styofa doing anything
Jules of Nature
Sweet Seals For You, Always
we're not kids anymore.

JBB: An Artblog!
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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Misplaced Lens Cap
taylor price
almost home
Game of Thrones Daily

pixel skylines
NASA

JVL
dirt enthusiast

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
trying on a metaphor
h
todays bird

blake kathryn

seen from Canada

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Honduras

seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States
seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from China

seen from United States

seen from Indonesia

seen from Hong Kong SAR China

seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Italy
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seen from France
@sunlitpeony
German Chamomile tatt commish
where we once were
~ roosavintage on ig
Yehuda Amichai, from The Selected Poetry of Yehuda Amichai; “Jerusalem 1967,”
some beautiful old botanical illustrations from a gardening book I own ❀
❀
entry #1 || to go and come back
for prompt #1 || “ crux ”
Why was it that the sky never once rained since they came to this land of endless light? Was it that it had cried each and every day, mourning a loss it could no longer remember, and had thus spent any tears it had left to shed?
She did not know. She was not the same as that sky.
As she gathered the length of her hair back, her fingers swept across the braided section. Dainty and as perpetual as the interwoven strands themselves, it would be her rope in the dark — a corded reminder of all she carried with her into what yet lay in the uncertain depths of the sea, of Emet-Selch’s purported home…
Three lengths for three lives, each as inextricably bound into another as the last. Behind her both husband and babe sleep as peacefully as they’re able in this strange realm bathed in its eerie glow. Would that she had been strong enough to contain the Light in its entirety; perhaps then the night would have remained, had endured the same as the people of the First. But she had not been so it could not, but she had only ever been tenacious.. and this? This would not be their midnight.
A hand to smooth both of their hair, to toy with those dark locks in reluctant but loving fingers. They would all leave this place together once her errand in the deep was done.
For them she fought, and for them she would come home.
❀
FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge SEPTEMBER 1st - 30th, 2020
Welcome to YEAR 4 of our annual FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge, folks!
In 2017 we saw 2,451 written pieces ranging from three-lined haikus to multi-paged stories. 2018 ramped up even more with 3,641 written pieces, and 2019 ended with 6,543 written pieces counted!
That means that in 3 years you’ve collectively written 12,635 pieces for this challenge!! That’s amazing!
Here’s the gist:
Runs from September 1st - 30th, 2020. During that time frame:
Visit sea-wolf-coast-to-coast once a day at 12:00pm (noon) PDT for the prompt of the day. Convert to your timezone accordingly. All prompts will be one word or brief phrase that you can interpret however you please.
You have 24 hours to write something for that prompt.
Submit the link to your entry post via this Google Form: https://forms.gle/2x9GYu73YTVbPAeR8
There are no length or skill requirements (short & sweet is fine!).
There will be no 24-hour deadlines for the first week, September 1st - 7th.
Makeup/extra credit days every Sunday.
Every entry posted within its 24-hour deadline will count toward a participation prize raffle at the end.
You can join any time with any prompt #! There’s no need for latecomers to start with prompt #1. Picking up with the most recent prompt is A OK.
If you’re an artist and you would like to volunteer to do a simple black & white illustration as a participation prize at the end of this challenge, you can volunteer here!
RULES & MORE INFO can be found here: https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
(( banner art by @dantinmikannes ))
Rules & Info || Prompt List || #FFxivWrite2020 || kofi
entry #30 || blue bastion
for prompt #30 || “ darkness ”
Aymeric stirs in bed beside her, and Ane’s lips curl into an impossibly fond smile.
How strange it is to be back in Ishgard once more after all their time away -- almost unfathomably far away -- on a star teetering on the brink of oblivion. Sometimes she wakes, suspended in that spiritual listing between this world and the next, and smells the aether thick on the air, tastes the tang on her tongue, and hears the eerie buzz of a too-bright sky tingling within her horns. And in that precarious place sometimes she believes it... believes she is there, still bound to the First by its Light and all the horrors it wrought upon the land -- and, as the lingering vestiges of sleep are violently shaken away when she springs back to consciousness drenched in a cold sweat, upon her, too.
But he is never far. That twin’d planet drifting around her as she orbits him in turn, their gravity only grown all the stronger for their years perfecting this dance with one another, reaches out his hand to smooth her hair, to steady her with whispered words and fingers tangled together. For all the love the First brought back to their lives it carried with it, too, a great deal of anguish; rest does not always come so easily to those who gazed into the heart of the stars and glimpsed their deepest secrets.
But he is never far. With a mug of hot tea and a warmed honey cake placed with care by the chair beside the fire, a blanket to wrap around their shoulders, limbs caught in a bundle of safety and affection, he keeps awake those nights when sleep eludes her, when it comes in restless fits that see her searching for him and for their son. These nights are more distant now, the occasional intrusion upon their lives, but they are never easy.
But he is never far.
Here the hard edges of night are softened by his presence, and the shadows that enshroud them do so by way of his tender embrace. His breath is what moves the candle’s flame, a flickering reminder of light in the dark that she cannot see but believes in all the same, and each of his heartbeats is the measure by which time passes.
Everything is gentle and still tonight, a calm and glassy shoreline, because he is never far.
And never, too, shall she be.
entry #29 || his lordship
for prompt #29 || free day! choose your own adventure!
Mandragora purrs approvingly as she slips her nails under his chin and gives him a good scratch, and every time he tilts his head to guide her hand to a new place in need of a little tender loving care, Ane cannot help laughing. The two of them have been constant companions these past few months -- every time she arrives home from the clinic he is waiting by the foray to greet her, and on those occasions where he is preoccupied elsewhere, the sound of the door opening is more than enough to summon him to her side. Entwining between her legs as she tries to walk until she must finally be still, and once he has her still? Why, then it’s far too easy to persuade her to gather him up into her arms with a baleful meow, and once there he tucks his head into the crook of her neck and bumps her jawline with the top of his head. Even at this age his fur is still so soft and magnificent, meticulously cleaned and kept with careful tongue during the day; after all, he must look regal given his position in this household! Batting at balled up paper like a kitten, whapping at his tail before he has properly settled down for a nap beside the fire, kneading at her ribs when he lays against her as she falls asleep on the windowseat... his lordship is an attentive master of the house, and every day she grows to love him a little bit more, appreciates him a little bit more, and wishes him to always be with them a little bit more.
entry #28 || rejoining
for prompt #28 || “ attune ”
{ content warning: something that feels like body horror; ShB spoilers }
entry #27 || tactical retreat
for prompt #27 || “ palaver ”
Who wore what mauve-colored gloves with that burgundy gown, really, what could she possibly have been thinking? matching such shades together as that! Or trying to, rather, we all know she had no hope of succeeding. Why, she had even less hope than the House of unburying Ishgard from the many trials it faces now -- can you believe the news that the Lord Commander intends to open our borders to the Doman refugees, even those horned creatures our Knights Most Holy handled all those years ago? No doubt pressured by his marriage to one of their number, seduced into it perhaps... is this now to become our city? The state of it? This on top of all the ridiculous notions already passed through the House -- lowborns amongst the highborns, common blood mingling with the old! How quaint. How cruel. How unsanitary. And did you see her shoes? Oh, how she tried to hide them beneath her hem, but at her height, really... who did she think she was fooling?
The overlapping voices are an agitated current, pushing in one and hundred directions and seemingly going nowhere, and yet for as long as she remains idle, Ane feels herself pulled along by it. Lady Satavier holds her counsel with teaspoon in hand, scraping the cup in the most irritating fashion with its bowl; the enamel veritably peels from her teeth with every pass. Word had gotten out how Lord Borel had defended the behavior of Lady Borel from their last gathering in the parlor, and it feels as though the other highborn ladies involved have been so inclined towards doubling down on their awful conversation.
It isn’t until Ane feels the light touch at the base of her elbow, a tender contact reminiscent of that Aymeric uses to bring her back from her thoughts when they are standing side by side -- perhaps that is why he does it, the safe and familiar feeling of it -- that she tips her head back, and there is Elouan asking if she should like him to escort her home. Soft lips part in surprise until she remembers the gratitude in his voice when she saved him last; now it is his turn to rescue her.
All eyes are upon them as they quit the room, Ane’s skirts swishing and Elouan’s armor clinking quietly, and all at once the horrible topics die down for those far more mundane -- still horrible, mind you, but no longer with the intent to get a rise out of the Lady Borel.
But rise she will, and when they least expect it.
entry #26 || technique
for prompt #26 || “ slosh ”
How long has it been since those first days?
She spilled the tea quite often back then -- pouring it out on to the table, on to the floor and staining the fine tatami beneath. Oh, she very seldom got any into the cup proper, and it was a truth that left her hanging her head as her face positively burned with shame. What sort of wife would she be if she could not do such a simple thing as this? And even barring marriage, how could she be a proper citizen of Doma if pouring a cup of tea continued to elude her? These fears plagued her whenever her guardian would cluck her tongue against the backs of her teeth and make a comment on the mess she had made, and so she practiced tirelessly to get it just right. Attempting to find the grip she needed to do what the others could so effortlessly took more than a trivial bit of work; ahhh, how often she would burn her little fingers with scalding hot water! And yet, somehow, she seemed born to do this -- the scales that decorated the backs of her hands seemed perfect protection against the heat of the teapot’s spout, and so she discovered she could rest it just lightly upon them to better control her pour. From there she learned how to feel out the lip of the cup with her fingertips, how to best disguise this movement as part of the pour itself, and in time she came to do so with confidence and conversation.
Ane makes a soft sound, something in the spirit of a satisfied chuckle, as she retrieves the kettle from over the fire and pours herself a cup without even so much as a splash.
Aye... it has been a long time.