I'm open to making friends! I love video games, reading, casual crow things, writing, art, movies/tv shows, etc. 💚 I have a delightful partner in my life, and would consider myself a smart little creature!
Hear me out. Fuck Trigonometry, and let me go back to preschool. I know for a fact the likelihood of me needing to know the degree, reference angle, and coterminal to the radian of -11π/3 is so low, that it's practically irrelevant.
More so knowing that upon completion of the course my brain will take allllll this and toss it in the trash.
I want to go back to when a circle was just round and goes in the circle hole. ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ｡
THE CASUALNESS OF THAT COLLIE SLIPPING RIGHT OUT OF THEIR COLLAR. That dude is a Willing Participant of this walk and by god everyone else is going to follow the RULES.
some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, “what’s the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?” and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is “unofficial”, and we know that’s not the right word, but it’s the only word we can come up with…until finally it’s like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is “artificial”.
im high as fuck i was watching a friend stream the opening of super smash bros melee at the same time as i was listening to gangnam style by psy (it turns 13 years old today) so i recreated my experience
Cat sitting on my spine while I lay on my stomach with paws I'd swear are made of cement with how they are pinpoint and impossibly heavy only on my pain spots.
Humans are considered part of the animal kingdom. We are animals, technically mammals to be specific. So really they aren't vegan since humans make the blood. But vegetarian.....maybe. I think it could count as long as the human isn't dying from the removal!
FALSE! I like long descriptions like the texts of old. Fuck lesser words. I will write and write and write until my fingernails fall from my hands! I will work hard, it may get more difficult, but you shall take my extra long sentences from my cold grey hands long after I'm gone if you can even scrounge through my grave to get them!
So back awhile ago, I made a post about communities basically being the same as the groups that were removed from Tumblr. Honestly, smart to bring them back. I was pissy when they were cut out.
On to the real point though. Ants. I fucking love seeing this, I swear it happens on a good amount of websites at least once. I saw it on discord back in the day. I swear it was on reddit too. People playing at being an ant colony. Hilarious. Every. Single. Time. I even partook myself once in it. Silly and fun. And I hope as the internet still changes and evolves into the future, it's something we don't lose out on. I want to be old as fuck seeing the youth pretend to be ants online. It's a wonderful thing.
Turning back around as a construct wobbles by, a plate held by it’s rounded fists balances two porcelain cups. Swooping the plate from it’s chunky fingers to place on the table before the construct trips a bit over roots trimmed from the wall plants still not composted yet. Perching upon the velveted cushion as I place the cups down before us both, pointing towards to the opposite seat waiting.
Only a moment of hesitation existed before the human grabbed the cup. Yieemi begins back on it’s previous task of cleaning, by beginning on the root cutting pile. The walls reflecting warmth across it’s almost shiny form, surely in need of a wash. The true subject at hand is why a human that still thinks covens are imperative to magic is here of all places. Sipping rosehip from my tea set, sitting atop my stool pillows.
“What magic is something you would journey a distance here for?” I begin.
Quickly sputtering past another draught of drink they begin, “I want you to remove my curse. Something only yourself can manage.”
The human reaches to the edge of their tunics neckline to tug it a bit down spinning to display just below the nape of the neck. Thin scrolling lines of soft green and black etched within the flesh, sprouting into larger leafy configurations. A stylization that felt oddly familiar, a tingle of feeling drifting over my own in mirror. Which vine does that look like, was it a local one? The interest for this reason of meeting me has increased significantly. The quick clattering of construct feet over the exposed portions of flooring drifting off to background noise, not even a pot boiling over could be a draw off this tasty tale. Nails protected by carved shell shaped to them, wrapped in soft golden threads scrape against the rim of the patterned cup. I’ve seen those shapes before, many years back. The memory is just on the cusp of remembrance itself.
“Morning glories,” realization rolling off my tongue with a taste of bitter.
“Yes, morning glories,” the humans voice fills with distance swiftly, “Your personal work, you should recognize it. Or, I’d hope you do.”
“My work? I haven’t met you before, not even once I’ll have you know! What a misdeed to suggest I cast any such work on someone I know not!”
A sneer escapes my guest, “Work passed down! A whole bloodline touched by your craft. A well-known secret amongst my people, unknown to neighboring lands. Downfall of young men, and a drainer of our women.”
The flames below the pot hanging from the hearth jump high, singe the fabric tossed over a nearby table. Fists slam the table, shaking the still full cup in my hands. A strong movement from one I believed to be reserved. Startling my heart, and striking the mind with the event itself. As if it had occurred just the morn before.
-
Rivulets of water bubbling over many smooth stones of blues and greys, curving through field after field of blistering light. The woodland fringe left far behind my back, it’s sheltering boughs no longer able to lean above my head here. My only respite being the bright flecks of blossoms peppered over the long grasslands reach. Unlacing beaded buckskin strings wrapped around my calves to remove the covers fully to dabble my feet into the brook, the rattling of the strings as I place them inside my satchel feels like music. Music expanded further from the laughter of the water passing me by, the wind whipping the grassy foliage against their brethren.
This particular solstice will lead to next years, the most consequential one in such a vast amount of time, coinciding with the shrouding of the sun with the moon itself. The last requirement for it all, the dried speckled petals and spines of starthread thistles. Not an easy plant to come by within my own realm, or most territories at that. Finding it however, in the bounds of Aesterabask, loftier probability though by much.
Branching off towards the shining light, modeled off as natures overturned besom. Starthread thistles stand tall, even taller than that of an elder witch. Toothed leaves coated in fine itching fibers for avoidance of animal feasting, spines punching out from the main stems into the air. Yet, the blossoms themselves are a sight beheld by only those willing to seek them. Downy narrow petals of white stippled with the most delicate touches the red only held in comparison to mountain ash berry jam sprouting from a barbed bract. The bends of the brook span many paces which should eventually lead to something. Whether that be the treasured flower or expanding to Hagstone Stream as mother’s tome notes.
Pursuing the sun’s near setting was the triumph of finding intended blooms of those spiked florals. Dawning buckskin gloves with scales of hardened leather attached for protection, collecting enough supplies for this ritual and many more to come. Horizon blazing the last tones of the day’s beams, certainly too much time to return home after the two moon cycles to arrive. Rest would be the smartest move in my situation as the moon rises into view. A sprinkle of creeping thyme seed upon the banks’ grassy shores, a song warbling deep from within myself brings the sprouts out to grow faster than any plant normally could ever. Plush capabilities of a down mattress to cradle my figure from the ground. Perhaps come the morrow, a bit more harvest for my collection would be a boon for longer.
Unexpectedly awakened to a muted sound of rummaging, and a feeling of being shaken. A hand unfathomably deep in the bowels of my satchel, belongings strewn around the thyme padding. Sleep still grasping my sight, mother’s invaluable knowledge is held between this man’s hands only to be flung aside to the darkness. A faint sploosh sounding off the other side of the water striking the last of fantasy from the mind. Hurtling up into a seated position seizing the wrists of this appalling thief, sparks flying off skin. The looters’ wrists locking together with cords of glowing gold emerging from many bangles jingling with each twist and wrench.
Ramming the man away from my possessions, there was no more time to think before diving directly through the frigid water. Flailing arms reaching out, a cry bitten back in hopes of brushing over the cover. Only to loosen and shriek out as fingers connect with saturated parchment. Wheeling around my body stalks forward without my own direction, heart overflowing with wrath as hands that look like my own snatch at this man’s forearms. Talons dug into his hide, clawing past his clothes. Curses jabbing into his ears, the surrounding atmosphere itself crackling around our entangled selves. Tattoos of vines tapped softly into my limbs over many moon cycles snaking forth past my wrists. Green meeting black, black waning back to green. Pigments sweeping ahead, igniting as it wreathes into place. Scorching in as it covers the back from the waist up, then wrapping itself onto the upper arms.
His body unprepared for the spell and high energy slumps back into the meadow grasses. Forever marked for his crime. A curse for the ages. A man who will live forevermore with tremors that shake through the hands and head, an ingrained paranoia, then later illusions that will haunt his sight even in the brightest of lights. The worst of all, something concocted explicitly, a shortened existence even for a human. Age will flow through his life faster, much like the plant now bound to him.
The muffled sounds of vague thumping upon the solid ashen wood that makes up the door of my domicile wasn’t to be expected at this specific hour currently. Presently the plan was to finish sprucing up the place before leading into harvest for the next moon cycle, and the large scale spell planned for the highest moment of the seasons flourishment. Not that a guest or two is unwelcome, there are quite a few pleasant characters living nearby within view of the cottages outlook from the workrooms window.
Upon the swinging open, comes a soft breathe of autumn wind. A scent of incoming storms come tonight, predicted correctly thankfully by the leech jar. Not huge on being left in the unknown for something that could damage the roof, or prevent proper ingredient development later on. Though the unknown of who was standing on the steps, was a rather surprising situation. Tuffs of bronzed mahogany hair standing off the head of a clearly worn frame, over a face most dreary.
“Who are you to darken my entryway? Especially at a high for this seasons work for one such as myself,” the words slip past my lips much colder to the stranger than I first intended, “Witches don’t take beggars in so easily you should know.”
Glossy eyes blinking up in my direction as a tongue passes over lightly chapped lips. Thirsty perhaps, or needing a moment to work up a voice to speak back. A beggar might have been a wrong guess though from my first assumptions, the clothes hanging on their body aren’t worse for wear. Darning weave has been used on his; it was done to build the textiles' strength. Whoever cares for this one, does it with good knowledge of repair. Much like the work my own mother's hands once did.
Chest heaving before my very eyes, not from movement or weather, mouth moving without a song of sound coming out. This is becoming a tiresome interaction. Flicking my fingernails into my home I beckon them follow me within. If they need me so badly for something, the least they can do is continue to let me work on what I was before. Steps sounding behind me after the smaller body lowers the hook into the loop that keeps the door closed to light winds and animals. Ignoring the idea of placing the crossbar down for a more secure latch, this human seems frightened enough. If I roll my dice properly, I can get an extra set of hands for collection in exchange for what they will ask me soon enough.
Cooing towards another hall branching from the workroom my cadence warms back up, “Yieemi, we have someone here, bring me some of the rosehip tea we had brewing. Honey will also be required.”
“I’m in need of your magics, even if I must beg it from your coven,” vocalization behind me finally from the aforementioned company throatily reaches out.
“No coven to be spoken of, no need for one. Didn’t know humans still thought of us in groups like wolves or geese,” quipping back.
Turning back around as a construct wobbles by, a plate held within it’s rounded fists balances two porcelain cups. Swooping the plate from it’s chunky fingers to place on the table before the construct trips a bit over roots trimmed from the wall plants still not composted yet. Perching upon the velveted cushion as I place the cups down before us both, pointing towards the opposite seat waiting.
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