your. . . that. Middle-Earth will not ignore the presence of a possible Istari -- wizard, if you must; there are only five or six in this world and for an extra to suddenly appear out of the blue. Or. . . Eru forbid you get mistaken for one. . .❞ Many people will flock to prove whether the rumors of what he spoke of were true. This man did not appear to want any attention drawn to him. Instead, Moran planned to make sure he understands his surroundings some more. Definitely a case of amnesia. He can work with that.
❝The name is Moran. . .❞ The green cloak slipped off to reveal the Ranger's visage, along with the armor that was made for movement and long, rigorous years of travel than the stationary metal of a soldier. ❝Do you have a name?❞
racingtodawn ;
[ fxnris ]
¬ Somewhere, a wrong turn had been taken.
Not a minor navigational error, no— there was a significant lack of room for those in the agenda of someone on the run. This was— and he was quite certain— not his country. The elf was standing in the middle of a square belonging to a town he’d never seen, looking as calm as he could possibly force himself to appear. The odd part, surprisingly, was not that he had found himself in a new land; but rather that the only reason any of the people here payed him a second glance was to give him the once-over he’d seen far too many times from Isabela. No prejudice, no disdain. The worst he’d experienced thus far was a curious glance at his tattoos.
It was only natural, then, to do what he would have done back home. In short— find the nearest tavern, and start listening in on the gossip. As it happened, the answers usually came more truthfully from the lips of a drunk man than a sober one— and faces were not so easily remembered, although that issue seemed to be behind him. Unless, of course, he really hadn’t gotten away from his assailants, and this was still Thedas. Maybe the stars just looked different— no. It was far more likely that he was crazy than the skies.
The Prancing Pony, eh? Certainly had a nicer ring to it than The Hanged Man, he’d give it that. The fugitive pushed open the door and was met with, thank the Maker, a grand total of zero familiar faces. Taking a seat in the corner, he decided upon a full re-evaluation of his current state, and that he needed to make a plan— until the barmaid came over and practically sat on top of him.
”Ooh, those’r pretty—.”
How, exactly, was he supposed to react? In his world, Lyrium would be considered a deformity, a link to the Fade— not exactly a welcome change, considering the woman was running a hand along the side of his neck; and, well, it hurt. Fenris was not without manners, but the look on his face was practically begging her to stop. The last thing he needed was to start glowing in a place where just the sight of inactive Lyrium was viewed as something worth a second look, or, in her case, a touch. He promptly got up just as that familiar slow burn was starting in the backs of his hands, and was about to leave before another girl stopped to ask him something or another about a ‘lady of the wood’. He had no idea what she was going on about, but it looked like he was going to hear the story unless someone intervened.
Meeting the eyes of a guy who had just come through the door, he tilted his head and set his jaw— a silent ‘I’ll pay you back someday’ offered in a last-ditch effort to get out— and hoped for the best.
▪❚❘{♚} —— Hunger came more frequently, often followed by an unusual need to visit civilization in order to cure such problems. He can hunt and roast meat upon an open fire, yet when digits attempted to curl around the grip of a dagger, eyes open to discover it was all a dream and that there was a reality he had no choice but to accept. Raw, quick-kills cannot always satisfy his hunger. Village butchers cleaned the blood off of meat better than he can and applied herbs and spices whose very thought made his stomach churn with delight. Stoves and kitchens provided better chances of the meat being cooked right (and less chances of a stomach ache that he is no stranger to). The Ranger saw The Prancing Pony in sight; for a split second, an area above his left eyebrow twitched, along with the scars that marred his visage. Oh, he was well aware of the frisky barmaids. He, too, was no stranger to their flirtatious mannerisms. They knew well to leave him alone, but there are times when one forgets and begins making a move.
Making sure his hood was secure, the Ranger stopped directly in front of the entrance to the tavern, stepping a little out of the way when people left and came. Anywhere in Middle-Earth, it was a strange sight to see a Ranger of the North among civilization and not with his or her own people. He lived alone -- a vagabond, if you must -- the life that most rebellious teenagers dream of, yet rarely does one ever grasp hold of it and never lets go. His thumb unconsciously massaged the pummel of one of his swords, aware that there was no threat within the general vicinity, yet he was more used to fighting than settling down in a place where rambunctious activity was rampant and people were oblivious to the concept of peace and quiet. Finally -- after a stumbling, drunk Man narrowly missed the ground after a fall, he nudged his way past the poor fool and opened the door. . .
An Elf? The Ranger had yet another kind of fair share dealing with the fair folk, but this one appeared. . . rough. Feral, almost, but at the same time not so. One not gullible and used to combat versus the comfort that the elves of Rivendell so much preferred. Too tan. . . definitely not an Orc, for that the stranger would have been a rather handsome one. Snow white hair -- Galadriel sported a very shiny head of blonde, but an Elf having this color. . . The moment green eyes locked with the strange Elf's, he was fully aware of the situation at hand. With his hood still concealing his amused expression, the Dúnedain flashed a smile at the barmaids beginning to surround the poor person. One knew and left beforehand -- the others lingered on for a few seconds before attending to other more. . . willing patrons of the place.
❝To think the barmaids would get the message...❞ He sat down in front of other and positioned himself so the suspects in question won't try to approach any further. ❝Unfortunately, they are just as stubborn as an Orc.❞