☆ Steph ☆ genderfluid ☆ any pronouns ☆ Hiding from society and running from the law. A snake a day keeps the doctor at bay. I'm just a gun shooting, knife caring weird witch hippie. I'm into various other fandoms and my tumblr shows it.
Since Netflix is removing She-Ra February 21st here’s a link to a Google drive with all five seasons <3
EDIT: I am not the creator of any of the drives I post on here I found these on Reddit and wanted to share them, I’m not responsible for any problems with the drive (not mad)
Okay, you gotta understand 1 more layer of just how awesome this is. That's an old-fashioned calligraphy pen. Yes, with a very fine point, and it's clearly a cartridge pen since it's not having to be dipped in an inkpot periodically, but it uses an ink that cannot be erased, and will smear like hell if it isn't handled carefully.
There is not a single mistake on this entire page.
There is not a single hesitation.
There is only the artistry of pure confidence.
This is the result of, not thousands of strokes of practice, but well beyond ten thousand strokes of practice, and quite possibly more than a hundred thousand strokes of practice.
Practice does indeed make perfect.
May your own art, your own creativity, reach these kinds of heights, whatever it is...and may you always have the passion & interest to continue practicing.
Will never tire of marvelling at how the colour palette in OFMD exists to reinforce the coherency of Ed and Stede and their relationship.
There are 4 main colours used and these are obviously teal and purple, but also red and gold (inc. blonde/ginger)
Stede's iconic colour is teal, established by the first outfit we see him in, his teal gemstone ring, and the decorations of his captains quarters and around the ship. Teal would've been an expensive colour to own in those days, representative of Stede's upper class background. It's a shade derived from blue and green, which has connotations of the sea and the sky.
Ed's iconic colour is purple, which seems to be the only colourful item of clothing he owns (despite it often being hidden under his leathers). It's also the colour he chooses to wear in his fancy outfit in s1ep5, right down to the purple ribbons in his beard. Purple is often associated with royalty, which Ed essentially is, in regards to the pirate world!
Perhaps less obviously, red and gold are also used to represent Ed and Stede, respectively. The piece of silk Ed keeps from his childhood is red. Stede carries the golden theme in his blonde/ginger hair. Both are rich colours, connoting finery and abundance, as well as passion and love.
Interestingly, these colours don't always stay in those pairings but do often stay representative of Ed/Stede! It's especially wonderful when they wear each other's colours.
Ed's pirate necklaces are gold, and the fancy suit he wears also has gold detailing-
Stede's whole ship is teal, red and gold, but is particularly vivid in his Captains quarters-
The mermaid tail of Mer-Stede is gold and purple, Ed's depression robe is red and gold-
The wardrobes of Stede's ship are even decorated in purple and red, hidden for the most part, but shown to Ed almost immediately-
And the final example to get an honourable mention is the lighting used at the end of the Calypsos Birthday episode. The purple and golden hue of the fireworks and their reflection on the ocean around them is such a gorgeous detail-
There's harmony (quite literally) all around them, and there are so many tiny moments when these colours are used. The costume and set designers really went above and beyond to leave no doubt these damn gay pirates are destined to be with each other, and it's lovely.
Sometimes I try to explain a Star Trek plot to my friends, like the Fuck Or Die episode or the one where some aliens abduct Kirk, Uhura, and Chekov and put shock collars on them and force them to be gladiators, and they say "haha that sounds like fanfiction." And while it makes sense that a modern audience would react that way, I think it's kind of getting it backwards. A lot of the tropes that we recognize as characteristic to fanfiction today developed in large part because of Star Trek. The zines the Kirk/Spock shippers were passing around at conventions in the 70s and 80s are the direct ancestors of Ao3. Star Trek isn't written like fanfiction, fanfiction is written like Star Trek.
In the D&D campaign I'm running with my wife's siblings, one of them learned about how trolls regenerate within minutes of any damage not caused by fire or acid, and then asked why people don't just like. Cage them and eat them, forever. Why there aren't troll meat dungeons in the king's castle as a safeguard against sieges or famines.
And you know, I thought it was a fair question, so I said that if you eat enough troll meat, you start getting troll-y. And then I went further and just treated it like troll flesh is a general contaminant - if you eat enough troll, you'll turn into a troll, but if you bury enough dead troll flesh in a forest, the trees will start growing in strange ways, and will scream and heal and bleed when you hit them with axes.
I liked this idea. So as we played further, I just played around with the idea of Troll Origins, and I came up with something sort of like the Odyssey, but instead stealing Helios's cattle, it was Hathor's, and the horrible, awful, unending immortality was her curse of the army that pillaged her lands. A god of healing does not condemn you to die, she condemns you to live.
And then I got this fun idea for maybe the king that led the army is still kind of alive in the troll taint. Like a sort of literal fisher king. The kingdom is sick because he is, literally, the kingdom. The trees that bleed, bleed his blood and their screams are his screams. He is both the faintly green bear running down the mountain and the faintly green deer and there is no way past this without suffering. He is the entire ecosystem, and he eats nothing but himself and he dreams nothing but death and yet still, on and on and on and on, he lives.
Anyway they're traveling next session so I'm throwing this shit at them. I already have some gross ideas for like. Describing everything like it's a body (flowers red as blood, white as bone, pink as meat, grass fine as hair) then finally throwing horrible living things at them. Trees that grow eyeballs that turn and stare at them, or flowers with teeth instead of petals and trolls that speak in long dead tongues about how they wish they'd never tried to rob a god.
Anyway I'm passing this on because this is my new troll lore and I want it to become canonized in the way that all D&D lore becomes canonized: By having eople read it and go "oh, neat" then start doing that too.
Trying to explain Warframe to new people is impossible without sounding absolutely insane. It's like, if a game had an identity crisis...but in a good way. An identity buffet, if you will. There's so much in this game it's sensory overload.
You like space dogfights? Rogue-lites? Fishing, mining, player housing? How about Guitar Hero, space shanties, and Tony Hawk's Pro Skater? Let's not forget the dating sim. Oh yeah, you can add a birthing QTE rhythm minigame too, because why not. I'm waiting for the inevitable sex update, cause y'know, we've gotten this far without imploding, so it might as well happen. Like what the fuck even is this game anymore. Nobody knows! Not even the devs themselves. It's all held together by dreams, duct tape and vibes at this point, but somehow it works.
Hop on Warframe, we have:
Bionicle meets Neon Genesis Evangelion
12 yr olds turning the geneva conventions into a checklist
your trans robot mom who has DID
old man yaoi
a traumatized group of bisexuals fighting the Y2K bug
an autistic child and his fidget spinner solos god
a fish voiced by Astarion
workers' union committing terrorism against capitalists
incel who tries to destroy the sun because he fumbled a bad bitch (she took the kids)
a boyband that you have to slay for weapons
and an eldritch entity beyond human comprehension that can only be defeated by the power of love
And if you think all that sounds unhinged out of context, don't worry, It's just as unhinged with context.
"My deity has been spending much more time with me... He has given me food, water, shelter, things to chase and things to bite, a paradise to explore and be safe within... I sense my time is drawing near, and I am comforted by the presence of my deity. They sense my end is drawing near, and they show me how they, too, bite into their prey. Together, we share a holy meal of understanding, between my small self, and their colossal, incomprehensible, mostly unknowable existence.
"Perhaps we aren't all that different from the gods...and as my life draws to a close, I find that thought comforting.
Fungus has done so much for humanity. Penicillin. Radiation cleanup. Delicious mushrooms. Deadly mushrooms. Psychadelic mushrooms. And now my boy RA has chosen the humble mold spores as his vessel through which to cure cancer.
Rook was halfway through her second cup of wine when Lucanis slumped face-first into the casserole.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Harding dropped her fork. "Oh, shit. Did he die?"
Davrin leaned over the table to get a better look. "That was a strong pour, but I didn't think it was that strong."
"Dead," Emmrich said dryly, not looking up from his own glass. "Or very committed to the bit."
"Ooh! Are we doing dinner theater now?" Bellara asked brightly. "I love improv!"
Lucanis did not move.
Rook set her cup down with a quiet clink and muttered, "Please don’t be dead. I am not emotionally prepared to give a speech about your contributions to the team."
Neve, who hadn't touched the casserole at all, crossed her arms. "He’s breathing. His shoulder moved."
Harding crouched next to the body, cautiously poking Lucanis in the ribs. "Buddy? You okay? Did you choke on the mushrooms or just…decide to nap in your food?"
Lucanis peeled himself off the table like a man resurrected. Casserole clung to his cheek.
"It was a test," he grumbled. "To see how long it would take you to notice I was dead."
A long pause.
"And?" Taash asked.
"You failed."
Davrin snorted. "I dunno, I think Emmrich called it pretty fast."
"He always calls it," Harding said. "Last week he said my soup was 'one step removed from a death curse.'"
"It was," Emmrich replied. "You put pears in it."
"I wanted to try something new!"
Rook raised her hands before the soup argument could escalate again. "Okay, can we just—focus? This dinner was supposed to be relaxing. A team-building exercise. No magic, no weapons, no murder."
"In my defense," Lucanis said, wiping casserole off his face with a napkin that definitely wasn’t his, "no one actually died."
At that exact moment, a distant crash echoed from the pantry.
Everyone froze.
Bellara perked up. "Did anyone else hear that?"
"Probably just something falling over," Davrin said. "The pantry's packed so tight, you sneeze near a sack of potatoes and the whole shelf topples."
"Good thing we stocked up when we did," Harding added. "No one was expecting the Eluvian to break, and now we’re stuck until Bellara can fix it."
Neve stood. "So we’re trapped in a magical house inside the Fade with no exit and a fake death during dinner. Great. Nothing bad could possibly happen next."
Taash looked around. "Wait. Is anyone missing?"
Everyone instinctively turned toward Emmrich, who glanced up with a faint frown. "Why are you looking at me? I’ve been here the entire time."
"Manfred’s here too," Bellara said, pointing at the skeleton, who was wearing a very small chef’s hat. No one asked why.
Rook stood up slowly. "I’ll check the pantry."
Harding grabbed a fork like a weapon. "I’ll go with you."
Davrin followed. "I’m just coming to watch."
The pantry door creaked open.
Inside, lying awkwardly between the sacks of flour and a crate of questionable root vegetables, was a man. A dead man. Dressed in a butler’s uniform. With a note pinned to his chest.
Harding blinked. "We don’t have a butler, right?"
Rook stared. "No."
Bellara ducked in behind her. “Ooh, that stitching looks Tevinter. Probably ceremonial. Or cult-related. Or maybe one of those banquets where they chant between courses.”
Neve plucked the note from the corpse’s chest and read aloud, “‘I know what you did.’”
The silence that followed was long. Unearned. And deeply foreboding.
Davrin snorted. "Well. That’s ominous."
Emmrich finally stepped into the doorway, took one look at the body, and sighed. "This seems excessive, even for a dinner party."
Rook looked from the body to the rest of them, then wordlessly returned to her seat and topped off her drink. “New rule. No more fake deaths unless we agree on them ahead of time. And absolutely no more cursed casseroles.”
Davrin shrugged. “Bit late. I already had seconds.”
The entire group migrated into the pantry a few moments later with all the solemnity of tourists gawking at a crime scene.
Neve had already pulled out a notebook from somewhere. Rook didn’t ask.
“Let’s start with the obvious,” Neve said, flipping to a blank page. “Who the fuck is this guy, why is he dead, and which one of you thought this was the best time for a murder?”
Taash crossed their arms. “Not mine. If I kill someone, I don’t dress them like a bottle of discount wine.”
“Helpful,” Neve muttered.
Emmrich adjusted his glove and crouched beside the body. “No visible trauma. Still warm. Likely recent.”
Harding frowned. “Warm? In here? Lucanis keeps this place freezing.”
“He likes the air actively depressing,” Davrin added.
Lucanis didn’t move. “I’m going to kill one of you for real. And it won’t be theatrical.”
“I’d like to note that as a threat,” Neve said, scribbling something down.
Rook rubbed her forehead. “Bellara, is there any chance he came through the Eluvian before it shattered?”
“Not unless he burst through half a glyph in secret,” Bellara said. “Which—okay, would be impressive.”
Harding held up something triumphantly. “I found a clue!”
Everyone turned. She was holding a potato. A lumpy one.
“It looks like a face.”
Rook gave her a long look. “Put it down.”
“I’m keeping it.”
Emmrich brushed flour off his knees and leaned in. “There is something in his mouth.”
Bellara lit up. “A message? A cursed talisman? A trigger glyph with a death—”
“It’s a button,” Emmrich said, pinching it free with visible disdain.
Rook blinked. “Wait… that looks like the ones from my coat.”
Everyone turned toward her at once.
She instinctively glanced down.
All her buttons were intact.
“Oh,” she said. “Okay, no, false alarm.”
“But it looks like yours,” Neve pointed out.
“Yes, because apparently I wear extremely murderable fashion,” Rook snapped. “Can we move on?”
Neve flipped a page. “Documented aesthetic hazard. Got it.”
Davrin held up a handful of breadcrumbs. “I also found these. Possibly suspicious. Possibly from the snack I ate in here last week.”
“Possibly not helpful,” Neve muttered.
“I am helping,” Davrin said, indignant.
“You’re not,” Lucanis said.
Bellara crouched beside Emmrich. “If I take a sample of the fabric, I can trace the magical decay timeline! We might even get a psychic echo—”
“No experiments in the pantry,” Rook said automatically.
Emmrich straightened, brushing his pants off with a huff. “He’s not a spirit. That’s what disturbs me. The Fade should’ve intervened.”
Bellara squinted at him. “Are you saying the Fade is ghosting us?”
“The Fade doesn’t ghost,” Emmrich snapped. “It manifests.”
Harding, now rifling through a nearby crate, pointed at what looked like a bootprint smudged in the flour-covered floor. “Does this count as a clue?”
“Possibly,” Neve said. “Is it yours?”
Harding looked at her own boots. “...Yes.”
Rook sat down on a sack of grain and rubbed her temples. “This is my nightmare.”
Neve was already pacing with her notebook. “Alright. We need a suspect list, a motive list, and someone to keep Davrin from contaminating the pantry.”
“I’ll interrogate…Manfred!” Davrin exclaimed, pointing dramatically at the skeleton, who waved back.
“I just wanted one normal dinner,” Rook muttered, as Bellara sprinkled glowing powder on the corpse’s coat with the casual glee of someone baking a cake.
Rook had seen things—haunted bodies, Fade-warped beasts, a very upsetting mirror incident—but this might be the one that finally broke her: Neve pinning a parchment labeled Suspicion Index to the library bookshelf with a dagger while the butler’s body remained very much dead in the pantry.
"We’ll be proceeding in order of likelihood," Neve said. "I’ll be assigning points based on motive, opportunity, and overall vibe."
"Is that a feelings chart?" Davrin asked, leaning over to get a better look.
"It’s a legally-adjacent analysis matrix," Neve said. "Harding, you’re up first."
"Why me?"
"Because you found the potato."
Harding sat across from her like a war criminal. “For the record,” she said, holding it up again, “it still looks like a face.”
She held up the shriveled lump. Rook didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Harding reached into her pocket. “Also found this rutabaga. Suspiciously spherical. And this lint smells like cinnamon.”
Bellara gasped. “We don’t use cinnamon in the laundry!”
“You are wasting ink,” Emmrich said. “You’ve drawn a triangle around Davrin’s name and labeled it ‘bad vibes.’”
“Triangulation is a legitimate method,” Neve replied.
Emmrich turned to Rook. “Do you want me to perform an actual autopsy or let them keep building this root vegetable tribunal?”
"That’s exactly what someone with something to hide would say," Neve muttered, adding a tally mark next to his name.
"You’re not even using consistent criteria," Emmrich snapped. "Harding has five tally marks and three stars."
"The stars are for enthusiasm," Neve said.
Bellara bounced on her heels. "Can I go next? I ran a magical aura sweep. The corpse is faintly guilty."
Neve looked up. "What does that mean."
“Residual emotion. Posthumous regret. Possibly moral confusion.”
“That’s not—”
“Also,” Bellara continued, “I think we should all touch this cursed rock and see whose fingers fall off. Then we’ll know who’s guily.”
She held it up. It pulsed faintly. Everyone took a step back except Taash, who poked it.
“Feels like indigestion,” they said. “But my fingers didn’t fall off.”
"Not admissible," Emmrich said, folding his arms. "And cursed rocks do not qualify as forensic tools."
"You’re not in charge of this investigation," Neve said.
“No,” he gritted out. “But I’m still right.”
Neve tapped her pen against her lip, eyes sweeping the room as she considered her next target. Lucanis hadn’t moved. He was still leaning against the chair, coffee in hand, looking entirely unbothered.
“Lucanis, do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”
Lucanis lifted his head, expression unreadable. “No, I—”
Suddenly, his eyes flickered purple. A faint, eerie whisper curled around him like smoke.
“MURDER,” Spite intoned. “DECEIT. NIBBLING.”
The room fell silent.
Davrin blinked. “Okay, I have no idea what that means.”
Lucanis blinked, and the glow faded. He took another sip of coffee like nothing had happened.
Neve gave him three tally marks.
“This is farce,” Emmrich sighed.
“I have a theory,” Taash offered. “Slipped. Cracked his head. Note’s unrelated. Maybe a grocery list.”
“Oh,” Bellara whispered. ”That’s beautiful.”
Neve snapped her notebook closed. “Only one suspect left.”
They all turned to Rook.
She stared back. “You cannot be serious.”
Neve held up the button.
“All my buttons are still on.”
“Which means you replaced it. Classic misdirection.”
Rook’s jaw dropped. “That’s not even—”
“Proximity to the corpse: extremely high,” Neve went on, undeterred. “Motive: unknown, but probably food-related. Means: documented history of punching.”
Bellara gasped. “She does punch things.”
“And she does get hangry,” Harding added.
“Thank you,” Neve said, flipping a page.
“Do you think she did it?” Davrin asked.
Emmrich scoffed. “She hasn’t left my side.”
“And if she had?”
“I’d help her hide the body.”
Rook buried her face in her hands. “I just wanted one nice dinner.”
The library door creaked open.
Assan padded in, claws clicking against the stone. In his beak: a torn piece of the butler’s sleeve. He dropped it at Rook’s feet and sat down proudly.
Manfred skittered in behind him, holding a second piece and hissing joyfully. His chef hat was askew but still upright.
No one spoke.
Rook didn’t lift her head. “Why,” she asked the floor, “do we live like this.”
“Technically,” Bellara offered, “we’re trapped by magical catastrophe. It’s different.”
Apparently Target is rethinking being anti DEI because foot traffic in their stores has been declining for like 10 weeks straight and their stock has been dropping in unison and listen, I know a lot of this is probably because consumer spending goes down in general when the economy is unstable (tarrifs, mass federal gov layoffs etc.) but I think we should just keep running boycotts of different brands to convince them that they only make money when they're woke. I know we dunked on rainbow capitalism because it was cornball and performative but I don't even give a shit. These companies shouldn't be able to be openly pro-Trump and expect us to ignore it. They should not be allowed to bend the knee to racist, xenophobic, homophobic, transphobic, abelist, generally bigoted culture war bullshit without taking a hit to their bottom line. These billionaire dipshits wanted unfettered capitalism with a madman at the helm and they should not be allowed to enable that without feeling some of the hurt along with the rest of us. Make these corporate assholes think money is stored in the woke
taking the threshold of adulthood as 18, you are likely to spend at least 52 years as a fully grown adult
at the age of 30 you have lived less than one quarter of your adult life (12/52 years)
'middle age' is typically considered to be between 45-65
it is extremely common to switch careers, start new relationships, emigrate, go to college for the first or second time, or make other life-changing decisions in middle age
it's wild that I even have to spell it out, but older adults (60+) still have social lives and hobbies and interests.
you can still date when you get old. you can still fuck. you can still learn new skills, fashionable, be competitive. you can still gossip, you can still travel, you can still read. you can still transition. you can still come out.
young doesn't mean peaked. you're inexperienced in your 20s! you're still learning and practicing! you're developing social skills and muscle memory that will last decades!
there are a million things to do in the world, and they don't vanish overnight because an imaginary number gets too big
white people please just purchase native artwork and jewelry from native people i keep seeing idiot white people be like “waaah i wish i could support native creators but its cultural appropriation” girl why would beaders sell you their earrings then. just dont get a medicine wheel or a thunderbird then like damn it is that easy
If Native folks are making it to sell to white people with the approval of their tribe, it’s not “appropriation”–its support and appreciation! So yes, buy that native-made dream catcher, but not the mass produced fakes made by white people. Like, you can go to a pow wow and buy native crafts there, too.