#extradirty
ellievsbear
taylor price
roma★
One Nice Bug Per Day
gracie abrams
Love Begins
Show & Tell
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bliss lane
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NASA
Noah Kahan
@theartofmadeline
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izzy's playlists!
Andulka
shark vs the universe
Keni
Jar Jar Binks Fan Club
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@the-dream-glider
Medieval Byzantine Greek minuscule script
ὁ βίος βραχὺς ἡ δὲ τέχνη μακρή
[image description: the first five images are references for how each letter is rendered in Medieval Byzantine Greek miniscule script. the final image is a series of examples of various types of script as they appear in real manuscripts. end image description.]
odysseus absolutely does present a threat to penelope if he perceives her as at all unfaithful, and i feel the unfairness of this, and i think people tend to undersell how much tension at least potentially exists between odysseus and penelope. but i'm also like. his reaction, all speculation aside, his actual reaction in the odyssey to her flirting with the suitors is delight, because he immediately ascertains that she is running a con. sorry that they're so in-sync in spite of the forces that try to drive a wedge between them, including their own misgiving hearts. sorry that they invented homophrosyne ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
oh, you meant they literally did, ok
would i, tumblr user thee odysseyofhomer, lie to you?
this is the only funny addition to this post
Turns out the horsemen of the Apocalypse now prefer to go by Shareholder Profit, Private Equity, Corporate Personhood, and Workforce Optimization.
Shareholder Profit: War (the casus belli for attacks on workers' rights)
Private Equity: Pestilence (they are parasites that voraciously strip the value out of a healthy business until it withers and dies)
Workforce Optimization: Famine (cutting hours and employees until the business is starved of staff, barely functioning)
Corporate Personhood: Death (a hollow, shambling mockery of a human with rights and needs)
Yeah I can work with that.
When the business is starved of staff, the (former) staff also starve.
Best one shot I've ever read lmao
(By the excellent @motleyfam )
Holy shit
[image 1: AO3 chapter note that reads, "So as we all know from math class, '5/5' is just a fancy way of saying '1', meaning this story is most definitely still a oneshot 😌". image 2: AO3 chapter note that reads, "The funny thing about fractions is that, mathematically speaking, there is no difference between 5/5 and 6/6 (except for my sanity)".]
I want you to remember:
The fascists hate you too and they just will pretend otherwise until after they've killed the rest of us, before they turn on you.
Thanks to whoever tried, but I knew they'd never allow it.
Let's do it the old fashioned way. Spread it far and wide.
While taking a nap today I dreamt there was a hazard sign called "never found" which was used to indicate a location where people disappeared never to be seen again
it looked like this
The imagery and vibes of this were so visceral I had to do art about it
(Grayscale version under cut)
Stupid Sexy Sauron for @tolkienvillainsweek
the veil jumpers should have been an all-elf faction protecting their history, and Rook could've still been any race via adoption. if the mourn watchers found crypt baby, the veil jumpers could've found, idk, anomaly baby. they're always finding weird shit so that would've made sense.
hello beloveds ☺️
made an alternate version for the mutuals ive never spoken to
You are appreciated
there's a lot of dragon age media out there other than the games. novels & other official books, visual novels, movies & shows... please raise awareness to not spread literally ALL the pdfs and videos around. please be responsible here.
update (may 2024):
sorted files by media type, rather than chronological order. in-universe dates and release dates can be found in a spreadsheet
added tastes of thedas, compiled from screenshots from an online reader, not a proper pdf of the book
added the 3 original ttrpg sets and some reference sheets
added swf files for dragon age journeys and dragon age legends remix, which can be played with any flash emulator
added some origins toolset files for modding. these are editable version of base game head morphs (.mrh), level layouts (.lvl), fmod sound projects (.fdp), animations (.acb), materials (.matproj), and vfx (.vfxproj)
still looking for:
a proper version of tastes of thedas
adobe air installers for systems other than windows so people can play legends without being on pc
When Lucanis tries to offer dating advice to Emmrich late in the game, he admits that his only 2 ideas are gifting knives or getting coffee.
If we think back to the early game, soon after meeting him, Rook buys Lucanis a wyvern-tooth dagger (much to his surprise & delight as we also learn that he loves wyverns) and accompanies him to his favorite café. There, Lucanis gets “all romantic about roasts”, as noted by Illario.
HOWEVER, I am inclined to think that Lucanis was just yapping because he was feeling romantic about ROOK. I mean, Rook just showed up and unknowingly gave him the best little date ever. That was like a 3 out of 2. Instinctively. Man was cooked from the start.
He probably stared blankly at the ceiling of the pantry that night, equal parts giddy and miserable. Feeling that crush start to take form, while also feeling devastated and terrified of what he’s become, of what he could turn into if he slips, of the damage he could do.
“Mierda.”
I read an AITA post a few weeks back about a woman who liked having snacks in the bath when she's had a long day (a result of residual trauma iirc - the bath was her safe space). Her brand new husband of three weeks, a man twice her age who had no job, made her pay all of his bills and do all housework, and spent all day every day gaming because he wanted to make it as a Twitch streamer, had always been fine with this; but, on the day in question, had whisked her bath snacks out of her hands as she was on her way to the bathroom and tried to bin them, telling her it was time to 'break her of that filthy habit in his home'. She told him if he ever actually paid anything towards the house she owns outright he might get a say, took her snacks back, and had her lovely bath. He was since giving her the silent treatment.
(Obviously the judgement was an avalanche of 'NTA and also he's abusing you', which she agreed with, and decided to kick him out, so happy ending.)
Anyway I told my husband about this and he was outraged. "I would never do that!" he told me, furious. "I would find it adorable if you had bath snacks!"
Since then, every time I try to have a bath (which I only do as a rare treat) after about ten minutes there has been an anxious scrabbling at the bathroom door.
"Elanor!" he says. "Do you have bath snacks? Do you need anything?"
My answer is irrelevant. He brings me wine and poptarts. Now I have bath snacks. I'm a bath snacks person. Last time he was literally sleeping on the sofa when I went for the bath. Somehow this still happened. I now have an eager bathroom butler. How did this happen. I have never been so decadent yet bewildered.
some asshole: tries to control his wife by withholding bath snacks
op's husband:
i dont consider myself a 'fashion guru' by any means but one thing i will say is guys you dont need to know the specific brand an item you like is - you need to know what the item is called. very rarely does a brand matter, but knowing that pair of pants is called 'cargo' vs 'boot cut' or the names of dress styles is going to help you find clothes you like WAAAYYYY faster than brand shopping
this also goes for aesthetic or -core titles. 'y2k tank top' is going to get you resellers and fast fashion brands advertising to people looking to meet a current trend. 'thin strap crop tank top' is going to get you a diverse group of results and not upcharge you to hell and back
additionally, shop second hand when you can, second hand and thrift sites typically organize clothes by the cut and color. theyll be more affordable than a depop seller curating you a style to sell you
useful terminology for different kinds of clothing shapes :)
hey if you're trans in the us i love you. hey if you're queer in the us i love you. hey if you're a person of color in the us i love you. hey if you're a woman in the us i love you. hey if you're disabled in the us i love you. i love you i love you i love you
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to be empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
