Discover Top Posts Tagged with #glaicer

yo??????

#lego ninjago #ninjago fanart #ninjago zane #ninjago cole #glaicer #glaicershipping

Ex-Queen Glacier during the return of the Darkstealer

Again, experiments with style and color training. In general, few people talk about this topic, when the Darkstalker sent a terrible disease to the kingdom of icewings. As for me, Queen Glacier is a good ruler and she is worthy of our attention

#wings of fire #wof #dragon #dragon art #wof art #woffanart #wof fanart #glaicer #icewing

you know I've been too nice to Red Son time to change that and just a heads up I haven't decided on the type of relationship Red and MK have I just know they're close so feel free to give your two cents on it

Wukong taught Ao Lie how to use his fire so DBK and PIF decided to get back into compact with him so he could help their son it ended in disaster Red Son accidentally killed Wukong the incident absolutely traumatized him after all he murdered his own uncle who was just trying to help him and although he got to keep the samodi fire but at what cost

then a couple hundred years later MK enters the scene and Red Son gets a constant reminder on what he's done what he's taken from his new friend from his other uncle and it only gets worse once MK breaks his glamour because he looks just like him

Red Son is hit with a horrifying realization he can no longer ignore MK is most likely Wukong's son he took away someone's parent Red Son knows that pain and he inflicted on someone else he inflicted it on his friend his first ever friend his best friend and this tears him apart and the worst part MK doesn't even know what he's lost he thinks his parents abandoned him and now Red Son has to come clean with what he took from him

I come in here looking for a break from drawing and writing and YOU GIVE ME PAIN-

#ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #ao3 author #lmk #lmk shadowpeach #glaicer #i love this tho #i know for a fact this is revenge for The Problem with Immortality #im crying #in my tears I can't write #so if the chapter takes longer to write it's Glacier's fault

Storms are fine speakers, and tell all they know, but their voices of lightning, torrent, and rushing wind are much less numerous than the nameless still, small voices too low for human ears; and because we are poor listeners we fail to catch much that is fairly within reach. Our best rains are heard mostly on roofs, and winds in chimneys; and when by choice or compulsion we are pushed into the heart of a storm, the confusion made by cumbersome equipments and nervous haste and mean fear, prevent our hearing any other than the loudest expressions. Yet we may draw enjoyment from storm sounds that are beyond hearing, and storm movements we cannot see. The sublime whirl of planets around their suns is as silent as raindrops oozing in the dark among the roots of plants. In this great storm, as in every other, there were tones and gestures inexpressibly gentle manifested in the midst of what is called violence and fury, but easily recognized by all who look and listen for them. The rain brought out the colors of the woods with delightful freshness, the rich brown of the bark of the trees and the fallen burs and leaves and dead ferns; the grays of rocks and lichens; the light purple of swelling buds, and the warm yellow greens of the libocedrus and mosses. The air was steaming with delightful fragrance, not rising and wafting past in separate masses, but diffused through all the atmosphere. Pine woods are always fragrant, but most so in spring when the young tassels are opening and in warm weather when the various gums and balsams are softened by the sun. The wind was now chafing their innumerable needles and the warm rain was steeping them. Monardella grows here in large beds in the openings, and there is plenty of laurel in dells and manzanita on the hillsides, and the rosy, fragrant chamoebatia carpets the ground almost everywhere. These, with the gums and balsams of the woods, form the main local fragrance-fountains of the storm. The ascending clouds of aroma wind-rolled and rain-washed became pure like light and traveled with the wind as part of it. Toward the middle of the afternoon the main flood cloud lifted along its western border revealing a beautiful section of the Sacramento Valley some twenty or thirty miles away, brilliantly sun-lighted and glistering with rain-sheets as if paved with silver. Soon afterward a jagged bluff-like cloud with a sheer face appeared over the valley of the Yuba, dark-colored and roughened with numerous furrows like some huge lava-table. The blue Coast Range was seen stretching along the sky like a beveled wall, and the somber, craggy Marysville Buttes rose impressively out of the flooded plain like islands out of the sea. Then the rain began to abate and I sauntered down through the dripping bushes reveling in the universal vigor and freshness that inspired all the life about me. How clean and unworn and immortal the woods seemed to be!—the lofty cedars in full bloom laden with golden pollen and their washed plumes shining; the pines rocking gently and settling back into rest, and the evening sunbeams spangling on the broad leaves of the madroños, their tracery of yellow boughs relieved against dusky thickets of Chestnut Oak; liverworts, lycopodiums, ferns were exulting in glorious revival, and every moss that had ever lived seemed to be coming crowding back from the dead to clothe each trunk and stone in living green. The steaming ground seemed fairly to throb and tingle with life; smilax, fritillaria, saxifrage, and young violets were pushing up as if already conscious of the summer glory, and innumerable green and yellow buds were peeping and smiling everywhere.

As for the birds and squirrels, not a wing or tail of them was to be seen while the storm was blowing. Squirrels dislike wet weather more than cats do; therefore they were at home rocking in their dry nests. The birds were hiding in the dells out of the wind, some of the strongest of them pecking at acorns and manzanita berries, but most were perched on low twigs, their breast feathers puffed out and keeping one another company through the hard time as best they could.

When I arrived at the village about sundown, the good people bestirred themselves, pitying my bedraggled condition as if I were some benumbed castaway snatched from the sea, while I, in turn, warm with excitement and reeking like the ground, pitied them for being dry and defrauded of all the glory that Nature had spread round about them that day.