#Birch Water Market

[adityarana1687-blog]

Birch Water Market To Reach $2.61 Billion By 2030 | CAGR 7.9%

The global birch water market size is expected to reach USD 2.61 billion by 2030, growing at a CAGR of 7.9% from 2024 to 2030, according to a new report by Grand View Research, Inc. Key factors propelling the market include rising health consciousness, growing awareness of birch water's potential benefits, and a shift towards clean-label, eco-friendly products. The market is characterized by ongoing product innovation, with companies introducing flavored varieties, functional blends, and sustainable packaging solutions. Expanding distribution channels, including mainstream retail and e-commerce platforms, are making birch water more accessible to a wider consumer base.

One of the primary drivers of the birch water market is the growing health consciousness among consumers worldwide. Birch water is perceived as a natural source of hydration, rich in electrolytes, antioxidants, and various minerals. Its low-calorie content and potential health benefits, including detoxification properties and skin health improvement, appeal to health-conscious consumers looking for functional beverages. The rising prevalence of lifestyle-related health issues and the subsequent shift towards preventive healthcare have further boosted the demand for natural, nutrient-rich drinks like birch water.

The market is also significantly influenced by the global trend towards plant-based and sustainable products. Birch water aligns perfectly with the increasing consumer preference for eco-friendly and ethically sourced beverages. The sustainability aspect of birch water production, which typically involves tapping birch trees during a specific season without harming the trees, resonates with environmentally conscious consumers. This has led to many brands emphasizing their sustainable harvesting practices and eco-friendly packaging in their marketing strategies.

Product innovation plays a crucial role in driving market growth and attracting a broader consumer base. Companies are constantly introducing new flavors and functional blends to cater to diverse consumer preferences. Some brands are incorporating additional ingredients like fruit juices, herbs, or other botanical extracts to enhance flavor profiles and nutritional benefits. There's also a trend towards developing birch water-based products beyond beverages, such as skincare items and food products, further expanding the market's reach.

The birch water market's growth is further facilitated by expanding distribution channels and effective marketing strategies. While initially confined to health food stores and specialty shops, birch water products are now increasingly available in mainstream supermarkets, convenience stores, and online platforms. This wider availability, coupled with targeted marketing campaigns that educate consumers about birch water's unique properties and benefits, is helping to increase product visibility and consumer adoption. As the market continues to evolve, we can expect to see more partnerships between birch water producers and larger beverage companies, potentially leading to even broader market penetration and continued innovation in the sector.

Request a free sample copy or view report summary: Birch Water Market Report

Birch Water Market Report Highlights

Unflavored birch water held a 64.4% revenue share in 2023. It appeals to health-conscious consumers who prefer products free from artificial additives. The minimal processing retains its natural nutrients, aligning with the clean-label trend. Its authentic taste and versatility for mixing with other drinks add to its popularity.

The beverages application segment accounted for 80.7% of the market in 2023. This dominance is due to the rising preference for natural and healthy drinks. Birch water's detoxifying properties and rich nutrient content make it a popular alternative to sugary and sports drinks.

Offline channels held a 60.6% revenue share in the market in 2023. Physical stores allow consumers to experience the product before purchasing. In-store promotions and immediate availability boost sales. Knowledgeable staff and the credibility of retail chains further enhance consumer trust.

Europe had a 38.4% revenue share in the market in 2023. The region's tradition of natural remedies and increasing awareness of birch water's benefits drive demand. Preference for organic, eco-friendly beverages and innovative product formulations support market growth.

Birch Water Market Segmentation

Grand View Research has segmented the global birch water market based on the type, application, distribution channel, and region.

Birch Water Type Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

Unflavored

Flavored

Birch Water Application Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

Beverages

Cosmetics & Personal Care

Pharmaceuticals

Birch Water Distribution Channel Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

B2B

B2C

Supermarkets & Hypermarkets

Convenience Stores

Online

Others

Birch Water Regional Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

North America

U.S.

Canada

Mexico

Europe

UK

Germany

France

Italy

Spain

Asia Pacific

China

Japan

India

Australia & New Zealand

South Korea

Central & South America

Brazil

Middle East & Africa

UAE

List of Key Players in the Birch Water Market

Sibberi

BelSeva

Treo Brands, LLC

Birch Tree Water Co.

Sealand Birk

Sapp

Nature on Tap

DrinkBirk

TreeVitalise

Byarozavik

[homunculus-argument]

To me, the interesting thing about travelling is noticing the things that nobody seems to photograph. What kind of birds dig through the trash here, what kind of weeds grow on peoples' lawns. The time we went to Arizona, we walked to the nearest grocery store (y'all aren't kidding about "unwalkable cities" btw) and one thing I noticed was how different city landscape there looks when it's run down.

In Finland, neglected pavement turns bumpy and cracks as the water in the ground beneath freezes in the winter and thaws and runs out again. Wild flowers grow through it, even brave saplings of birches and rowan trees. Moss starts to grow on the shaded walls of buildings where it isn't washed off, growing over graffiti. Seagulls and jackdaws swoop over town market squares, squirrels skitter across roads and at night, you see rabbits and hares.

In Arizona, the places that aren't maintained are taken over by sand and dust. The merciless sun scorches everything that's left outside, brightly coloured plastic fades into pastel shades and into white, as if the land itself prohibited these colours. Shaggy bushes and even cacti grow on neglected yards. I saw long-beaked birds, the like of which I had never seen before - the only sign of animal life.

I had never considered how desperately cities where I live long to return into being forest land, before I saw a city that was determined to remain a desert.

[lostinwildflowers]

The Farmer's Daughter

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: You and Jake go way back to his roots in Texas, with things ending in a rough manner. Now, he comes home to the farmer's daughter whose heart he swore he would never ride, or fly, off with.

Word Count: 4.0K

Warnings: Angst, Harsh Language, Hangman was lowkey a jerk, Cowboy!Hangman

A/N: *I will say if you are not a fan of ranch/farm life, this may not be for you!* But, I'm finally back to write something! I'm sorry it has taken so long but I have been so incredibly busy, but I hope this will be a good enough apology! COWBOY HANGMAN!!! -Birch<3

Part 2 - The Aviator's Cowgirl

Wind roars across the grassy plains of the valley, ruffling the dense coats of various colored cattle. Some were red, some were black. Others were red and white, while others were roaned and speckled in color.

The cows were quietly cruising through the glen, making their way down south toward the greener pastures. Spring was finally on its way, with warmer, sunnier days followed by even oranger sunsets.

Many of the calves clung close to their mothers after the spring calving, not wanting to be too far from the herd. Some of the cows were bolder, leaving their calves further away, then having to call and bellow to find their distant young.

It was one of the most beautiful things, living out on a cattle ranch. There was no sign of the city in any direction, and you got to raise the food that would supply you and your family through the seasons. Some may call it cruel, but others would say you were using what God gave you to live on.

Hours spent in the fields were not wasted on you. Plowing the land and fertilizing the dry, cracked soil, were not foreign ideas to you. Sowing seeds into the prepped ground, watering them to give them a chance at survival.

To you, there was no other life than being a rancher.

Being a rancher had its perks- making the best friends a man could have. The dogs, of course. The horses, even more so. And yet, nothing could beat the compassion and care of a friendly neighbor.

Growing up on your homestead, the next closest ranch was a few acres away. They never were close enough to see any of their cattle or pigs, and you had only been to their house as a kid.

Being a kid seemed so long ago.

Now, you spent most days sitting on the back of your palomino mare, Sandy. Days like today were spent watching your herd move down the mountain and into the plains of the valley. You didn't always use to be alone when you pushed the herd.

Occasionally your father would join you, but he had other matters to attend to, and your brothers always seemed to join him. Not that you cared, as riding horses was perhaps your favorite aspect of being a rancher.

You would check fences, push the cows, and ride up to the top of meadows to watch the sunset over your home. To you, there was nothing like the connection you had while riding a horse, and you wouldn't have given her up for anything.

At one point in time, you would have given every possession you had up for a certain cowboy.

Tall and muscular, with blonde hair, and green eyes. The classic, square-jawed look of a cowboy. A sharp tongue paired with an even quicker wit, combined with a charming personality and smile was the death of you.

It didn't help he was always willing to help out. Roping the calves for the brandings, fixing up the four-wheeler that seemed to stall every time you got it out. Even going as far as to bring your mother some of their fresh apples in the fall when your trees gave out.

He was kind-hearted, chivalrous, and down-to-earth. He was the definition of God's cowboy.

Jake Seresin.

The first time you ran into him was when you were at the farmer's market in town. Your mother had given you a specific list of items to get for her homemade chicken casserole, as she was busy picking up your younger sister from her riding lesson.

The stalls at the farmer's market were not unfamiliar to you, as you had tagged along with your mother many times as a child. The sellers were always kind to you and had Texas-sized personalities to go along with the enormous amounts of ingredients and produce they sold.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bell," you call as you walk up to the older lady's stand, looking over her collection of fresh berries and vegetables hand-picked from her garden.

A white head of hair popped out from the back of her tent, a wide grin on the older lady's face as she replies, "Oh, good morning, dear! Help yourself to whatever you need, I'm just having some help unloading my crates."

At that, Mrs. Bell disappears, and you giggle at her antics as you start to bag up a few peppers and tomatoes from her stand. It was a fairly quiet morning, so you took a moment to look around your surroundings.

A few older gentlemen were setting up their meat stand. You could see cuts of chickens, turkeys, and wild geese sitting on ice just as they worked on the larger carcasses of steers and barrows.

Your concentration is broken when you hear rustling at the back of the tent, and you turn around, clenching the bag of veggies close to you.

A boy donning a tan Stetson appears in front of you, his muscular arms holding a large crate of cucumbers as he slid through the folds of the white tent. His green eyes lock onto your own (colored) ones, and in an instant, his boyish charm captivates you in the form of a beautiful smirk.

"Good morning, Miss...?" he asks, a slight drawl to his rich voice as you take him in. He's wearing his cowboy hat, yes, but his hair was shaggy under the hat, a dirty blonde that you knew his friends probably teased him for.

He wore a simple navy t-shirt, as the morning was already warm. You allowed yourself to rest your eyes on the snug Wrangler jeans that hugged his waist, accentuated by the large and shiny belt buckle that finished off his look. You almost could have bet he wore a pair of boots too, but you snapped out of your daze before you could finish thinking about it.

"Y/n," you usher out, warm with embarrassment as he sets the crate down in the open spot in front of you. His green eyes are as sharp as jade when he regains eye contact with you, and his head tilts a little as he repeats, "Y/n...?"

You groan internally as you scold yourself for being so starstruck. You blink once to regain your cool, before shifting your weight and responding, "Y/n L/n. And who are you, cowboy?"

A low whistle slides out from his pink lips before he chuckles out, "Pretty name for an even more gorgeous girl. And as long as I can get your phone number, you can call me anything you want."

Being six feet underground had never sounded better at that moment, as his shameless flirting had your cheeks burning and your will to live dropping. You were thankfully saved from responding when Mrs. Bell popped up next to him and scolded, "Jake, you leave my favorite customer alone!"

You glance back over at him, quirking an eyebrow and you ask, "Jake, is it?" You whistle back at him and say, "Kind of a basic name for a basic cowboy, huh?"

Mrs. Bell folds her arms, watching the two of you with a knowing look in her eye. The cowboy, Jake, lets that wide smirk back onto his face and repeats, "It's a great name, for a great cowboy. I think it'd sound good next to your name too."

You do your best to ignore his flirtatious comments, and you look at Mrs. Bell and show her your bag of veggies. "Just three red peppers and four tomatoes," you say, willing the butterflies out of your stomach.

The older lady gives you a wink as she rings you up, and briefly turns to Jake and says, "Be a dear and go finish getting the rest of my crates, please."

He gives her a respectful nod and catches your gaze again, this time with a softer smile. Jake tips his Stetson towards you and murmurs, "Have a nice day, Miss. L/n."

You swore you were as red in the cheeks as the vegetables your mother was making you buy. Thanks, Mom, I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to look Mrs. Bell in the eye ever again.

The next time you met the blonde-haired cowboy was just at the start of summer, kicked off by the county fair you were always a part of. It was either submitting some of your favorite photographs from the ranch or helping your little sister prep her show steer for her 4-H competition.

And this time, Jake caught you at a shaved ice stand just after 6 o'clock in the evening, with the rays from the sun starting to fade into a mirage of colors across the fairgrounds.

He slid into the line behind you, as you were the only one crazy enough to get shaved ice in the evening as it cooled off. That smirk ended up on his lips again, and he announced himself with an order, "Make that another of whatever Miss. L/n is ordering, please."

You whip around at the drawl to his voice, cash in hand as your eyes widen. No. No. No. This is the worst time for this cute cowboy to be seeing me. My hair certainly has fuzz in it from our steer, my clothes are covered in mud, and I don't have any makeup on. Shit.

And Jake? Looked phenomenal. Wearing his Stetson, of course, with a tight white t-shirt that clung to every single unholy part of his body. The thin material led down to a deep blue pair of Wranglers, along with his buckle and boots.

He looked like a walking model from Ariat or Kimes, and here you were, looking like you had just finished wrestling a lamb from its ewe mother through a bale of straw.

"J-Jake," you stutter out as the attendant goes to make another shaved ice. His grin only widens when he realizes how caught off guard you are and he chuckles, "You miss me or something, sweetheart?"

You can't help the warmth that floods your face, and you know it's not from the sun, especially with the evening cooling off. Sweetheart? He certainly knows how to lay it on thick.

"I didn't realize you came to the fair," you opt to say, trying to ignore his flirty comment. He leans up against the side of the shaved ice stand as his green gaze latches onto your own and states, "Honey, I've been coming to this fair before I could go mutton-busting."

A giggle falls from your lips as you picture a little Jake riding on the back of a sheep, clinging on for dear life. He chuckles at your response to his comment, his gaze flashing up to the cashier as he fishes a $10 from his wallet. You finish giggling right as he passes the cash to the attendant and you frown.

"We're paying sep-" "It's alright, Miss. L/n, I got it," Jake says smoothly, grabbing both cups of the watermelon-flavored shaved ice and handing one to you. He shoots a wink at you as his fingers brush your own, and you once again find yourself fighting pink from your cheeks.

"Y/n," you say once you grabbed your shaved ice and spoon from him. He quirks his eyebrow at you but doesn't say anything. You roll your eyes and repeat with a shrug, "Y/n, you can call me by my first name."

Jake smiles at you, this time very genuine as he nods, "Alright, Y/n," he tests your name out, "Would you care to join me at the tractor pulls tonight? I know where the best seats are."

It's your turn to flash him a wicked grin and say, "Hell yeah, we need to go make fun of my brothers!" At that, you peel off away from him, leading the way toward the pulling lanes with a maniacal giggle. Jake can only smile and shake his head as he follows your figure.

What had he gotten himself into?

It didn't take long after the fair for the two of you to really hit it off. Casual hangouts turned into dinner dates out at the local diner. Short texts turned into long, midnight calls asking each other about how your day was, even if every day was almost the same.

Days turned into weeks, which turns into months as Jake spent time with you. He would spend any chance he could with you when he wasn't working or helping Mrs. Bell. He'd pull into your driveway, picking you up in his red and white '77 Ford truck, the pinstripes of red on it soon became one of your favorite colors.

You would take him out on the trails of your family's farm, trotting through the creeks, loping through the pastures. Jake was a cowboy, yes, and knew how to ride, but nothing made you happier than seeing him get along with Sandy, your mare.

He would even take you down to his family's farm, driving out into the pastures to watch the sunset over his fields of horses. Many nights would lead to the two of you cuddling up on the bed of his truck, surrounded by a blanket and a stray pillow or two.

You never had been more in love than when Jake pulled you into his arms and made you dance under the stars with him to Carried Away by George Strait. It was that very night Jake kissed you for the first time, and you could swear he knew exactly what he was doing when he claimed your heart as his own.

From then on, you were his, and he was yours. Everyone was ecstatic you had found a respectful man, although a bit of a tease, to stand by your side. Jake devoted himself to you and working on his father's farm, promising you a life of happiness.

It was almost expected that you were going to marry Jake someday. He had the same values as you and wanted a nice little family of a few crazy boys and some pretty little girls. He wanted to teach them how to ride, how to rope.

He wanted you to make dinner for him when the days got too long for him to help, and for him to clean the dishes while you put the kids to bed. Jake could picture his future so easily with you, you weren't ever like anyone he'd ever met before.

That's why two years into your relationship with the cowboy, he got you a promise ring for your anniversary. It was a simple silver band, as he knew you worked with your hands every day and would likely abuse a ring with a large stone on it.

Jake held the ring in his right hand, asking for your left one slightly. You couldn't help but cry and laugh at the same time as you nodded, giving him your hand to slide the ring onto.

You wrapped your arms around his neck in a tight hug, his hands landing on your waist before wrapping snugly around your body. His grip was firm and unwavering, a solid constant in your life.

"I want you to think of me when you wear this ring, okay?" Jake whispered softly in your ear, holding you close to him. You sniffle and pull back, giving him a nod with watery eyes.

"I'll always think of you, Jake."

And the next day he was gone.

"Go on, git!" you yell at a loose heifer running away from the herd. You groan as she runs off into the woods, and you push the sorrel gelding you were riding into a trot to go after her. The rest of the herd started grazing as you left them, the wind whipping through the dried grasses around you.

It was a cold day in Texas. Your grey felt cowboy hat did its best to keep the wind off of your face, and even with your warmest jacket and wild rag tied around your neck, you still felt chilled and numb to your core.

It had been a hard few months when Jake disappeared without a trace. Mrs. Bell had no one to help her at her tent in the farmer's market, so you picked up the slack to help her.

Your dad grew sick and couldn't run the farm as readily, so you, your brothers, and your sister had to step in, while your mother took care of him. That meant you spent more time in the saddle, working all the horses and pushing the cows to the hay and silage for the winter.

Your gloved fingers reach for the rope tied to your saddle horn, and as you made your loop, your (colored) eyes found the young heifer again. You slow the gelding you were riding down, Ringo, he was called, as you come up to the small cow.

You could tell she was frightened, so while she didn't run, you gently threw the loop over her head and dallied the rope to your saddle horn. You glance over your shoulder, ensuring the rope was secured around the heifer's neck before dragging her out of the woods and back to the herd.

When the herd comes in sight, confusion floods over you to see Sandy, your palomino mare, being ridden. It wasn't your sister, she had her own bay gelding she liked to ride.

And it wasn't your brothers, as they preferred the four-wheelers. There was only one other person who rode your horse other than you. It was a cowboy. And not just any cowboy.

It was your cowboy.

The silver band on your left ring finger seemed to freeze over with a gust of wind, even though it was covered by your gloves. You can feel tears threatening to burn the edges of your eyes, but you ignore them.

It was him.

Trotting around the edge of the herd, keeping them close together, Jake steered Sandy perfectly, riding her with a practiced ease, like he had never left. You continue to drag the heifer up to the edge of the herd, where he finally catches sight of you.

You can't stand to look at him, and you leave your rope dallied to your horn as you swing your chap-covered leg off of Ringo and onto the ground. Tears stream down your face as you try not to sob, and you walk over to the scared heifer.

You slide the rope off of her neck, and she gets up and runs off to join the herd. You can hear Sandy's footsteps stop next to Ringo, and you hear Jake's feet hit the ground.

Sobs silently wrack your body, and you close your eyes and cover your face as you hear him approach you. He doesn't say anything, but you know he's standing directly behind you, waiting.

A gust of wind blows through, making you gasp for air as it seems to leave your lungs. The tears on your cheeks feel like they freeze to your skin as your vision blurs and a loud cry falls from your lips.

And that's enough for Jake.

He takes two large steps forward, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist from behind. His large frame helps block the wind, yet his touch makes your cries get more violent.

You turn around in his grasp, your gloved fists coming up and punching him in the chest. You're sobbing and thrashing, completely overcome with emotion.

Jake doesn't budge though. He's harder, firmer under your touch than you remember. From the blur in your vision, you can just barely tell that his shaggy locks have been cleaned up into a tight, slicked-back look under his Stetson.

How you had missed that damned straw hat.

"How could you?!" you scream as you lash out at him, a sob leaving your lips at the end of your cry. Jake just holds you tighter, and he takes his chances and pulls you into a close hug, wrapping his arms around your waist to stop your onslaught of attacks.

Your hands get trapped against his chest, yet your whimpers don't end. You can just barely hear Jake shushing you, the sound of his voice blending in with the whisper of the wind floating over you.

"How could you?" you mumble, your voice breaking at the end of your question. Jake pulls you impossibly closer, the felt hat on your head getting bumped off center, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

"I never meant to leave you," he states, his voice different than how you remember it. There was no familiar twang to his voice, it was harder, more neutral. He didn't sound like himself. You push off of him, fighting through the new strength he seemed to come back with.

You push your hat back down onto your head, brushing away the tears from your eyes and cheeks with the backside of your gloves. You stand back and take him in. He's wearing the clothes of the man you loved, but he certainly didn't look like the Jake you remember.

He was broader than before. Wider from shoulder to shoulder, no doubt covered in more muscle. He was clean-shaven, with no sign of the stubble or beard you grew to love on him. Even his eyes had harshened, they weren't as sweet or soft as you recalled.

"How could you leave me like that?" you ask quietly again, not happy with his answer. "You left me after that night, Jake. You LEFT me after you gave me this damn ring!" At that, you pulled your left glove off, the silver band immediately catching the cool light from the overcast sun, gleaming as if it were brand new.

You could feel a wave of new, hot tears burning at the edges of your eyes, but you pushed them down and continued, "I waited every day, Jake. For a call, a text, or a letter in the mail. And I got nothing." Your voice dropped deadly quiet on the last word, a lone tear streaming down your cheek.

You couldn't read the emotion on Jake's face, as it was perfectly masked. You huff once to catch your breath and then you yell, "Say something, dammit!"

Another gust of wind blows through, and Jake glances down at his boots before regaining eye contact with you. The jade color of his eyes had dimmed, and when he gazed at you, you didn't know how to feel.

"I never stopped loving you, Y/n. I had to leave, even though I really didn't want to," he starts. He takes a step toward you, but you take another step back, your arms wrapping around yourself protectively.

Jake can feel his heart crack at the way you're looking at him. It was never supposed to be like this. You seem to glare daggers at him and whisper, "You always have a choice." He swallows thickly, averting his gaze, and continues, "Not this time, I didn't."

You groan in frustration and whip around in a circle, heading back for the horses, but Jake catches your free hand in his own. His rough fingers catch your left hand, the feeling of his skin on yours enough to make you stop in your tracks.

"Y/n, please wait," he calls out. You immediately snap back, "I waited 6 damn months, Jake! You just up and disappeared! No one would tell me where you were or what happened to you."

You rip your hand out of his, quickly shoving your gloves into the pocket of your jacket. You pull the promise ring off of your ring finger and looking him in the eye, you slam it up against his chest.

With tears in your eyes you whisper, "I'm tired of thinking about you Jake, because every time I think of you, I think about how you left me with nothing."

He doesn't move as you pull away from him, grabbing the reins of both Ringo and Sandy, you mount the gelding you had been riding. With your rope recoiled and Sandy next to you ready to pony, you look back at him.

"I'm sure you can find your own way out of this damn pasture," you say coldly as you lope off, Sandy trotting next to you as you bypass the herd of cows.

And as you ride off toward your homestead, tears streaming down your cheeks, Jake is left standing in the pasture with snow falling around him, holding the ring that had previously bound him to you.

Tag list: @xxdragonwriterxx @tejxswini @mysterystarz @mortedeveles @vs-redemption @kal0psi-a @gin-no-g @starstruckkittensweets @kitacharm @shirari @animated-moon @mitzwinchester @elitparadox @yumeyooa @angels-main @anlian-aishang @notroosterbradshaw

(If anyone would like to be removed, please just let me know<3)

[dk-thrive]

If I had three lives...

If I had three lives, I'd marry you in two. The other? Perhaps that life over there at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing a memoir, maybe a novel or this poem. No kids probably, a small apartment with a view of the river, and books—lots of books—and time to read. Friends to laugh with, and a man sometimes, for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like when it's alive. I'd be thinner in that life, vegan, practice yoga. I'd go to art films, farmers markets, drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry. I'd vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat and aftershave more than I did him. I'd walk the beach at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks water makes in sand. And I'd wonder sometimes if I'd ever find you.

— Sarah Russell, "If I had Three Lives." Inspired by line in the song "Melbourne" by the Australian Band "Whitlams." (Silver Birch Press, October 16, 2016)

[falconcoast]

genshin characters as things i vividly remember |part ii

a/n: rehash of this post.

warnings: none xo

characters: scaramouche, ayaka, miko, ei, tighnari, kaveh, cyno, baizhu, al-haitham.

scaramouche;

rina sawayama songs (specifically dynasty and hold the girl). cellos. inciting chaos for the thrill of it. clenching and unclenching a fist. loosening a jaw you didn’t know was tightened. traveling somewhere new. arguments that you know you can win. orchid flowers. when a bird passes by you really quickly and rustles at your hair. letting go of old grudges.

ayaka;

december snow. smoothing down a bird’s feathers. when water is almost frozen. pulling your hair into a tight up-do. silver mirrors and jewelry. soft pink lipstick. people-watching. when you walk out of a party to go somewhere quiet. suit-skirt combos. fixing your posture before going on stage. the color of the sky during early winter mornings.

miko;

velvet pillows. roses. new books and bending the back of its spine to break it in. honoring traditions. bouquets and letters from suitors. the feeling of someone’s lips against your ear when they whisper to you. middle spring. afternoon classes. when a pet walks up to you and rests in your lap. moonlight shining in someone’s eyes. soft hair. delicately-done nails that make pleasing clicks.

ei;

golden thunder. rain so heavy it creates a stream down a road. the phrase “suffer the pain of discipline, or suffer the pain of regret.” absolute, midnight silence. gritted teeth. pure confidence. straightened shoulders. lilacs. softening when seeing your beloved. marble walls. letting a little one braid your hair.

tighnari;

freshly picked flowers. muddy boots. hikes. when an animal hops into your hand naturally. calloused hands. scars from running and tripping or climbing a tree and falling. superblooms. the scent of grass after it rains. pollen season. errand days. bickering with a younger sibling. the chirps of birds in the early morning. cedar trees. scolding someone while patching them up.

kaveh;

college students. meticulously doing your hair. pouting. putting your all into something you love. finishing a project and being happy with the result. daytime. chapstick kisses. hands-on learning. sunshine after the rain. kinetic sand. picnics. brushing your hair to one side. cold tea. daffodil blooms. birch trees.

cyno;

the cold shouldered friend warming up to you. busted knuckles. standing tall. eyes open wide. scorching heat. running on sand. blistering wind. watching from afar. warmth of the sun on skin. lightning hitting water. the hiss of an insect in the night. ink and parchment. tenderly sweeping someone’s hair out of their eyes.

baizhu;

well-cut lawns. letting your glasses hang low on your nose. humming. pilates. kissing a loved one when they’ve fallen asleep. the sterile scent of a doctor’s office. running water. dried flower leaves for tea. picking herbs at the farmer’s market. feeling of your toes in the grass. soft, west winds.

al-haitham;

scoffing at your enemies. the illiad and the oddessy. stationary. ap literature summer reading lists. burning the midnight oil. holding your hand over someone else’s when you’re teaching them how to do something. texas instrument calculators, not casio. study sessions where you get nothing done. the dad friend. looking to someone to only see them look at you already.

[hermesserpent-stuff]

HI! this is so chock full of spoilers for stolen heir. like 10 chapters ahead or so. but i had to write it and i had to share because viggo and ryker are my world when hiccup and dagur are not busy being my world

Hiccup puffs out his cheeks as he considers the Gronckle iron that he had gotten his hands on. It is both a fascinating and frustrating metal. It is very strong, but can be riddled with impurities, with its creators seeming to have no method of getting out the impurities. On top of that, it had to be melted at a consistently high temperature that was hard to maintain. Hiccup had made a ton of modifications to his forge on Áræði that let it burn hotter than any forge on Berk had ever managed. And since that one dream he had mixed in some offerings and specifically birch logs. It made any Gronckle iron that he melted down much purer. But he wants it to be more refined. He scrubs at his face with sooty hands, having just ended a session in his  far smaller smithy located at the back of their shop in the Northern Market. There had to be a…

Water.

What if he did the quenching process differently?! With pressurized water pushed through a hose that cooled the metal in a different fashion. And maybe some sort of filtration system to keep out soot and other undesirables! He grins and starts darting about for supplies. It comes together quickly and he turns a few knobs on the small forge to get it to heat higher. Not as efficient as his one at home, but it will melt what it needs to.

He is quickly working on making a small dagger to test the technique on, and is pleased with the results as he starts to hammer the metal into the shape he wants. He hears a knock on one of the nearby work tables, his brother's normal signal that he is there so as to not startle Hiccup.

“In a moment, I'm trying something new, Dagur!”

He chirps, adjusting the nozzle for the water and then working the modified billows to build up the water pressure for when he needs it next. Hiccup forgets that his brother might be waiting as he works, giving a final thought of if it was truly important, his brother would rouse him from his work, before fully losing himself in twisting knobs, hammering, billowing, and testing out his new water system. 

The dagger is a fairly standard design but far stronger and if Hiccup is not mistaken, definitely going to hold its sharp edges much longer than a standard blade. He holds it up to inspect it and gives a satisfied nod.

“Impressive. That metal looks far more refined than anything my village has managed.”

Hiccup startles and  drops the blade with a yelp, nicking his hand and falling back towards his makeshift water tank. A set of arms catches him. Not his brother. Hiccup is not sure who it is. He vaguely recognizes it as someone who had visited the Northern Markets fairly frequently, often near one of their largest buyers, Ryker. Ryker who is standing at the edge of Hiccup's little forge area that is divided from the main selling area by a bit of leather acting as a curtain. 

Hiccup turns bright red with embarrassment.

“Err, hello…”

“That looks like a nasty cut, my dear, you should treat it. Do you keep medical supplies back here?”

The man asks and Hiccup nods. Hiccup is gently placed back on his feet and he scurries to the medical box his brother always kept stocked.

“So, uh, sorry, for ignoring you! And how can I help you?”

Hiccup is not the strongest at interacting with customers. Most Vikings tended to favor and like Dagur's more abrasive interactions. But Dagur must have gone to go get something if these men are back here. Ryker is nice enough for a dragon hunter though, so Hiccup's eyes dart to him while speaking. But oddly enough, for a man who commanded others and took charge every other time Hiccup had seen him, Ryker looks to the other man and waits for him to speak. 

“I am Viggo Grimborn of the Acumens tribe. My brother here has been purchasing a lot of our weapons from you lately and I wanted to come and meet the mind behind them. I find many of you more inventive weaponry endearing and have a pet project I would like a second set of eyes on.”

Hiccup blinks and freezes mid wrapping. The chief of the Acumens. He knows the name Viggo Grimborn from many whispers in the market. And the man likes his weapons?

“What was your favorite?”

Hiccup blurts out and then just about bites his tongue off. Stupid. But Hiccup normally just sells axes, swords, and Maces. Ryker was one of the few to buy Hiccup's stranger weaponry. Viggo smiles and it is a lot like a smooth stone in a river bed. A little cold, but no cracks or faults present. And it could potentially warm if the water and weather allowed.

“I liked the bola launchers.”

Hiccup lights up. One of his earliest true inventions that he had been perfecting.

“Oh! Yes. Those are quite useful. Have they been giving you any trouble? I know the older models need a little calibration and beeswax to stay on target.”

Viggo's smile warms a little.

“The written instructions that came with them were quite useful. I particularly enjoyed the step by step diagrams for those of us who bore of words.”

The last sentence is paired with a teasing smile and a glance at Ryker who rolls his eyes. Hiccup finds himself settling, soothed by the approval and the brothers' interaction with each other. Hiccup finishes wrapping his hand as he replies.

“Oh good. I had hoped the doodles I did were helpful. They felt like such a flight of fancy at the time, and I didnt really put all the detail and time I could have into them…”

Hiccup scrunches his nose as he catches himself babbling. He closes his mouth with a click, and notes the odd look that enters Viggo’s eyes and then quickly fades. Shoot. He is going to annoy them with his talking and then he’ll never get to see the project that Viggo wanted consultation on. Which would be a shame, because it would be his first consultation, and maybe could lead to his first specialized request. At 14, it is a bit early in his smithing career to get a specialized request, but then again most 14 yearolds are apprenticed and not running their own forge. So really-

He bites the inside of his cheek to halt his flyaway thoughts and blinks hard to ground himself back in the room.

“Consultation?”

He squeaks out weakly and flushes deep red in embarrassment. At this rate they probably will get annoyed enough to stab him. He had seen it done to another merchant who refused to give a straight answer. Which vikings generally prefer. Straight and short and to the point, with out wandering too far afield-

“Yes. I have an idea for a type of ship, but I wanted to speak with an expert smith first.”

Hiccup preens a little at the implied praise and then takes a breath. Do not get too invested in the praise, people were always saying nice things to Dagur to try and get what they want out of him. He twists his fingers in his smith apron. 

“Uh, sure, I can take a look, but you might want to call on the blacksmith who comes to the Market from the Hysteric tribe. He makes some really good weapons and ship equipment. He definately knows more about ships than I do.”

Hiccup rocks awkwardly, prosthetic creaking very softly. 

“But he’s not half as inventive.”

Hiccup turns bright red again and really wishes that he could stop getting embarrassed. 

“Okay. Alright. Err… I'm not used to consultations, to be very honest. I'm not sure…”

He tilts his head to the side as Viggo starts to look disappointed. He had heard Ryker mutter about his brother’s Maces and Talons obsession a little irritably in the past. 

“Maces and Talons!”

His outburst startles both men and he fiddles with his apron.

“I mean, I’ll look at the idea if you play me in Maces and Talons. And if you choose to hire me to try and construct anything, like test models, then we’ll talk about prices.”

Hiccup ends with false confidence, fingernails pressing into his palms to indent crescent moons where there are no wrappings, holding tight to the steadiness in his voice. Ryker grins and Viggo looks interested. 

“Alright. I saw a metal set on my way in here. Did you craft that?”

“Yes, and we can use it to play.”

Hiccup says with a firm nod to himself and he marches out to go and grab the board. Dagur and him had played a few times but they had grown used to eachothers play styles and Hiccup is eager to test out something new, especially because he cannot show his face a the Meatheads yearly tournaments. Too much risk of his father finding him.

[finishinglinepress]

FLP CHAPBOOK OF THE DAY: What Hummingbirds Do by Louise Cary Barden

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/what-hummingbirds-do-by-louise-cary-barden/

WHAT HUMMMINGBIRDS DO celebrates the #natural world while sharing the small, significant moments of joy, love, and loss that make up a #life. In these #poems we climb a white pine with a nine-year-old girl and shoot spring rapids in a canoe with a young couple. We see the white birches of the narrator’s childhood home and the flaming wings of monarch butterflies in migration; we hear the wild calls of loons as they echo across a wilderness lake. And throughout this collection, we consider universal questions and choices we must make in marriage, environment, politics, and relationships in our search for fulfillment.

Louise Cary Barden, a 2023 New Women’s Voices semi-finalist, won the Lois Cranston Prize (Calyx Journal), Oregon Poetry Association award, the Harperprints chapbook competition, and others. Her poems recently appeared in such journals as Timberline, humana obscura, Willawaw and Cathexis Northwest. Her writing is imbued with imagery of the natural world as narrated by a self-avowed tree-hugger whose career indecisiveness has taken her from teaching college English to advertising and editorial copywriting and marketing management. Nature stayed at the center of Barden’s life from her childhood on Boston’s South Shore and education at Hendrix College, U. Arkansas (B.A. English), and U. Maine (M.A. English) through residences from Arizona and Wyoming to Maine and Tennessee. Barden and her husband settled in North Carolina for 40 years before retiring to Oregon, where she is still trying to learn to love the rain.

PRAISE FOR What Hummingbirds Do by Louise Cary Barden

“Barden’s poems revel in the anticipatory state of a held breath: listening to the lap of water or the call of a loon, watching a flock of ibises twist in the sky, remembering a moment of cradling sudsy dishes as a child. Lush and rich in the details of nature and memory, she will guide you gently back to awe, to wonder, to the small moments that make up a life.”

–Brenna Crotty, Senior Editor, Calyx,A Journal of Art and Literature By Women

Louise Barden is a poet who has mastered both narrative and lyrical poetry. In this book memories moves with ease from childhood to the recent past. Nature abounds in these poems, whether it is the exquisite details of her Grandmother’s garden, or her last chance to canoe a river before the seasons change, or seeing Ibis fill the sky for the first time. In her beautiful lyric, Early Daffodils, Barden writes:

“Love, show me how to rush into the world again,

how to pluck and gather such joy.

Teach me how go fill my arms with gold.”

This book is full of gold.

–Doug Stone, author of The Season of Distress and Clarity

In her What Hummingbirds Do, Louise Barden embroiders a tapestry “where day’s first light split[s] gold through hanging dew”, and yet “we stand trapped inside the great cone. the past.” She takes the reader through explorations, mostly in nature, and with a backward glance towards family—grandmother, mother, sisters—“where July birches lean out as if to see their own green whispers” (“Viewpoint”) and where her nine year old self climbs high to stand “on a branch so thin it bends under [her] feet” so she can “ride the wind . . .long enough . . . to glimpse the whole world” (“Into the world”). This gutsy kid appears again in “On Drifts” where she and her sisters navigate deep snow “with clumsy, careful breast strokes”—they “swam [their] way to Church.”

As the poems move into her adult life, her affinity for the natural world does not waver. She stops “frozen, gazing into a sky . . . split by patterned coils of moving wings,” her first view of migrating ibis (“The Dazzling Invisibility”). She shares her losses, confronts death, survives winter, “those dreary weeks at home” (“Under a Changing Sky”), until “the once grey air glows incandescent . . . reflections of a greater hand.”

In the prize-winning title poem, she walks with a woman newly met, another birdwatcher who enriches her knowledge of hummingbirds. “We walked slowly, exchanging details, as women do . . . what we do when men are not beside us . . . when suddenly the woman says “straight He’s having an affair. . . I had scant advice.” Intimacy without pretense. As with the rest of her poems, her truthfulness gleams as brightly as her diamonds in Walmart (“Reflections at the Checkout”). Without guile or artifice, and with a deep commitment to lush, lyric language and craft, Barden carries us to the finish. Mark this as a must read!

–Rachel Barton, author of This is the Lightness

Please share/please repost

#flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #poetry #chapbook #read #poems #nature #life #relationships

[orangetubor]

HAHAHAHA- round 3.

Love the geese. Question- ARE THERE DUCKS? Geese already have my heart <333 BUT DUCKS??

Also whats the deal on martian weather? Cause yeah pretty blue sunsets... But What About Other Sky Statuses? Storms?

And and crime? What's the deal w that? (cause I'm picturing a fish black market??? This is a dumb question so u don't have to answer it)

Also I WANNA HUG ALL UR OCS. (if they are comfy w that. That is. Anyways)

ROLLER SKATING WAITERS!!! Dude in another life I would SO want to be a roller skating GOD carrying like 4 plates through a funky space themed diner- I'm getting side tracked- BUT POINT IS- what's martian cuisine like? Do aliens (or part aliens) eat other food..? How does that work? (Curious.)

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE.

Signed

A detail loving twat.

Round three!

Geese and ducks, there are ducks elsewhere, but not necessarily on school grounds. (or at least, there aren't supposed to be) the geese are just a running gag I have originating from like. I don't even remember it was something to do with Jenny

Now: the weather

(you don't have to listen to that but if you do: turn your volume down) Obviously, glass dome, so the weather doesn't really affect the inside, however the storms are beautiful, lightning strikes and the whole sky is painted baby blue, but it doesn't rain. Not anymore. There is no patter of water on glass as you lie on top of a sky scraper looking up at the cloudy sky, but the condensation dripping on your forehead means you can imagine it anyway. The sun shines, the world is blue, and as it gets lower and lower against the red horizon you're bathed in a deep lilac. And at night, for all the effort of preventing light pollution, you can see the stars. The constellations look the same as on earth, as if by some sort of sisterly bond between the two sky's, and they're shining through the hexagonal glass plates, refracting into strange shapes.

As for crime, not much need for it as there's a universal base income, free housing, electricity is free, food is synthetically grown, so that takes out most of the survival crimes, as for murder. If you do it that's on you, you probably won't as it's a decently healthy environment and therapy is also, my goodness, free, so just. Don't do that.

Martian cuisine! (Also the diner is called Marsy's it serves breakfast type foods and employs mostly teens and the elderly) obviously it's just earth cuisine, but a little bit weirder. Festival foods like dango and crepes are big cuz there's a lot of festivals, when the years are 24 months long you really gotta make the most of em, but for day to day food things like stew, porridge, bread, pasta, fried rice, soup, it's just regular old food. There's weird stuff obviously like... Hold on I gotta think of something... Meat grape? Idk I saw a video where they turned a grape into meat. You can of course 3d print candy, so there's a lot of weird shaped sweets, and a lot of gimmick restaurants. You'll never believe what they're putting in sandwiches these days. Also bugs. They eat bugs. Bugs is goo 👍 sushi is also really popular cuz it's so efficient to grow, fish in the bottom rice on the top, can literally be grown in the same pond, so they do a lot of fish/rice combos

And for our lovely aliens, sahrah and her mum haaush, they can't eat tomatoes. Most things are fine except for like... Certain bug based food dyes? And birch sugar or whatever it's called. Haaush did a lot of experiments with this as she came there for science reasons, and then found herself a lesbian lover, as you do. She brought some food from her planet, and it has its own little room in the space domes. It's got things like. Fucked up carrot. Various other root vegetables. From an underground cave system you see.

(also I said it doenst rain anymore. That's because it doesn't rain on mars, very dry, however inside the dome... Shit gets damp)

[simplegenius042]

FC5 Silva Omar Aesthetics

Bold - YES

Italics - Somewhat

HOLLAND VALLEY.

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS.

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books// the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths crisscrossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER.

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND.

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND.

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs// the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire // tear stained letters // old family photographs // the smell of a mildewy basement

[aceghosts]

Far Cry 5 Aesthetics

Hey Everybody! I was tagged by @nuclearstorms, @harmonyowl, @clicheantagonist, and @direwombat to do this. Thank you all for tagging me!

Tagging: @sstewyhosseini, @purplehairsecretlair, @derelictheretic, @thomrainer, @hoesephseed, @natesofrellis, @marivenah, @henbased, @poeti-kat, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @ishwaris, @adelaidedrubman, @indorilnerevarine, @jacobseed, @shellibisshe, @turbo-virgins, @josephslittledeputy, and anyone else who wants to do this! (I apologize if this is a double tag. I haven't been super online lately.)

Rules: bold what applies to your ocs/their aesthetic, italicize what sort of or somewhat applies, strike through what doesn’t/never applies.

HOLLAND VALLEY

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths criss crossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

JOSEPH'S COMPOUND

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH'S ISLAND

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs // the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire

[brooklynislandgirl]

Advent Day XV ~ In the Lane, Snow is Glistening @lalamoon

Beth had promised Layla that they would do American Christmas with all the bells-and-whistles and in the same way she first experienced it, too. It helps that the morning had dawned cold and grey and wrapped in a blanket of thick fog that obscured city streets, the various harbours, and even most of the Verrazzano bridge. Beth wakes up early enough that she has the kitchen to herself. Though she's never made anything edible, breakfast isn't her purpose for being there. She takes down a specific copper tea pot inscribed with runes and fills it part way with water. She sets it on the stove and takes down a small broom made of hazel stave and birch branches for bristles. It radiates the same sweetness of cinnamon as her breath. She dances with it, not actually sweeping, as the kettle warms and only stops when it begins to whistle. A few moments later, the faint rain outside becomes a light snow fall that will continue until the day after Christmas. 'Tis the season, after all, for a little coincidental storm. By the time Layla makes her appearance ~a little groggy and with curls springing everywhere, which if Beth was honest about it, she's completely envious about it~ Beth is pushing a cup of coffee in her hand and smiling impishly. "So here da kine. We gonna start wi' coffee or chai an' pastries a' my hanai-sistah's shop. You gonna love her, really. We been bes' good friends since her freshman year a' Columbia. Mos' of her stuff is Kosher or Halal an' what no is…make you grateful for a small sin," Beth winks as if that is all the evidence needed. "Den I figure we can go shoppin' at Winter Village an' aftah, ice skating! Or we could skate first den shopping, so we don' leave our stuff unattended. Lunch…den more shoppin' at Union Square Holiday Market. We gonna wanna find dat guy dat sell roasted ches'nuts. Gonna wanna narrow down which of da half-dozen soup kitchens we volunteer at, deliver coats an' presents for da women's shelter in da kitchen, an' we're helpin out Sean Casey an' Social Tees animal rescues. Dey doin' free adoption an' spay-neuter program for da holidays. But really we can do dese t'ings in any order ja'like." She pauses as she reviews her mental list, trying to think if she forgot anything. "Oh, den dere's da big sleep. We do a giant cuddle puddle in da livin' room…right dere…" she points to the eight foot tree by the floor to ceiling windows. Some time during the night Andy had moved most of the furniture to accommodate the variety of air-mattresses, pillows, sleeping bags and blankets that they would all be using. She doesn't remember how or when the tradition started, only that it's been a feature all of her life and not one they were about to put the breaks on. "So if you nevah have pyjamas or some kine to wear, we should get you some or you can borrow a pair of sweats from Jay an' a tee-shirt from Panda…I mean…Andy." Beth pauses to take a breath again. "I t'ink dat's it, but really is up to you, ya know. Wanna make dis da bes' good Chris'mas you can have here."

[strafethesesinners]

OC Aesthetics: Far Cry 5 Edition

Hey all! So I love those OC aesthetic association games so much I decided to make my own in collaboration with @deputyash based on the regions in Far Cry 5! These are meant to be mostly abstract more than literal

Rules: PLEASE copy and paste and make a new post. Don’t reblog mine with your addition I will block. I don’t want 100 people posting on the same thing. You can tag us if you want but it’s not required! Also this doesn’t necessarily need to be fc5 OCs only! You can do any of yours

Guidelines: bold what always applies to your OC, italicize what sometimes/somewhat applies, strikethrough what never applies

Holland Valley

Red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

Whitetail Mountains:

Fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths criss crossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

Henbane River

Cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

Joseph’s Compound

Babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // Bradford Pear petals floating on the breeze

Dutch’s Island

Creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs // the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire

Heath McCoy

Holland Valley

Red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn.

Whitetail Mountains

Fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths criss crossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of a blue jay // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

Henbane River

Cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

Joseph’s Compound

Babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // Bradford Pear petals floating on the breeze

Dutch’s Island

Creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs // the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // tear stained letters // old family photographs // the smell of a mildewy basement

Tagging: wveryone lol @unleashed111 @deputyash @depyotee @multiverse-of-themind @belorage @heroofpenamstan @florbelles @adelaidedrubman @henbased @vasiktomis @natesofrellis @sleepfight @nightwingshero @derelictheretic @amistrio @foofygoldfish @redroci @cobb-vanthss @chyrstis @teamhawkeye @josephslittledeputy @clicheantagonist @confidentandgood @roofgeese @sleepfight @nuclearstorms @necro-hamster @perhapsrampancy @socially-awkward-skeleton @purplehairsecretlair @shellibisshe @madsismad @red-nightskies @redreart @beautiful-delirium @harmonyowl @refinedstorage @harlow1898 @shallow-gravy also please tag all your fc5 moots if you do it!

[adelaidedrubman]

FAR CRY 5 CHARACTER AESTHETIC

tagged by @florbelles and @strafethesesinners for (and saw @deputyash helped created) this far cry 5 based aesthetic game, thank you!! doing the main girlies, and sending tags out to @henbased @ishwaris @blackreaches @derelictheretic @schoute @shallow-gravy @belorage @heroofpenamstan @stacispratt @starsandskies @snake-in-the-garden @bluemojave @josephslittledeputy @harmonyowl @beautiful-delirium @multiverse-of-themind @socially-awkward-skeleton @nuclearstorms and whoever else wants to play, brain mush!

HOLLAND VALLEY

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider [spiked, bourbon] // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze [she’s never lost] // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead [derogatory, detested] // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline [beloved] // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms [she stomps them dead] // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals [disgusting freak shit. get rid of it. (fails to get rid of it. names it.] // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets [top ten places for her to be normal while acquiring dirt ipas.] // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS

fishing at dawn [goal waking time] // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket [not her kind of jacket] // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths criss crossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges [constantly joined and kicked out of girl scouts] // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass [the combat boots stay on during ] // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music [is dolly mesmerizing?] // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers [top ten things she hates now, thanks] // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers [not those fucking flowers] // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words [spoken with sarcasm, allegedly] // broken promises [samson? she’s heard of him] // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing [more like complaining loudly] // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND

HOLLAND VALLEY

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic [try not to get a stiffy from it, freak] // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision [sleep paralysis demons her best friends sleep paralysis demons] // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers [she likes heights, dislikes falling] // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs // the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider [her own blend] // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze [what do you mean? what is there to be uneasy about?] // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets [beloved, but she prefers sunrises] // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead [no spraying pesticides that couldn’t be easily administered underground for her plants, thanks] // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys [to her lab drawers] // crimson blood [samples in test tubes, never on her] // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals [swap for: the formaldehyde stench of lab specimens] // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair [a distinctly chemical smoke, but it does cling] // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator [she disputes the binary, but she does make eye contact] // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron [crucible tongs] // woodland paths criss crossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair [not hers, wouldn’t happen if people listened to her lab safety rules] // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife [better a scalpel] // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass [do you want lyme disease?] // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source [she knows the source] // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes [yes, the lab coat gets hot] // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music [her bubblegum pop, she would classify] // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises [rip to her grad school enrollment] // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud [put on fucking shoes] // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges [her name tag means nothing here] // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass [please don’t break her labwear] // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs // the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire

[florbelles]

— CHARACTER AESTHETICS.

tagged by @strafethesesinners​ to do this far cry 5-inspired aesthetic tag (co-created by @deputyash​), thank you beloved!! 

sending tags primarily to those with fandom-related characters BUT if don’t have any or you’re simply not interested in doing it for them feel free to simply go by vibes and @ me anyway: @blackreaches, @belorage, @heroofpenamstan, @adelaidedrubman​, @shallow-gravy, @dihardys, @foofygoldfish, @henbased​, @multiverse-of-themind, @derelictheretic, @shellibisshe, @beautiful-delirium, @chuckhansen, @queennymeria, @indorilnerevarine, @shadowglens, @purplehairsecretlair, @ishwaris​, @playstationmademe​, @josephslittledeputy​, @devil-kindred​, @teamhawkeye​, @roofgeese​ & @confidentandgood​ xx

HOLLAND VALLEY.

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze* // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets** // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

* she is the slight unease when you get lost in a corn maze // ** though the reaping is, in its own way, an open-air farmer’s market,

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS.

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths crisscrossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER.

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND.

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND.

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs // the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire // tear stained letters // old family photographs // the smell of a mildewy basement

HOLLAND VALLEY.

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind* // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

* he sure wishes sister lyra’s sinner roasts were faint and on the wind

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS.

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator* // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths crisscrossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye** // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of a blue jay // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

* usually just sister lyra 

HENBANE RIVER.

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source* // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass //  the faint sound of children laughing

* the source is unfortunately very identifiable (it is once again sister lyra)

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND.

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND.

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels* // faint scent of mothballs // the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire // tear stained letters // old family photographs // the smell of a mildewy basement

* that’s just the bosses

[paganminiskirt]

Far Cry 5 OC Aesthetics

Tagged by lovelies @aceghosts, @adelaidedrubman and @florbelles, tagging @henbased @amistrio @shallow-gravy @nonfunctioning-queer @shellibisshe @derelictheretic

Rules: bold what applies to your ocs/their aesthetic, italicize what sort of or somewhat applies, strike through what doesn’t/never applies.

HOLLAND VALLEY

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths criss crossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

JOSEPH'S COMPOUND

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH'S ISLAND

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs // the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire

[knitasha]

NaNoWriMo: The Vividorium

I'm woefully behind on my NaNoWriMo project, but still managing to write every day. I'll be happy if I can get to 7,000 tonight.

I'm still not 100% confident in my writing to post everything on here, but here's a small chunk. It definitely feels like I'm writing in a vacuum too much - writing about what is going on instead of showing what's going on, but I haven't figured out how to fix that yet.

Constructure criticism welcome!

---

Emelia had intended to make her way to the park where the Christmas Market was set up to get a first look of the area. Although the market opened at 12pm each day, she expected the crowds would wait until the evening to descend on the stalls when the sun had gone down and the lights would twinkle light stars across the whole park.

The travel notebook tucked into her purse had a list of the vendors she was most looking forward to seeing and she had included the broad type of item each booth was expected to sell as well as specific items she’d found on each vendor’s website that she was particularly excited about for her parents, brother, and friends.

The light was red as she came up on the next corner and she looked around appreciatively at the rows of shops lining the street as she waited for the crossing line to change when her eyes came to rest on a store tucked between a cafe and a pet supply store. A brightly colored sign hung from the wall - The Vividorium - and a beautiful, half-finished replica of Starry Night sat in an easel in the window along with an array of oil paint tubes and scattering of brushes.  

Making a split second decision, Emelia turned and jogged to crossed the street other pedestrians were already walking across, abandoning her original plans. She’d just pop in for a second and then could go on her way to the market.

The room insight was uncomfortably hot after the sharp chill she’d been walking through for the past 20 minutes and she quickly pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into her purse.

“Welcome in,” floated from the back of the store, “I’ll be out in a moment.”

“No rush,” she called back, running her fingers over the covers of the sketchbooks piled high on the table just inside. 

The narrow store was lined with tall birch bookshelves. The shelves along the right side held notebooks and canvases of various sizes. She was tempted by a lime green LEUCHTTURM dot journal, but remembered her last two failed bullet journals and left it on the shelf.

Along the left shelves were cups of pens, pencils, markers, and brushes by the window. Then came the paints - acrylics, oils, gouache, and watercolors in sets and individual tubes and pans with brightly colored wrappers formed rainbows along the wall.

Emelia had picked up a tiny travel palette of watercolors when the owner of the earlier voice emerged from the back.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Oh, no, thanks. I’m just looking.”

“That’s a nice set,” the woman gestured to the palette still in Emelia’s hands, “Good if you’ve got an eye for mixing colors since there aren’t too many in there.”

“Ah, yeah, I don’t really know much about painting. I’d love to learn, but there was never enough time. But now that I’m on vacation…”

It was all the woman, whose name turned out to be Joan, needed to hear and 20 minutes later Emelia exited the art store with a not-so-small paper bag in hand filled with a 100-color watercolor palette that was surprisingly small for containing so many colors, a set of metal travel brushes, a water reservoir, a booklet of watercolor paper to practice on, and a pad of blank postcards that Joan had insisted would be good for sending paintings to her family. Emelia wasn’t so sure anything she could create at this point would be worth sending to anyone, but Joan had been more than a little intimidating in her enthusiasm and Emelia wasn’t sure she would be allowed to leave without them.