Monterey Bay Aquarium
No title available
hello vonnie
Jar Jar Binks Fan Club
Doug Jones
Interview Vampire Daily
RMH
Xuebing Du
The Stonewall Inn
noise dept.
Andulka
Product Placement
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TMBGareOK. The Official They Might Be Giants tumblr
Keni
No title available
EXPECTATIONS
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Mike Driver
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Pakistan
seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from Eswatini
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Mexico
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from South Korea
seen from Costa Rica
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from Netherlands
@tiger-in-chains
@rattles-felbane-wra @sable-longclaw-blog @heelsandtorment-blog @felonous @analeil @mouthybastard @syraniscorthir @arcane-fire @belillinafireseeker @veldrea-anwyn @ouroandar @beautyfromthechaos @perfectlyfunctioninghealer-blog @vasdensoultreader @corrupted-toxins @bluexepher @thefuckingsun @misterherg @vyzanblackblossom @thekinginblue @house-ventorum-blog @mihailwintersun-blog @largowolf @thalena-blackblossomwra @seraphai @raevan-muns-supercut
Ray-Ban Sunglasses
“Male, female, gay, straight, legal, illegal, country of origin—who cares? You can either cook an omelet or you can’t. You can either cook five hundred omelets in three hours—like you said you could, and like the job requires—or you can’t. There’s no lying in the kitchen. The restaurant kitchen may indeed be the last, glorious meritocracy—where anybody with the skills and the heart is welcomed. But if you’re old, or out of shape—or were never really certain about your chosen path in the first place—then you will surely and quickly be removed. Like a large organism’s natural antibodies fighting off an invading strain of bacteria, the life will slowly push you out or kill you off. Thus it is. Thus it shall always be. The ideal progression for a nascent culinary career would be to, first, take a jump straight into the deep end of the pool. Long before student loans and culinary school, take the trouble to find out who you are.” ― Anthony Bourdain
I had a huge writeup about Tony and how much I’ll miss this man, but it really doesn’t seem adequate in my eyes. As a professional with 20 years in the kitchen, as someone who loves food, drink, and travel, and as someone who values honesty and openness, I’ll just say that there wasn’t someone I respected more than Anthony Bourdain.
If anyone needs me, I’ll be over here, cooking something grand, with a drink in hand. It’s what he’d expect, I think.
It still bothers me that Vol’jin was killed by trash. He deserved better than that, Blizzard.
Continuar lendo
Yo if you think Vol’jin and Varian were treated the same way I’m gonna disagree big time.
Varian:
Was king for years, developed over time to be a wiser more steadfast ruler (not saying that Blizz did it well).
There were other human NPCs such as Anduin, to exist after he died who’d already been established.
The big one is the framing of Varians death vs Vol’jins. Varian went out like a HERO.
Varian leaps from an airship, taking out several enemies. He faces them alone, only to eventually be overwhelmed. He goes face to face with Gul’dan, and defied him in his last moments. This is a big, over the top epic end to a warrior king.
He was featured prominently in the promotional material, the Legion cinematic. His death was a big deal, and it’s clear Blizzard thought so.
Varian has a memorial in game, with multiple characters acknowledging his death.
Varian very shortly appeared in Heroes of the Storm with a badass cinematic lauding his sacrifice - even in other games Varian is gettin respect.
Then we look at Vol’jin:
He started doing a little bit during the 4.2 patch of Cata and played a big role in Mists.
Became Warchief after being built up over the whole expansion only for him to be ignored immediately afterward. The only thing we see Vol’jin do as Warchief is die on the Broken Shore.
Vol’jin was the only troll who Blizzard ever bothered developing. Most troll NPCs haven’t done anything since the starting zone, or are a joke. Rokhan exists as a nod to WC3 but does nothing to distinguish himself as anything more than an Easter egg.
Vol’jins death looks pathetic compared to Varians. It looks weak compared to what we expect of a series like Warcraft. He gets stabbed through the front while telling people to guard their backs, by marauder shields a trash mob. One.
Blizzard makes excuses for not having a memorial to him in game.
Very few characters who were friends with Vol’jin come to his funeral. His funeral and death scene is really all about Sylvanas and her coming to terms with being Warchief.
Vol’jins death is swept under the rug.
Blizzard then repeatedly makes fun if Vol’jin for dying, fans for being upset with how he was treated. Basically… Varian at least got to reign as king for a long time and go out like a hero to fulfill his story arc. Vol’jin died like a chump without doing anything as Warchief because Blizzard decided they wanted Sylvanas in charge instead giving absolutely NO pay off to the end of Mists of Pandaria. It meant nothing.He might as well never have been Warchief.
I’ll reblog this everytime I see it because I will never be okay with how dirty Vol'jin was did.
It’s kinda silly how some of y'all would sub to a game called world of Warcraft and expect the factions to ever have true peace with each other or the world
U rly think anything good is ever gonna happen to anyone in this hell game? That’s just wishful thinkin. If it makes u that mad find a new game
ATTENTION WYRMREST ACCORD
Okay, so a lot of people know we host the Menagerie Boutique every Wednesday evening, 6-8pm WrA time in the Court of the Sun near the Spire by the trainers. We’ve been doing this for nearly a year now!
I’m greeting for the evening, directing folks (I’m Dicenne), and this group comes and starts RPing LITERALLY right in front of the Boutique, right in front of and then behind us. Where we put our flags and greet people as they walk in, you can see that in the bottom screenie. That’s me standing there next to Lynesse in front of the flag.
The top shot is to show the timestamp of when this started, you can see RP was happening, I was directing someone to chocolate. This starts at about 6:45pm WrA time (I’m eastern timezone, hence the 9:45pm timestamp)
We ask them IC and OoC to move their RP, they are capturing someone and LITERALLY KILLING HER AT OUR EVENT. Yes, they killed someone at our Boutique event and were there for about an hour doing this as you can see from the timestamps.
The bottom shot is from my Listener add-on, it’s the snooper window for that character in particular where she says ‘we’re not crashing anyone’s event’ and yes..you obviously are. You know you are.
If you would like to avoid these people, here are their names and guilds:
Wings of the Seraphim (guild) Kellaeri - She is apparently the GM! Falanthos
Gold Tusk Krakens (guild) Orìsel
Relyndria - (unguilded)
*I have many more screenshots, I just didn’t want to clog the dash. You get the idea*
For 2/21: Shops that will be Opened
In a change of pace, we’d like to give our shopkeepers a “break” and give time to have some open social hours! During the time that we’d normally be open, we offer the chance for you to come and talk with any of the Boutique’s shopkeepers!
Come out, have some fun! We hope to see you there.
@wowrpevents @thedragonlorenews @succulent-tart @theredmoon
Fun fact, you can be non - white and still be racist. You can say you support LGBT and still use slurs. If most of what you do is just virtue signaling, then you're still a bigoted fraud.
Party chat - Symmaril! Who should he be with if not you? (c'mon it should be you, Phaeith already threw shade about it)
The fiery red head rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Really, this whole subject is starting to bore me. You know, I didn’t keep track of where he dipped his dick before he got married, I don’t pay much attention to it now. I will say this, he should probably let me meet the next one and get to know her first, that way if she’s not suitable I have the option of saying so before he gets in over his head. I don’t relish seeing him get hurt again.”Leaning back into her office chair, she clucked her tongue disagreeably. “And for those of you who want to see he and I as a couple, you’ve got a long wait ahead…”Thanks!
“That’s not what you said last night.” came Symmaril’s voice from the open door to the comfortable office; Leaning again the doorframe, he just gave everyone to cockiest, shit-eating grin before laughing it all off, as he disappeared down the hallway.
More love from @raevanmun, this time for the other brother that like, none of ya’ll know!
Truth Serum: "Tell me, what is it that you desire the most?" The huntress asked quietly as she peered up at Symmaril with a lopsided, wolfish grin.
Sym snorts, shaking his head. “Wasting questions, Thal. What I desire more than anything else would be a perfect war.” he answers with a wolfish grin of his own, his vibrant, gold-flecked, green eyes flashing. “I’ll leave you to ponder what that actually is though.”
Thanks as usual @thalena-blackblossomwra!
The huntress let out a soft snort of amusement before firing back. “Hey, you wasted some of the serum on asking me about my favorite sweets, so it’s fair game, Sym.” She pointed out to him, stepping close to him in an attempt to nudge at his side as she held on to a mug of tea.
(Ref for interaction. @symmarilshatterunwra )
“No, no. The argument over cake-versus-pie is an age old divide between people of culture, and dirty peasants.” he started up, slamming his glass down on the counter, which drew more than a few concerned looks from other patrons before he noticed and settled down. “Okay, no, just forget it. Shut up and have another drink…”
@thalena-blackblossomwra bcuz srs conversation is for suckers.
“Are you calling me a dirty peasant?” She narrowed her gaze at him as he slammed his glass down on the counter top. A small smirk spread on her lips as she shook her head and took another sip from her tea as the patrons gave the duo some concerned looks. “Yeah, shut up and have another drink before your underwear wads up even tighter…wait… do you even bother to wear them?” She teased, seeming to press her limits at this point. This was completely typical behavior between these two.
Yup, we’re super serious about all of this @symmarilshatterunwra
He snorts, shaking his head before brushing stray, golden blonde locks from his face. “Gods, no. Pie for life.” he laughed, shaking a clenched fist at her. As another drink was poured for them both, he shrugged at her. “Depends. Under armour? Yes, you Gods-damned better. Otherwise, nah.” He cocked his head, arching a brow up as a sly grin crept over his face. “Why? Wanna see?”
@thalena-blackblossomwra cause stuff.
A soft snort of amusement escaped her as he started shaking a fist at her. “You sound and act like an old man, I swear. I’m honestly expecting for you to shake your fist more and tell me to get the fuck out.” She laughed softly, not bothering to touch any of the other drinks except for what she wanted. Thalena damn near choked on her drink over his words as she lifted a hand up and pressed it against his face to smoosh his cheek against his face in a ‘I’m so tired of your shit’ fashion. “In your dreams, twinkletoes.” She flashed a cheeky grin in return.
@symmarilshatterunwra/ @tiger-in-chains because we both know they’re going to start egging each other on like the sadists they are.
Laughed, swatting her hand away even as he wobbled in his chair, skillfully managing to save (most of) the booze in his glass as he was overbalanced by the unexpected shove from the Huntress. “Hey you asked.” he replied glibly, rolling his shoulders as he quaffed most of what he had left of that drink. “Like always, it’s your loss, Fuckbunny...” @thalena-blackblossomwra told you he’d say it.)
Truth Serum: "Tell me, what is it that you desire the most?" The huntress asked quietly as she peered up at Symmaril with a lopsided, wolfish grin.
Sym snorts, shaking his head. “Wasting questions, Thal. What I desire more than anything else would be a perfect war.” he answers with a wolfish grin of his own, his vibrant, gold-flecked, green eyes flashing. “I’ll leave you to ponder what that actually is though.”
Thanks as usual @thalena-blackblossomwra!
The huntress let out a soft snort of amusement before firing back. “Hey, you wasted some of the serum on asking me about my favorite sweets, so it’s fair game, Sym.” She pointed out to him, stepping close to him in an attempt to nudge at his side as she held on to a mug of tea.
(Ref for interaction. @symmarilshatterunwra )
“No, no. The argument over cake-versus-pie is an age old divide between people of culture, and dirty peasants.” he started up, slamming his glass down on the counter, which drew more than a few concerned looks from other patrons before he noticed and settled down. “Okay, no, just forget it. Shut up and have another drink…”
@thalena-blackblossomwra bcuz srs conversation is for suckers.
“Are you calling me a dirty peasant?” She narrowed her gaze at him as he slammed his glass down on the counter top. A small smirk spread on her lips as she shook her head and took another sip from her tea as the patrons gave the duo some concerned looks. “Yeah, shut up and have another drink before your underwear wads up even tighter…wait… do you even bother to wear them?” She teased, seeming to press her limits at this point. This was completely typical behavior between these two.
Yup, we’re super serious about all of this @symmarilshatterunwra
He snorts, shaking his head before brushing stray, golden blonde locks from his face. “Gods, no. Pie for life.” he laughed, shaking a clenched fist at her. As another drink was poured for them both, he shrugged at her. “Depends. Under armour? Yes, you Gods-damned better. Otherwise, nah.” He cocked his head, arching a brow up as a sly grin crept over his face. “Why? Wanna see?”
@thalena-blackblossomwra cause stuff.
@inkdnready
2018👉🏻👉🏻👍🏻💪🏻👉🏻👍🏻
@symmarilshatterunwra Happy New Years, heres to a new year of badassery.
Agreed.
Customer Service Wolf.
That wolf embodies the thoughts of most in customer service
@duncandahusky
“Get Me Through December...”
The room was dark and cold, the fire having gone out from inattention. While the porters were good to keep the other rooms toasty, silently slipping into each through the night to bank the fire- places against the chill of a Winter eve. Yet, Greneda’s room had been barred, a small sign hung upon the door, “Do not Disturb.”
If any save Kaereah had entered the room the carnage they encountered would have been shocking. Across the floor were puddles of clothing, tables topped with empty bottles of Neal’telore Apple Brandy; drained of the contents and ashtrays full to spilling found home on nearly every surface of the room. It had all the evidence of a party but the chill and the darkness put one in mind more so of a wake.
And so it was.
Upon the wide bed with its silks and satins lay a painfully disheveled Greneda, her robe mismatched from her negligee, one slipper hanging woefully from a toe while the other was upturned beneath his fare, which dangled off the side of the bed. With the shades pulled, she seemed a lifeless lump in the middle of a grey dais. The only light by which to see, were the courageous slivers and bands that stole in through the cracks in the curtains and the frame of the door.
In a room full of sorrow, there was one blessing. The often immodest and frequently cheeky widow was asleep or unconscious at least. A long while ago the music box had stopped playing, its grey noise and buzzing attempting and failing to cover the drunken snores of the woman on the bed.
In the midst of her inelegant jag-fueled dreams, the woman rolled upon her bed, hearing the crisp snapping of glass and a bit of silk rip. A low keening rumbled in her chest, mourning for the state of her living, for the reality of it as much for the throb in her head and the turmoil in her gut. Hangovers could be managed, bone deep emptiness could not.
The clocks of The Red Moon had been ticking on through the day, the Madam and the others had slowly risen from their beds, taken up with preparations for the revelry and the Midnight Feast. There was sound and movement on both floors of the Bordello, suggesting hours had passed since Grenada had sunk into the embrace of sleep.
She didn’t want to rise, it didn’t matter something or more appropriately somethings sharp were poking her. It didn’t matter that her need for the privy was something that felt on the whole like a survival urge, it didn’t matter that her room was cold, or that she suspected there was vomit in her hair, or that she was expected down below.
None of it mattered.
He was gone, never to return, the bed and her heart were as empty as the Void and twice as cold. There seemed no justice, no comfort, no good end in a world without him, no matter how hard she tried to paint a face of contentment upon it. The smiles, songs, coy flirtations, lusty engagement of her clients didn’t help. Not the teaching of the new whores, not the dancing and not the drink nor the Thistle ever seemed enough to fill the gape, she knew was there, down in her soul where he’d once been.
Come this time of year, every year as the holly and the pine began to emerge, as the colored lights were strung from window sills and street lamps, she felt a mixture of delight and foreboding. It was hard to fight the hollow when all that was best about its once contents were suddenly and understandably thrust under her nose.
She felt pulled in pieces. Looking on the festive decorations and hearing the old songs made her smile, gave her such a sense of hope and delight. Now, when she turned as she had for so many years to her right, to look up and into his swarthy face and those impishly bright eyes, there was nothing. No one. His absence was an ever-growing darkness as each day passed until the eve of the New Year.
There was a period, however brief, where she’d stayed in Stormwind after his death, doing much as she did now, pretending to be the irrepressible widow of the great man who soldiered on despite his loss. She did shows, she sang, though she refused to record and she taught signing and cabaret to those who had a hunger for the art.
Every night after curtain call she’d ask a sweet young man to walk her home, knowing folks would wag their tongues. However, when they reached her doorstep she would politely kiss them goodnight, turn and open the door of the shrine to Vaughn that had become her home. It was cold and cheerless, more like a mausoleum than a home.
She would never admit it, there were times that she swore she could hear him, singing in the shower, playing the piano, humming and muttering little snippets of lyric. She would run, from wherever she was into the bathroom, to the parlor, looking and never finding. Instead, the big piano or the tortoise shell comb he always favored would be right where they were left on the last morning of his life.
That morning, after their last big gig - a New Years extravaganza in Old Town, where they played and sang all night, he sailed off on his big adventure without her.
It was to be his farewell performance, so they’d booked it, but Grenada never let the finality sink in. She would wave off those who asked about it, the comments about his gaunt appearance, the well-meaning pats upon her shoulder and the offers for help with his daily care.
She could handle it, yes, he was sick, “But you know Vaughn, he’s just being dramatic… as usual.” She would chuckle and slip out of such conversations like a wet trout from a child’s hands. The medics, the clerics, the druids, all had told them both that the disease that had lodged into his lungs had spread throughout this organs, that it was not just a case of shortness of breath, his headaches were not just fits of forgetfulness and hangovers.
It was swallowing him up from the inside, his lungs, his liver, his kidneys and his brain. There was little they could do to stop it, though they might prolong his life some years if he were willing to undergo their various forms of treatment. He would not have it. Vaughn had never been a religious man, The Light, a slippery concept that left him with more questions than answers. But he had at least come to believe that lives had destiny, that The Light gave us no more or less than we could handle and in the end it was up to us what to make of it.
He decided upon hearing the raw truth of his circumstance that he’d made quite a lot of the Destiny, of The Light he’d been lent in life and he was ready, willing and able to meet his end content in that knowledge. He did not, as he put it, “want to go out like an oil lamp, baby I want to blow up like a star!” He was a star, to many - not simply to the diminutive Quel’dorei hooker he’d insist he marry and then drag into a life of performance and poetry.
He’d made his life her life, he’d lifted her out of the gutter, seeing her for what she was or so he said. She felt a bit more like an imposter, a turd polished up and set in gold, but he insisted she was a diamond, his diamond, the greatest of jewels. And he loved her, harder and more earnestly than anyone had ever loved her before.
All through his winnowing, she’d been at his side; feeding him when he had no strength to feed himself, bathing him when his bones became so brittle that if he fell in the tub it might spell the end. She dressed him, carried him to the piano when the pain in his legs nearly drove him mad. They played, they sang, they pretended it was just another opening night ahead, another evening in the footlights.
It became second nature for her to pretend he wasn’t dying, to laugh at his morbid jokes, to make light of his misery just as he did. And that final, glorious night on stage, he had shown the spark still burned within, playing better than he’d played in years, every lyric every dance step every single one was done with all the flair and perfection that he’d ever displayed. It was magic, a perfect sort of magic.
When they went home, they made love, softly, gently in their large overly cushioned bed. They were both a little tipsy, he perhaps more so since the champagne and his barely functioning liver were at odds, but just the same, he’d insisted. The kisses were like fire, a fire she now could remember with hateful vividness. He was warm, too warm against her skin, he was ardent and tender, and everything she ever wanted.
Then the morning broke, the light of the New Year split their curtains like a constable and exposed their naked flesh. He was gone, slipped away in his sleep at the end, off to dance across the sky with the other stars. And she, alone, bereft and empty wanted nothing more than to follow.
“ How many days left?” She wondered aloud, a pregnant question speaking of days until the anniversary, days of her life. All of the above she mused. She ran a hand down her side, feeling the wet there, sticky on her fingers. Blood, she quickly surmised and then sat up, tugging her silken nightgown from her skin.
Upright and sliding to the edge of the bed, her head pounded like cannon fire, her eyes matted together in a foul mix of mascara and tears. She reached up to run her fingers through her hair and met with knotted resistance made all the worse, just as she suspected by dried vomit.
She looked around the gloom, felt the cold and the prodding of her bladder and got up, stumbling toward her privy closet, while she fought off retching and sobbing. Something sharp stabbed into her foot, but she couldn’t stop to investigate. Of all the humiliations she’d suffered she was not about to wet herself, and add it to the list.
Hoping and hobbling she finally made it in the bathroom. Along the darkened wall, her fingers reached for the pull chain that would put on the light, and when she found it she tugged. It was a cruel light, one in which she caught some vision of her appearance in the mirror as she lunged toward the stool, one hand reaching to steady herself upon the tub, while the other hoisted her nightgown.
Settled, she still could not inspect her foot, for a wave of nausea came up from her core. She snatched upon the waste bin and wedged it between her legs, soon to evacuate herself fully. And then she was empty, or at least so it seemed. Shoving the bin away with a wince of disgust, she lifted her right foot, laying that calf across her lap to peer at her sole.
A thin sliver of glass had slid into the balls of her foot; it was long and ugly, though the hole was small and neat. She grabbed for it with unsteady fingers and pulled it swiftly from her flesh, tossing it into the sink, where it slid down the side, leaving a bloody smear.
“I am fucking pathetic…" She muttered, squeezing the wound until it bled freely and then reaching for her chi, which was pitiful weak at the moment she closed it up and leaned back against the tank of the toilet. It was no use in her estimation; she was a wreck. She wanted nothing more than to go back to her bed, to crawl into the coverlet and sheets and die, just like he had.
However, it wouldn’t happen. Much as she wished for it, she could not bring herself to do it. She’d gotten close a time or two, but in the end either her cowardice or her elven nature would not allow it. Defeated, mourning, and still somewhat drunk, she set her face in her hands and began to wail.
Part 1
Since it needs to be said
No, I didn’t leave House Ventorum. No, I didn’t walk away from RP. That was all decided for me, by my former RP partner. I’ve never, ever been one to keep making people doing things they don’t want to do. Those few of you who follow this mun blog likely know that.
While yes, it was discussed (briefly anyway) that she didn’t want to keep RPing them as a couple, there was literally nothing about me being removed from the guild. After that brief conversation I was kicked from the Discord and the guild without being allowed to say anything, or even a cursory notification that it was happening.
And that’s the end of it. At least it better be.
I don’t care about being made out to be the bad guy - I’ll roll with anything - as long as it’s IC, but I’ve gotten so many OOC asks now that I feel the need to say something about it all.
So yeah, there you go. If anyone wants me to expand, feel free to hit up up here, or on Discord. I mean, if people just want to chat, or start up new RP - do the same. I’m still here, I’m not going anywhere.
Reblog if you say "fuck" more than 5 times a day.
