#I FELL ON MY KEYS!!!

[milesnotupshur]

FUCK OUTLAST 2

[impsandstars]

Paimon, #1 Dad of the Year.

[sleep-nurse]

after 3 centuries i finally managed to properly redesign my dumbass sona, i was gonna initially just change their hair for a more androgynous look but then i. changed their lore a bit too

basically they volunteer for various jobs like delivering mail and milk, nursing and gardening (even though that's also their hobby)

no one knows their gender or their real name but they go by various plant/nature related names (like willow or sunflower)

[buildoblivion]

I think what makes rogue work so well is that 15 is so established as a heart on his sleeve kind of character by now that that of course he can fall in love with the grumpy nerdy bounty hunter in just one night

[djevelbl]

LET'S GOOOOOOO ghostlycerb on ao3 carrying the fandom

[nerdy-hyperfixations]

LET ME EXPLAIN! I started the playlist because I noticed a lot of songs used cannibalism in regards to love and relationships, and I wanted to collect the songs so I could analyze why!!! Its not weird guys I SWEAR ITS FOR RESEARCH

[fluorescentbrains]

lost the one and only key to my car somewhere in the vicinity of my workplace today so i’m having, just, a super fun halloween

[kradogsrats]

Thinking about the Jailer a while back and finally sat down to do the research that would let me articulate what exactly is going on with her design:

My brain initially glazed over the pattern at the edge of her cowl (and also on the lower edges of her coat, as we see in the other art) as standard gear or crenelation pattern that had parts frayed or worn down. In my defense, I think I was primarily thrown by the inclusion of the visible stitches on the cowl, which add a "worn out" appearance.

Interestingly, while I had thought there were more instances of crenelation motifs present in Harrow, Callum, and Ezran's designs, it actually only appears in the trim on Sarai's skirt:

Anyway, after looking more closely at the Jailer over time, I realized that... that's not accurate. The TDP artists aren't that lazy—those designs are geometric and uneven for a reason. Here's the reason:

It's a motif of (and here's where I had to do research) the bit of a warded key.

I found a really great post about faux-medieval locks and lockpicking vs. actual medieval locks and lockpicking (i.e. what's in ever Elder Scrolls game ever), but a quick summary: a ward or warded lock is a lock that is designed to allow only a specifically-patterned key to turn in the lock to open it. This is similar but subtly different from lever locks, which are still used in modern applications: lever locks use the pattern cut into the bit of the key to shift a series of levers into place that otherwise prevent the bolt from moving, similar to how pin tumbler locks raise a series of pins into alignment. Warded locks, on the other hand, don't actually have anything that prevents the bolt itself from being moved, but instead have a pattern of physical barriers inside the lock that prevent the key itself from being turned unless the pattern on the bit matches up with them. So you sometimes got stuff like this:

Anyway, most of the antique keys you see are probably for lever locks, since those were invented in 1778, are significantly more secure, and generally look a lot simpler in their bit shape.

The problem with the warded lock as a concept is that if you can get to the part that moves the bolt, there's nothing at all to stop you from moving it. Enter the skeleton key—which, contrary to popular belief, is not just any old-looking key. A skeleton key is capable of opening more than one lock, usually a warded lock, by essentially bypassing the wards. For example, the skeleton key on the right here would be able to open the warded locks for both keys on the left:

Something like this seems to be a pretty common skeleton key set for some kinds of modern padlocks:

hmmmmMMMMMmmmm

[m00ngbin]

TFS TUESDAY! BUT ACTUALLY TUESDAY THIS TIME!

[badsweetener]

hi lambda nation *shakes the 7 of yall*

[acourtofquestions]

"You'll come back," Manon said.

It sounded like more of a threat than anything

Dorian smirked. "Would you miss me if I didn't?"

Manon didn't reply. He didn't know why he expected her to.

He'd taken all of a step, when Asterin clasped his shoulder. "In and out, quick as you can," she warned him. "Take care of Narene." Worry indeed shone in the Second's gold-flecked black eyes. Dorian bowed his head. "With my life," he promised as he approached her mount and grasped the dangling reins. He didn't fail to miss the gratitude that softened Asterin's features. Or that Manon had already turned away from him.

A fool to start down this path with her. He should have known better.

The hours that passed were some of the longest of Manon's existence.

From anticipation, she told herself. Of what she had to do.

Abraxos, unsurprisingly, found them within an hour, his reins sliced from the struggle he'd no doubt waged and won with Sorrel. He waited, however, beside Manon in silence, wholly focused upon the gate where Dorian and Narene had vanished.

Time dripped by. The king's sword was constant weight at her side. She cursed herself for needing to prove-to him, to herself-that she refused to let him go into Morath for practical, ordinary reasons. Erawan wasn't at the Ferian Gap. It'd be safer. Somewhat. But if the Matrons were there … That was why he'd gone. To learn if they were. To see if Petrah truly commanded the host there, and how many Ironteeth were present. He had not been trained as a spy, but he'd grown up in a court where people wielded smiles and clothes like weapons. He knew how to blend in, how to listen. How to make people see what they wished to see. She'd sent Elide into the dungeons of Morath, Darkness damn her. Sending the King of Adarlan into the Ferian Gap was no different.

It didn't stop her breath from escaping when Abraxos stiffened, scanning the sky. As if he heard something they couldn't.

And it was the joy that sparked in her mount's eyes that told her.

Moments later, Narene sailed toward them, making a lazy path over the mountains, a dark-haired, pale-skinned rider atop her. He'd truly been able to change parts of himself. Had made his face nearly unrecognizable. And kept it that way.

Asterin rushed toward the mare, and even Manon blinked as her Second threw her arms around Narene's neck. Holding her tight. The mare only leaned her head against Asterin's back and huffed.

Manon hadn't dwelled long on what she'd say.

And as the three hundred Ironteeth witches filed into the hall, some coming off their patrols, Manon half wondered if she should have. They watched her, watched the Thirteen, with a wary disdain.

Their disgraced Wing Leader; their fallen Heir.

When all were gathered, Petrah, still standing in the doorway where she'd appeared, merely said, "My life debt for an audience, Blackbeak."

Manon swallowed, her tongue as dry as paper. Seated atop Abraxos, she could see every shifting movement in the crowd, the wide eyes or hands gripping swords.

"I will not tell you the particulars of who I am," Manon said at last. "For I think you have already heard them."

"Crochan bitch," someone spat.

Manon set her eyes on the Blackbeaks, stone-faced where the others bristled with hatred. It was for them she spoke, for them she had come here.

jacket, then hoisting up her white shirt. Rising in the stirrups to bare her scarred, brutalized abdomen. "She does not lie."

UNCLEAN

There, the word remained stamped. Would always be stamped.

"How many of you," Asterin called out, "have been similarly branded? By your Matron, by your coven leader? How many of you have had your stillborn witchlings burned before you might hold them?"

The silence that fell now was different from before. Shaking shuddering.

Manon glanced at the Thirteen to find tears in Ghislaine's eyes as she took in the brand on Asterin's womb. Tears in the eyes of all of them, who had not known. And it was for those tears, which Manon had never seen, that she faced the host again.

"You will be killed in this war, or after it. And you will never see our homeland again."

"What is it that you want, Blackbeak?" Petrah asked from the archway.

"Ride with us," Manon breathed. "Fly with us.

Against Morath. Against the people who would keep you from your homeland, your future." Murmuring broke out again. Manon pushed ahead, "An Ironteeth-Crochan alliance. Perhaps one to break our curse at last."

Again, that shuddering silence. Like a storm about to break Asterin sat back in the saddle, but kept her shirt open.

"The choice of how our people's future shall be shaped is yours," Manon told each of the witches assembled, all the Blackbeaks who might fly to war and never return. "But I will tell you this." Her hands shook, and she fisted them on her thighs. "There is a better world out there. And I have seen it."

Even the Thirteen looked toward her now.

"I have seen witch and human and Fae dwell together in peace. And it is not weakness to do so, but a strength. I have met kings and queens whose love for their kingdoms, their peoples, is so great that the self is secondary. Whose love for their people is so strong that even in the face of unthinkable odds, they do the impossible."

Manon lifted her chin. "You are my people. Whether my grandmother decrees it so or not, you are my people, and always will be. But I will fly against you, if need be, to ensure that there is a future for those who cannot fight for it themselves. Too long have we preyed on the weak, relished doing so. It is time that we became better than our foremothers." The words she had given the Thirteen months ago. "There is a better world out there," she said again. "And I will fight for it." She turned Abraxos away, toward the plunge behind them. "Will you?"

Manon nodded to Petrah. Eyes bright, the Heir only nodded back. They would be permitted to leave as they had arrived: unharmed.

So Manon nudged Abraxos, and he leaped into the sky, the Thirteen following suit.

Not a child of war. But of peace.

[jiraimuukusunoki]

You guys say you have a vent sketchbook and it's actually mostly empty with only some y2k doodles? I thought we were all spilling our guts out on paper with our most vivid feelings and actually creating :(

[macbethz]

little self indulgent mixed media comic about love and communication styles. oh yeah theoretical frameworks also i guess

i think postmodernism, as a cultural movement, is deeply in love with modernism. Of course, its version of love is pulling modernism apart and building a monument to its image out of its bones, which just kills it faster

To postmodernism, the star wars reference is a declaration of love. To modernism, its an admission of guilt.

[absolutely-not-my-main-blog]

[speakofcompersion]

Ajdhskdbskldgnlkjss i'm away from the internet for a week, and so many things happened??? 😫😭

[wildflowergirlie]

I fear no man will ever compare to Remus Lupin