seen from Moldova
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from Mexico
seen from China
seen from Lithuania
seen from United States
seen from Japan
seen from Germany
seen from Russia
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
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seen from United States
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seen from United States
Hey, Leonard.
Jane Widdop & Courtney Eaton
“F Sharp” // “Old Wounds” | Yellowjackets
- Haruki Murakami
favourite comic detail is the implication that medic cut sniper's fuck ass haircut in the middle of that 12 hr surgery
the lil bit on his neck is gone thats how you can tell. medic fucking buzzed his goofy mullet. you dont cut a patients hair unless you're performing surgery in that region. all his stitches are abdominal.
Thinking about time shenanigans where somehow Whumpee's many months of recovery are reversed but like. in an instant. And it puts into perspective how much they've had to overcome over all this time when some evil hand-wavey temporal-physical dissonance or whatnot reopens all those old wounds and all that pain hits all at once and whoops, they are down on the verge of death
The books I plan to read for the trans rights readathon this year! March 21st-31st!
(Almost) Every Costume Per Episode + Aurelia's black gown in 1x11
DWC June 2026
Day 1 Gloom/Allure
Pointed ears perked up around the bar as the evening vespers echoed through the countless alleys and spires of Silvermoon. A haunting unison of elysian canting flooded over the present company, mingling with the perfumes of tranquility bloom hedges and another freshly popped bottle of port. The goblin with a golden grin sighed, breaking the illusion of an idyllic night.
“Well, aren’t you a sour one? I thought you loved this city?”
“It’s different now, Jestirion.”
The blood elf pouted and poked his student with a butt of his scabbard. The man grumbled in response.
“It’s not all bad. We got the Sunw-”
He paused for a moment to correct himself.
“The Dawnwell is secure now. Those void beings have crawled back to their dark corners, and our city can prosper once more without fear.”
Violet eyes glanced up to the swordmaster with doubt.
“That ain’t what I’m talkin’ about.”
Jestirion picked up his crystal glass and took another intoxicating sip.
“Elaborate.”
“…It’s everything. The people. The city itself. The culture now.”
An elongated brow arched with practiced performance.
“Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? You always mentioned how you were treated as a nuisance here. The ‘Hero of Walk of Elders’ and whatnot. I know that I’ve been most accommodating not just to your kind, but to all of the… others.”
He turned unsteadily in his seat and jabs his finger into the man’s doublet, agitating the padded cloth and mood of his mentor.
“See, that right there! Yous don’t mean it.”
A correcting push guided Ruzzell’s hand away from the elf.
“Oh please. You are hardly making a good case for your own people.”
“It’s that shit right there!”
“Language!”
“Naw, I’m calling it like it is. Shit. You put on a polite smile, distract others with magic and fancy perfumes and clothes, and put on a show like this is some kinda play. But deep down, you are just like the rest of ‘em! You only tolerate us. You only accept us when it’s convenient to yous.”
The words sting, not because they were wholly untrue, but because of the scene it caused among the remaining patrons and barkeep. A glance around before the elf simply laughed it off.
“Apologies everyone. My protégé here has had a bit too much port and is reliving old woes.”
Ruzzell slinks down in his seat, palming his forehead as he groans.
“Fuck this, I need some air.”
The diminutive man staggers off his stool and takes with him his glass of port, taking another large swig as he stumbles out the doorway. Jestirion waves his hand dismissively and assures the barkeep that all will be well as he offers to pick up the tab. Outside, the cold air of the night arrests him. He falls back into the bushes, twigs snapping and a flourish of flower petals enveloping him in their gentle scent. Outstretched before him was the yawn of gilded towers hailing to the starry night above.
His mind swirled in a sea of booze and bad memories. He recalled his past lovers. His failed attempts at winning the hearts of people here. Of people who used and discarded him. Many of the same smiles and honied words practiced countless times. The reclaimed buildings and courtyards were unseen to him. He remembered The Scar and what it had symbolized. Not in the traditional sense. He saw what was still hidden in the hearts of the people. Resentment. Vanity. The allure of power. Elitism. He had already seen it in his time in Zul’Aman. No one wanted to admit that they still held onto centuries old beliefs. Old hatreds. Old views. This was Silvermoon reborn. New paint. New flowers. New gold and songs and fashion.
But the people were still the same.
“Mr. Goldgrin, the hedges are hardly a comfortable place to sleep for the night, don’t you think?”
“You fuggin… pretty…”
The drink got to him far too soon, turning to relieve his bowels of the tawny poison he sought to silence all those glooms and woe of the past. The vespers of the night swirled into a cacophony, tormenting his troubled mind.
“Oh dear… Uh… it’s alright. You just uh… take as long as you need there.”
Jestirion looked onwards down the sloping main line running down past the harbor and vanishing out to Quel’danas. The ever-glowing font of light stirred renewed hope and inspiration to the master. To Ruzzell’s weary eyes, he only saw the same font of power. New name. Same symbol.
(@daily-writing-challenge)
I was keeping my old wounds fresh as evidence for a trial that would never come...
—Mark Nepo
