#modernity.

[rvexillology]

Reject Modernity. Embrace Tradition

from /r/vexillologycirclejerk Top comment: that map looks dangerously close to the only countries that arent infected with covid19 maybe we're missing something?

[polowac]

IT TAKES A PROFOUND LEVEL OF WEARINESS to sink down upon a park bench in the twilight hours, eyes half closed and backpack -- plain, black, darker than the skies above him -- slipping out of geralt’s hand onto the ground below.  he’s hunted ten thousand beasts through the years if he were to take a meager guess.  cut through flesh and ichor.  chitin and thick fur.  he rarely comes out without a wound as the years grow, even now a sluggish stream of blood threatens to drip through the sweater and jacket geralt’s forced over his t-shirt.  his torn armor is hidden in the bag alongside swords, potions, a trophy from the fucker who gouged into his side.  all locked up in such a miniscule container thanks to the magic that yennefer keeps flowing when she stops by.  

needs a pick up.  the bag has been getting too heavy, geralt thinks, eyes closed as he sags deeper into the bench beneath him.  still even as roach shifts precariously upon his shoulders,  her claws digging into fabric and a hoarse mew leaving the feline’s throat.  one hand comes out to scratch at the back of her neck.  the other remains sagging.  relaxed.  until a foreign scent strikes at the back of his throat, thick and rapidly approaching.  

undeniably human.  of course.

“only a fool would try to rob me,” geralt says without opening his eyes.  “leave the bag alone.  and the cat.  otherwise, carry on, imagine you aren’t here to chat.”

[bwthornton]

Moorcroft Pottery Mackintosh Collection Modernity 914/2 Emma Bossons #MoorcroftPottery #Art #Ceramics #StratfordonAvon

http://www.bwthornton.co.uk/moorcroft.php

Moorcroft Pottery Mackintosh Collection Modernity 914/2 Emma Bossons #MoorcroftPottery #Art #Ceramics #StratfordonAvon

[polowac]

@eldrytchs hit the heart !!

HOW OFTEN IS GERALT paired to new agents as anything kindly?  so often it’s a punishment when the older agents know him well enough to sit back in their vehicle.  rest their sore bodies and aching minds as he hunts down the creature and disposes of it for them, returning with a skull or fluid.  a spine or flesh.  whatever they want for study, for proof to earn him cash enough for rent and food over a few more months.  but last trip out with agent kay has earned him nothing but disdain.  

if the fbi was brave enough to slap his wrists, they would.  too many fears keep them from punishing a witcher in any overt way, however.  half his fault and half their own imaginings.  

instead, a new agent.  new to him at least, with deep set, dark eyes and the hair to match.  almost like dandelion if he wasn’t serious down to his core instead of being full of nonsense.  geralt has little hope for dry humored small talk.  less hope for another sentient monster to be saved so long as they’re each other’s shadows.  

he only speaks once the car has long since come to a halt, facing deep woods of a national park that no doubt requires permits and proof of arrival.  none of which they’ll give if a park ranger happens to stumble by.  “i don’t suppose,” geralt says, “we know that there’s a monster here.  another hunch?  wounds that don’t quite match a bear or cougar on some hikers?”

[polowac]

YENNEFER TIPPED HIM OFF ON this one, a unexpected kindness purred through the phone as she spoke of a soon to be contract in an out of the way town called hawkins.  for you do so poorly when they contact you, she had said.  sweet laughter to geralt’s grumbling, already halfway packed.  it’s not untrue.  the us government puts too many restrictions on what is or isn’t allowed in contracts, what can and cannot be done to end the damn monster.  and they always expect death.  

best to handle it before.  call them when he’s finished, yennefer as a go between if she has the time.  only problem is the lack of any beforehand knowledge.  just a town with regular folk who flinch at the sound of geralt’s vehicle.  no bad scents.  no blood in his eyes or his nostrils, no fear on nearby faces.  his backpack swings onto his back, his cat following next and his motorcycle beginning to cool down, parked on the main street.  geralt feels a few glances here and there.  nothing he doesn’t expect -- beyond one cutting, digging deep enough into him that geralt turns to take in the kid those eyes belong to.  

trouble, geralt thinks, doesn’t usually like to be blatant.  not at first.  he shifts roach until she lays down with legs hanging like a loose, angular scarf around his neck.  

“spare a smoke?”  he asks with mustered politeness that nears on personable.  “ran out on the road.”

@hargroeve gets a starter !!

[polowac]

POTS SEEM TO KEEP CALLING kettles black.  some decades past, enough liquor and vile hatred festering away in geralt’s belly would have found him saying the exact same damn words this kid is saying to him.  should be slurred, he thinks.  not murmured into the air by a sober person to an utter stranger.  where are his friends, the people who should give a shit and absorb these words because they want to?  what makes a witcher the best option other than having not a single other person left in your life?  

he can’t help a sigh from tearing out of his throat.  there are no good answers for questions like those, no good assurances for statements like this one.  he shifts his sword from one hand to the other, a weight familiar yet impossible to ignore.  guilt.  should geralt feel that as well?  a young woman dead at the feet of a monster all because one of them, both of them were a bit too slow in their hunt.  she has no real identification on her.  maybe too young for it, maybe forgot.  a brunette.  for that, selfishly, geralt can be thankful.  blonde women losing their lifeblood are too familiar -- too close to someone else.  

“people,” geralt finally says after a moment, “die.  we can’t stop that every time.  they don’t teach you that, wherever you’re from?”

     @nclled​ sent  ‘ i struggle not to feel guilty. ’

[polowac]

“THANK YOUR GOD FOR MY keen eyes.”  geralt answers, the bitter dryness of his voice almost cutting as the claws of a fiend that had this man tearing himself apart, congealing back together over and over again.  “and my contract.  few lone men could kill one that strong without losing every organ.  and then some.”

he doesn’t add that he thinks he could have.  that’s just blind ego, the self assurance every witcher needs to face insurmountable odds.  they only admit to weakness when the beast has already rent their flesh, pried their organs into the cold air and dirty ground.  there’s blood enough from his own veins to cement a bit of doubt in geralt’s mind, a weary hesitation as he reaches into his backpack and pries a small bottle of rich, bloody fluid from an inner pocket.  

the cap is well worn in his teeth from other bite marks.  spit out into geralt’s hand as he adjusts his grip on the bottle and angles it, dripping a quarter of its contents into four jagged gouges across his left thigh.  “fuck.”  he spits at the acidic burn that spreads through torn flesh and broken veins.  an exhale follows.  head tilting back to the sky, starless under the light pollution, and then back to the stranger besides him.  

a good quarter of his body hasn’t come back together.  hard to tell what wounds are hidden there when the blood hasn’t finished appearing. 

“can’t say it takes a fool of a man to fight a fiend.  you’re not a man.  begs the question of just what you are, doesn’t it?”

     @nclled​ sent  ‘ thank god for the stubbornness of organs ’