#Monument to Wisdom

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Forspoken Photo Dump 183: Somewhere Near Cipal; The Sacred Peaks, Part 1

[seatoss]

Finally. Some good news

[aureentuluva70]

The painting of Alvin the Terrible and his son but instead it's Thingol-with the same horrified, haunting eyes-holding Lùthien after she dies of grief in Doriath.

[espighty]

Why does he sleep like a Mormon. What is wrong with him.

(stills)

[aqueerpolysocialist]

Per aspera ad astra

As the Secretary General of the United Nations, an organization of the 147 member states who represent almost all of the human inhabitants of the planet earth. I send greetings on behalf of the people of our planet. We step out of our solar system into the universe seeking only peace and friendship, to teach if we are called upon, to be taught if we are fortunate. We know full well that our planet and all its inhabitants are but a small part of the immense universe that surrounds us and it is with humility and hope that we take this step.

- Kurt Waldheim, Secretary General of the United Nations 1972 - 1981. This spoken greeting is recorded in English as part of the audio contents of the record.

This is a present from a small, distant world, a token of our sounds, our science, our images, our music, our thoughts and our feelings. We are attempting to survive our time so we may live into yours.

- President Jimmy Carter, 39th President of the United States of America, 1977-1981. This message was included in printed form on the record.

"The spacecraft will be encountered and the record played only if there are advanced space-faring civilizations in interstellar space, but the launching of this 'bottle' into the cosmic 'ocean' says something very hopeful about life on this planet."

- Carl Sagan, chair of the NASA committee that assembled the contents of the Voyager records

[conjcosby]

Stardate: 2024.5.15 ▫ In peace may we live. Not in victory, not in defeat but in acceptance. 😊🙏 #Buddha #BuddhaQuote #BuddhaWisdom #BuddhistProverb #Proverb #BuddhistQuote #BuddhistWisdom #Wisdom #Quote #Wednesdays #WisdomQuote #WisdomWednesdays #WisdomQuoteWednesdays #QuoteOfTheDay #QOTD #ProverbOfTheDay #PostOfTheDay #POTD #Text #Sculpture #Statue #HumanRepresentation #Representation #Monument

[miirshroom]

Hunt for Rebirth Monuments - Intro

I have been working on locating the rebirth monuments at each location where spirit summoning is available. At first I assumed that the monument would be found after walking and marking the radius where summoning was available, as in the above example for the Bridge of Sacrifice. This quickly turned out not to be the case, as some of the first places I tried this were the Demi-Human Forest Ruins (could not and still have not found a monument) and the region to the southeast of Caria Manor (highly irregular shape, see below right, where crosshairs are located on the monument location). From what I can see of the other areas at Caria Manor, these are also oddly shaped (see below left for sketch of possible boundaries, where the rebirth monument is located on the edge of inner ring).

In general, there is a lot of variation in where the monument is placed relative to the edges of the boundary. I have run out of markers to place on the map, so before deleting and starting fresh I reviewed the areas that I have marked.

Dragon Burnt Ruins

Large area, and very straightforwardly I walked the perimeter and found the rebirth monument exactly at the centre. This is similar to the location at the Bridge of Sacrifice in the post header. Notably, aligning the stone monument with the nearest Divine Tower approximately in scale obscures a number of surrounding landscape elements behind stone, including the Divine Tower Bridge, Giant's Forge, and Caelid Minor Erdtree. Radahn's Divine Tower in Caelid is approximately behind the dead tree stump.

Altus Plateau - Dead Minor Erdtree

Rebirth monument is slightly off-centre with the centre of the circle. Standing in front of the Erdtree with the monument lined up with Morgott/Mohg's Divine Tower is looking directly at the entrance to the Erdtree. Interesting, considering that this is the location with an Omen who casts deathblight surrounded by 6 Commoners.

Laskyar Ruins

Rebirth monument is noticeably off-centre with the circle. Interesting feature that the Liurnia Divine Tower is centred on the Erdtree from this perspective, and the edge of the dark side of the moon is especially defined. Faintly visible, Godrick's Divine Tower on the right lines up with a dead tree and Rykard's Divine Tower lines up with the broken gap in the lefthand columnade, when the monument itself is aligned with the column under the Liurnia Divine Tower. Standing on the other side of the monument (not pictured) gives a good view of Mt. Gelmir.

Gatefront Ruins

Rebirth monument is slightly off centre. From this vantage point it is not possible to see the trunk of the Erdtree or Divine towers, but there is a window on the other side of an obstructing small tree with 4 trunks. So, I approximated.

Street of Sages Ruins

Rebirth monument is noticeably off centre. Had to work fast since any observations in this area require standing in the rot. Standing to the left of the rebirth monument aligned with Radahn's Divine Tower, there is a Scarlet Aeonia bud straight ahead and a dead rotted tree standing on the cliff in front of the Erdtree. Standing to the right of the aligned rebirth monument, straight ahead there is the Dragonbarrow Minor Erdtree and Giant Skull.

I also looked into Waypoint Ruins and Forsaken Ruins, but similar to Caria Manor the boundaries of summoning are not straightforward in these areas.

So, that's general progress. I also picked up a few other areas in Weeping Peninsula and Limgrave on a separate character profile. But I am avoiding map pieces on that profile for now, so I do not have good map screenshots.

[kashverse]

How does Sukuna react when babykuna gets her first “boyfriend” ? 🫢

middle school. a battlefield.

gone were the days of erasable mistakes and carefree recesses—no more doodling on homework with pencil, no more "do-over" passes when things went south. this was real life now. friendships weren’t just about who shared their snacks anymore; they were about who had the best gossip, who could do the cleanest cartwheel, and who had the best stationery. and worst of all, romance was no longer just something that happened to adults in movies.

naturally, babykuna was in high demand. many a snot-nosed, grass-stained boy had approached her at recess, fumbling over their words, hope shining in their little prepubescent eyes—only to be met with a resounding, utterly devastating “EWWWWWWWWWW!”

and just like that, another tiny heart shattered into pieces. truly, the school had never seen such a high population of grief-stricken, heartbroken little boys, sobbing into their sleeves, vowing never to love again. 

and then came the fastest runner in class.

this kid had guts. confidence. swagger. he marched right up to babykuna, chest puffed out, chin high, and said, with all the bravado of a kid who could run a 4-minute mile in crocs—

"wanna be my grill-fren?"

and for reasons beyond mortal comprehension, babykuna…said yes. and who were the first beings in the house to know of this life-altering development?

not you. not sukuna. not her parents, no. absolutely not.

it was baby the orange tabby, who sat on her lap, idly flicking his tail, completely indifferent to this monumental moment.

and it was mr pickles, the ancient maine coon, who upon hearing the news, let out the deepest, most exhausted grunt known to catkind—his way of saying, “i have lived too long to deal with this bullshit.”

meanwhile, outside babykuna’s room, you and sukuna were both having heart palpitations. you leaned against the wall, gripping your chest. “did she just say ‘yes’?” sukuna, usually the picture of confidence, looked like he had just been stabbed. “she said yes.”

“to a relationship?”

“to a boy.”

your hand flew to your chest. “oh my god.” sukuna paced, running a hand through his hair. “this is not happening. this is a dream.”

“no, this is a nightmare.”

he suddenly gripped your shoulders. “what if—what if she holds hands?” 

your soul left your body. “what if she lets him carry her backpack?”

sukuna reeled back like he’d been shot. “no daughter of mine is letting a little shit carry her backpack.”

you clutched your chest. “we’ve failed her.”

“we’ve failed ourselves.”

inside the room, babykuna, blissfully unaware of the absolute crisis happening outside, scratched behind baby’s ears. “mama and papa are acting real weird today.”

mr pickles, in all his aged wisdom, let out a long, suffering sigh.

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Forspoken Photo Dump 182: Cipal; the Barren Plains, Part 2

[brunchable]

You told Bucky that, 'He's right' 《Drabble》

Words: ≈600

Pairings: Husband!Bucky Barnes x f!reader.

A/N: omg i actually wrote a short story. Dunno if you'd call it a drabble if its >100words but eh. Divider is mine :)

Bucky stared down at his phone, his brow furrowed in confusion. He sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at the door you had just walked through after the argument. Everything about the situation felt... wrong.

"Did I hear that right?" he muttered to himself, his voice tinged with disbelief.

You had said the words no married man expects to hear, especially after an argument: "You're right."

A cold sweat broke out on Bucky's forehead. He picked up his phone and hurriedly typed a message to Sam, his thumbs flying over the keys like it was a mission.

Bucky: Hey, I just had an argument with Y/N, and she just told me I was right. What do I do next?

Sam's response came almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting for the exact moment Bucky's world flipped upside down.

Sam: Oh no. What did you do?

Bucky: That's the thing! I didn’t do anything!

Sam: Doubt it. Check again. You definitely did something.

Bucky got up and peeked out the bedroom door. You were calmly sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone as if nothing monumental had just occurred. No fuming. No angry glares. You even had a tiny smile on your face. That, more than anything, terrified Bucky.

He quickly shut the door and leaned against it, typing with even more urgency.

Bucky: I swear! She just said, “You’re right.”

Sam: She said WHAT?

Bucky: “You’re right,” Sam. I’m not messing with you. What do I do? Is this a trap?

A long pause followed. Sam was probably trying to process what Bucky was saying, and that made Bucky even more nervous. His phone buzzed with another message.

Sam: Listen, man, if she said you're right, there's no going back. You’re in uncharted territory now. Just apologize.

Bucky: But she said I’m right!

Sam: And you’re still wrong. Did your Dad not tell you that women are always right?!

Bucky's mind raced. What if this was some sort of test? What if this was a new form of argument he had never encountered before?

Bucky: Okay, but what do I apologize for?

Sam: For breathing. For existing. Pick one, man. Just go with it.

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples. None of this made sense. He felt like a soldier in a war zone, except the enemy was invisible, and the battle lines were non-existent. He looked at his phone one last time, hoping for some final piece of wisdom from Sam.

Sam: If she said you're right, just apologize and bring her chocolate. And flowers. Actually, maybe throw in a puppy just to be safe.

Bucky: A puppy? Where am I supposed to get a puppy at this hour?

Sam: Figure it out. Good luck, man. It was nice knowing you.

Bucky groaned, shoving the phone in his pocket. He paced for a few minutes, trying to figure out the best approach. Finally, with a deep breath, he walked into the living room, feeling like he was marching to his doom.

You looked up at him with a raised brow. "Something on your mind?"

Bucky cleared his throat, feeling a bead of sweat slide down his back. "Listen, doll, about earlier... I just wanted to say I’m... sorry."

Your brow furrowed slightly. "For what?"

"For... being right?"

Your lips twitched, and you quickly covered your mouth with your hand, hiding a smile. "Oh, really?"

Bucky shifted nervously. "Yeah, and for... everything else. Just... all of it."

You finally burst into laughter, doubling over as you clutched your stomach. "Oh, Bucky, you’re ridiculous."

Bucky blinked, completely thrown off. "Wait, what? So I’m not in trouble?"

You shook her head, wiping away tears of laughter. "No, you goof, why would you be? I just didn’t feel like arguing anymore. I knew you'd spiral the moment I said you were right."

Bucky blinked. “So, you were messing with me.”

You grinned mischievously, shrugging a shoulder. "Just a little. But I like the apology."

Bucky shook his head with a grin. “I swear, you’re going to be the death of me, doll.”

As you laughed, Bucky’s phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen to see another message from Sam.

Sam: You still alive?

Bucky: Barely. You owe me a puppy.

[calif0rnia-lovers]

safe place.

an: ngl, I wanted to hug jude & bukayo through the screen when England lost😔

requested: I remember seeing that Jude said his mom helps him when he gets "too low with the lows or too high with the highs." Can you do a fic where his gf is that way?

pairing: jude bellingham x black!reader

series: lyrically inspired tales.

if my heart aches, you breathe with me at my pace.

song: safe place by ruthanne

warnings: this is most definitely not edited lol.

The stadium lights had dimmed, and the roar of the crowd had faded into a distant memory, replaced by a haunting silence. Jude Bellingham sat in the quiet of his hotel room, the weight of the Euro final's loss pressing heavily on his shoulders. Exhaustion seeped into his bones—physically, mentally, and emotionally he was tapped. The missed shot that could have changed everything replayed in his mind, a tormenting loop of what-ifs and if-onlys.

He felt utterly drained, each breath a reminder of the effort he had poured into the match. The worst part about losing was feeling like he was at his lowest, despite all the hard work and dedication he had poured in for his country. The memory of the silver medal being draped over his shoulder, the relentless flashes of cameras, and the disappointed faces of fans loomed over him like a dark cloud. He had tried to keep his head up, stopping to hug each of his teammates, whispering words of encouragement, but it still hurt like hell. He had forced a brave face, stifling the sting in his eyes, reassuring his family and friends that he was alright. Keeping up the front until he reached his room had been a monumental task, and now, alone in the dim light, the facade crumbled.

He stared blankly at the wall, the ache of disappointment settling deep within his chest. Hours seemed to drag by, each minute stretching into an eternity. His phone was on Do Not Disturb. Although he knew the messages were meant with the best intentions, Jude wasn’t ready to read the encouraging texts sent to him. He hadn't spoken to anyone since the bus doors closed, needing space to process the defeat alone. The team’s efforts, the dreams of a nation, all seemed to hang on that one moment when his shot had veered just slightly off course.

A knock at the door broke through his reverie. Jude ignored it at first, unwilling to face anyone. If he didn’t call out, whoever it was would go away. But then it came again. 

A single knock, followed by three softer knocks, a distinct rhythm that was all too familiar. It was a special knock. Your special knock, a signal that meant more than words ever could. It prompted him to rise from the bed and cross the room.

Your interaction at the stadium was still a blur. A rushed kiss against his lips, nose, and forehead, a whispered “I love you so much,” was all he could receive before he was moving through the line of friends and family. In the few short hours that had passed, you had showered and changed.

When he opened the door, Jude found you standing there with your travel backpack pressed against your chest.

Jude paused to take you in, grounding himself by focusing on your familiar features. It was a routine he had built over the last six months of your relationship, a way to find solace in the midst of chaos. His eyes passed over your smooth, deep brown skin, which seemed to glow softly in the dim light. He traced the contours of your face, from your cheekbones to your lips that carried a gentle, reassuring smile. The sight of it relaxed the furrow of his brow.

Your eyes, warm and filled with understanding, were his favorite feature. They held a depth of emotion and wisdom that made him feel seen and understood. Your lashes framed them perfectly, long and curled, adding to the natural beauty that always took his breath away. His gaze traveled up to the soft curls, pineappled at the top of your head, his hand instinctively reaching forward.

As he studied you, taking in every detail—his touch tracing the curve of your jaw before settling against your cheek—he felt a sense of peace wash over him.

"Hi," you greeted softly, your voice a balm to his battered spirit.

Jude managed a weak smile, the corners of his lips lifting. "Hey," he replied, his voice rough.

You stepped inside, Jude’s hand instinctively settling on your hips as the door closed.

The scent of lavender and chamomile wafted from the bag you carried, filling the room with a calming aroma. It was a scent that lingered on the sheets of each hotel room Jude stayed in, his bedroom at home, and even in his shirts and jerseys. He associated it with you, and only you—a fragrance that instantly brought relaxation and comfort. Whenever you couldn't make it to his games, Jude would find the aromatherapy tucked away in his bag, a thoughtful gesture that made him feel close to you even when apart.

“My flight leaves at 9:30 tomorrow,” you began as you unzipped the bag. Gathering what you needed, you started towards the bathroom. “So, I’ll probably leave here at 7. I’m sure traffic is going to be insane.”

Jude listened to your voice, the calm cadence soothing his frayed nerves. You didn’t expect a response; you knew him well enough to understand that after a loss, he needed time to recover. So, you verbally went through your travel plans. The turnaround was quick, but you needed to report to work. While slightly annoying, the plan was simple: report home, get back to work, and into your routine. Jude would soon follow.

As you focused on starting the bath, Jude began to look through the items you bought. His hand paused on something small and familiar, tucked beneath his favorite snacks—a stuffed lion. He picked it up, a wave of bittersweet memories washing over him. The lion had a soft, golden mane and big, friendly eyes. Stitched into the pad of its right paw was a heart. Jude remembered the day he won it for you at the Ice Palace, the way your face had lit up with joy, your smile so wide and genuine it had made his heart swell.

"My lion," you’d giggled, hugging the plush toy tightly before wrapping your arms around his neck, your laughter ringing in his ears. “I can keep him with me when you’re away.”

You paused in the bathroom doorway, watching him hold the stuffed lion. "That always makes me feel better when we're apart," you said softly, a smile finding your lips as the shared memory hung between the two of you.

You began to take out and explain the things you had brought to cheer him up—a selection of his favorite snacks, your iPad full of movies, and some comforting toiletries. "I brought these because I thought they might help you relax. And I know how much you love Shawshank Redemption. So...being the gracious, loving girlfriend I am, I will sit through it for the hundredth time. But, only if you promise to share your sour st-"

You were mid-sentence when he moved towards you, wrapping his arms around your middle from behind. For a moment, you stayed that way, the warmth of his embrace speaking louder than words. Jude buried his face in your shoulder, his breath hitching as he tried to hold back the tears that threatened to escape.

You could feel the tremors in his body, his grip tightening as if you were his anchor in the storm of his emotions.

"It's okay," you whispered, turning to face him, the warmth of your palms against his cheeks lifting his eyes to yours. "You gave it everything you had, and that's all anyone can ask for. I'm so proud of you, Jude. You’ve come so far, and this is just a moment in your journey. It's okay to feel hurt and disappointed, but remember that you are stronger than this. Everything happens exactly when it's meant to."

Finally, the dam broke, and Jude rested against you, the tears he’d managed to keep at bay all night came pouring out. He remained pressed against you until the stress of the past few months drained his eyes dry. He allowed you to lead him to the bathroom, welcoming the warm, fragrant steam filled the room, creating a cocoon of comfort. 

He allowed you to help him undress, your movements tender and deliberate, as if you were peeling away not just his clothes but also the layers of his hurt.

"Let's get you in," you murmured softly, as his lips brushed against yours, guiding him into the tub. Jude eased himself into the warm water, letting out a deep sigh as the heat began to soothe his aching muscles and weary mind.

You stepped back to gather the other things you had brought, but Jude's hand gently traced soothing circles into your thigh as you stood by the tub. The simple touch spoke volumes, a silent plea for your presence, for you to stay close.

Jude leaned his head back, closing his eyes as he let the warmth of the bath wash over him. The exhaustion and frustration that had gripped him began to loosen, replaced by a growing sense of peace. He listened as you moved around the room, lighting a few candles and setting out the items you had brought—a fluffy towel, his favorite shampoo, and a soft robe for when he got out. 

You joined Jude in the tub, settling behind him. He welcomed the loofah against his skin, the gentle, rhythmic motion of your hands soothing his frayed nerves. You massaged his shoulders, careful with the one that had been previously injured, as he rested back against you. His hand found its place on his leg, grounding him as he watched the movie playing on the tablet propped nearby.

Your touch worked magic, and you could feel his body gradually relaxing. The tension that had coiled within him slowly unwound, and he seemed to be coming back to himself. The voice in his head, the one that echoed with doubt and personal criticism, grew quieter with each passing moment. Each gentle kiss you pressed against his skin, each laugh you shared from the film, chipped away at the walls of his frustration.

By the time most of the bubbles had dissipated, Jude was completely relaxed. His gratefulness showed in the way he gently squeezed your thigh and the soft kisses he brushed against your knuckles. The warmth of the water, combined with your presence, created a cocoon of comfort and safety. 

He tilted his head back slightly, letting it rest against your shoulder, eyes half-closed in contentment. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, fingers tracing small circles on his chest. "You don’t have to," you replied softly. "I’m here, always."

Jude sighed, a deep, contented breath that seemed to release the last of his lingering tension. He turned his head slightly to kiss your forehead, a silent thank you for being his anchor in the storm. The doubts that had plagued him earlier were now a distant memory.

The kiss he left against your lips was soft, almost sloppy. The physical and mental strain he's been under from Real Madrid and the Euros suddenly registering. His body begging for sleep.

"Let's get you outta here," you giggled. "I don't think I can carry you to bed if you fall asleep."

You press against the corner of his mouth, the action stopping the closing of his heavy eyelids. "Come on, Jude."

"Mmm...hold up..." Jude mumbled, eyes drifting shut as your lips brushed against his. Brow arching, his smirk prompting your eyes to roll. "...I'm not even tired."

"Uh-huh," stifling your giggle, you watch as Jude nods. His heavy eyes blinking before dropping down to your smile.

"'m not," he mumbled, his kiss missing your lips and settling on your chin.

A series of soft and light kiss lingered against your jaw, drifting to your shoulder. As much as he tried to fight off the comfortable sleeping tugging at him, Jude couldn't resist. By the time he reached your lips, a tired and goofy smile stretched across Jude's lips.

"Alright," he relented. "Let's go, but we gonna finish this in the morning."

"I'm sure we will," you smiled.

You place a final kiss against his lips. The brushing of your nose against his pulling out the smile that left you the victim of constant butterflies and euphoria. Before Jude knew it, the words slipped out.

"I love you," he murmured, the words hanging in the air between you like a delicate promise. "Thanks for this."

The words halted your movement of slipping from beneath him, your eyes widening slightly in surprise. It was the first time he had said it aloud. You had never pressured him for those words, knowing that he showed his love in countless other ways. Just as you did for him.

"I love you too, Jude," you replied as his lips found your forehead.

Letting his lips pass over your nose, Jude pushed himself.

[johnbrand]

Zamzam's Blessing

With @next-pharaoh

Thomas could not believe he had made it. After toiling through what seemed to be all of Saudi Arabia, he had finally found himself in front of the Zamzam Well. According to the Islamic narratives, the well was a miraculously generated source of water which had opened up thousands of years ago for the son of Ibrahim, Ismaʿil. The legends and lore went on and on, and Thomas could see why. What stood before him was incredible.

Stepping a bit closer to the fount, Thomas could only imagine how silly he must have looked. Some scrawny white tourist, already sunburned after two days barely spent in the desert. Atheist nonetheless; he was certainly not the well’s typical affair. But he had had a passion for worldly monuments ever since he was little, including religiously-affiliated ones. When he had decided to take this journey, he had known it would be difficult, but now Thomas could finally find it worth it.

Smiling, Thomas peered a little farther forward, not noticing his foot catch on the edge of the gate protecting the holy well. With a small yelp, he felt himself lose his footing and tumble directly into the hole. Thomas immediately descended into the hole, each second flying by before splashing into the water. 

Thomas took a quick gulp of air as his panic began to rise. Questions began flying around as if they were bouncing off the well’s walls. How could he have been so careless? Was he going to be able to survive this? Did someone see him fall? Would he be deported? And last but not least: why was he not drowning?

With an awkward blink, Thomas considered that last question again. Timidly, he just barely opened his mouth to relieve some pressure. He was not prepared for his breath to be restored. Hesitantly accepting this realization, Thomas tested a bit more, until eventually he realized he could breathe while underneath the well’s water. It was strange, unsettling, and frankly exhilarating to the non-believer. It was as if he was trapped in a womb.

And like a womb, the water was getting warmer. The panic began to resettle as Thomas realized just how quickly the pool was heating up. The hot water was cooking him, streaming through every hole and crevice it could into his body. Thanks to the smallest amount of light from above, Thomas was able to witness his miraculous transformation.

It started first with Thomas’s skin. The low boil of the water burned him, but instead of leaving reddish scars, it darkened his exterior. Thomas’s skin crisped into a warmer brown, his hair darkened to a rich black, and his facial features subtly shifted to reflect a new masculine, Middle Eastern heritage. As his nose grew wider and eyes inhabited a deep, rich brown, Thomas could not help but emit heartfelt moan underneath the water’s surface.

The masculinization came next, for the well gifted Thomas with the prime body to carry out its will. Broadened shoulders now led to massive arms meant to carry the Qur'an's wisdom. A sturdy chest then traveled down to impenetrable legs to carry the new man across the world to aid in reversion. Larger feet to stomp out the dissension, a virile pouch to spread the Arabian seed. Thomas’s body was built to be an unstoppable Islamic machine.

And finally, his mind would become one with his new mission. In ecstasy, Thomas cried out as his past was rewritten for a new destiny. His old beliefs and ideals dissolved, replaced by a new understanding and acceptance. The atheist wonder that had once fueled his rhetoric was rewritten by Islamic empathy and peace. The passion Thomas once derived from multiculturalism was extinguished, replaced with an appreciation for full reversion.

As his transformation settled in, the well’s water level began to rise. Thomas’s metaphorical womb was ready to give birth to its newest disciple. The warm embrace rushed around him as he was pushed up and up, his magnificent body adapting to the masterful current. As his final change was instituted, the water exalted its creation to the top, leaving the Arab man dry beside the well.

“Ah, I thought I heard the well’s waters again,” a gravelly voice chuckled. “It had been a while since anyone was blessed.”

From the other side of the well stood an old janitor. The rest of the exhibit was empty, suggesting that the historic site had been closed for a while now. The janitor came around the fount and helped the sturdy Arab man up, leading him to a small room off to the side of the exhibit.

“What’s your name, brother?” the janitor asked.

“Tariq,” the Islamic disciple answered with the utmost clarity. “What just happened?"

“The well blessed you” the janitor replied, now searching through a drawer. "I thought it was fairly obvious."

Looking upon himself, Tariq was surprised to have not noticed earlier that he was bare besides a pair of underwear. By its branding, he knew the janitor's words were true.

“You can have these.” The janitor tossed a pearly white thobe to Tariq. “Now go out, you know your mission.”

[malusokay]

Our Brains Are Rotting and Cicero Knew

On distraction, decline, and the intellectual rot Cicero saw coming. (from my substack)

O tempora, o mores—Cicero’s lament still echoes, like a parent sighing at their kid for putting the milk back in the fridge empty. He hurled those words into a world that thought it was collapsing, but honestly, Rome didn’t even know what real rot was yet. Cicero stood in the Senate, cloaked in self-righteous fury (as only Cicero could), accusing the guilty and clutching at virtues that were slipping through his fingers. “Iniquissima haec bellorum condicio est: prospera omnes sibi vindicant, adversa uni imputantur,” he said—history is cruel, always ready to share the credit for triumphs but quick to pin failure on a scapegoat. And oh, how disappointed he’d be to know his words, once etched in fire, are now buried in scrollable trivia, nestled between TikTok trends and threads about the dying sourdough starters.

Our rot is quieter and more subtle, almost polite, like water slowly ruining the foundation of a house no one even lives in anymore. It doesn’t come with swords or collapsing senates, but with screens. Flickering, endless screens. A thousand voices all talking at once until it’s just static, white noise buzzing in your brain. The kicker? We hold the wisdom of entire empires in our sweaty little hands, every speech, every scroll, every fragment of brilliance painstakingly saved by people who didn’t even have plumbing—and we just let it rot beneath algorithmic garbage. We traded Lucretius for lip-syncs, ars est celare artem for captions written by bots.

And Cicero? Poor Cicero, who believed so fiercely in the res publica, in the duty to preserve both morality and intellect—he’d probably choke on his wine to see us not just distracted but actively sabotaging ourselves. “Nescire autem quid ante quam natus sis acciderit, id est semper esse puerum,” he warned, because ignorance of history is the fastest way to stay a child forever. And, well, here we are: eternal toddlers in the nursery of civilization, sucking on the pacifier of whatever mindless content the algorithm spits out next. We’re not just lost; we’re willingly staying lost. It’s almost impressive.

Yet we think we’re clever. That’s the worst part. We think we’ve outsmarted the ancients, with our steady diet of soundbites and videos, each one shorter and dumber than the last. Meanwhile, Cicero would be rolling his eyes so hard they’d get stuck. “Legum servi sumus, ut liberi esse possimus,” he’d remind us—slaves to the rules we create, but these aren’t the rules of a republic. They’re the rules of a distraction economy. We call it freedom, but it’s more like gilded captivity. Every thought reduced to a trend, every story a fifteen-second flicker. What freedom is that? It’s like decorating your prison cell with fairy lights and pretending it’s cosy.

The rot isn’t just in the content. It’s in the way we approach it, like tourists in a museum, glancing at the masterpieces but never stopping long enough to feel their weight. We skim the Iliad, marvelling at its age but missing its fire, its warnings, its unbearable humanity. We quote the poets but only because it sounds sharp on a tote bag, not because we understand the exhaustion behind it. The ancients fought for words like these, polished them with the desperation of people who knew empires could crumble at any moment. And what do we do? We scroll right past, looking for something quicker, easier, something that sparkles.

We are exactly the people Cicero feared: writing tweets no one will read, building monuments to vanity instead of virtue, shrugging off the weight of history for the cheap thrill of now. The ancients taught us better. They polished their words like marble, made them heavy and sharp, meant to outlast empires. But we’re just tossing them aside to chase the next shiny thing. It’s not that we don’t know better—it’s that we don’t care.

And so, our brains rot. Not from hunger, but from excess. From too much noise, too much fluff, too much everything. The cry of O tempora, o mores isn’t dead, but it’s definitely hoarse. And the worst part? We’ve stopped listening. We don’t even notice the silence.

thank you for joining me on my little 4 AM Cicero brain-rot spiral. Usually, things like this stay buried in my notes, but where’s the fun in that, right? Lots of love, Malu <3

[liaragaming]

Solas as a spirit of wisdom that no one listened to is fucking wild.

Like, June's claim to fame is that he created the eluvians. It's such a great monumental achievement. And Solas just... makes his own mirror that is able to connect to all of the others. And none of the gods have any idea how the fuck he did it.

Why wouldn't you make an effort to have that guy on your team?

Also... can you imagine how often he pissed them off like that?

[moonlight-joy]

The Heir’s Legacy

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: In a momentous feast at the Red Keep, Jacaerys Velaryon is unexpectedly named heir to the Iron Throne, setting in motion a tidal wave of political intrigue, family alliances, and looming threats, as you and Rhaenyra pledge to stand by him in the face of the burdens and dangers ahead.

Pairing: Reader/Jacaerys Velaryon

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was alight with celebration. It was a feast in your honor, a joyous occasion to announce the long-awaited news that you and Jacaerys Velaryon were expecting your first child. Musicians played lively tunes, lords and ladies raised goblets in congratulations, and your husband’s smile never faltered as he held your hand tightly, his thumb brushing reassuring circles against your skin.

“You are glowing,” Jacaerys murmured, his voice low and full of warmth as he leaned toward you. The soft candlelight caught in his dark hair, the silver undertones of his Velaryon lineage shimmering like starlight. His brown eyes held a tenderness that made your heart flutter. “I think they’ve never seen you look more radiant.”

“And you,” you replied softly, your voice carrying just enough teasing to bring out his boyish grin, “look as though you’ve never been happier.”

“I haven’t,” he admitted, his eyes flicking to your still-flat stomach with a reverence that made your cheeks flush. “This is our legacy, love. You’ve made me the happiest man in the realm.”

The two of you shared a quiet moment, your fingers intertwined beneath the table. Despite the noise of the hall, it felt as though the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

But the evening was far from over.

---

The sound of a goblet striking the table rang out like a bell, silencing the hall. All eyes turned toward the head of the table where King Viserys sat, his face alight with a rare energy. His silver hair shone under the golden glow of the chandeliers, and though the years had not been kind to him, tonight he seemed revitalized, his expression clear and determined.

“My lords and ladies,” Viserys began, his voice strong despite his frailty. “We gather tonight to celebrate the most joyous of news—my grandson Jacaerys Velaryon and his wife are to bring forth a child. A child of pure Targaryen blood, destined to carry on the legacy of our house.”

A murmur of approval swept through the hall, but Viserys raised a hand, commanding silence once more.

“This is a time of great change,” he continued, his tone taking on a weight that made your stomach twist with anticipation. Jacaerys straightened beside you, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. “And it is only fitting that we look to the future. The realm deserves a clear line of succession, one that reflects the strength and unity of our house.”

The murmurs grew louder now, a ripple of confusion and intrigue passing through the gathered nobility. You glanced at Jacaerys, whose brows furrowed in silent question, but neither of you could have predicted what came next.

“It is with great pride,” Viserys declared, his voice rising, “that I name Jacaerys Velaryon as my heir to the Iron Throne.”

The hall erupted. Gasps and murmurs of shock gave way to applause, though not all present clapped with the same enthusiasm. The announcement was as unexpected as it was monumental, a bold declaration that shifted the balance of power in an instant.

You looked at Jacaerys, whose expression was a mixture of disbelief and resolve. Slowly, he rose to his feet, his hand slipping from yours as he stepped forward to face his grandsire.

“Your Grace,” Jacaerys said, his voice steady despite the chaos around him. “I am honored beyond measure by your trust. I swear to uphold the legacy of House Targaryen with the strength of my ancestors and the wisdom of your reign.”

Viserys smiled, his pride evident as he gestured for Jacaerys to sit. But as your husband returned to his seat, his gaze met yours, and in that moment, you saw the weight of what had just been placed upon him.

---

The rest of the feast passed in a blur. While many came to offer their congratulations, others were less subtle in their skepticism. Alicent Hightower’s expression had been unreadable, though her fingers tapped against her goblet in what you could only interpret as disapproval. Ser Otto stood close to her, his calculating gaze flicking between you, Jacaerys, and the king. It was clear the announcement had caught them off guard.

---

The feast had ended, but the tension lingered long after the last goblet was drained and the final guest departed. The news of Jacaerys' ascension to heir had rippled through the Red Keep like wildfire, leaving whispers of awe and dissent in its wake. As you and Jacaerys returned to your chambers, a soft knock at the door interrupted the fragile silence.

Jacaerys opened it to find his mother, Rhaenyra, standing in the dimly lit corridor. Her silver hair was unbound, flowing over her shoulders, and her violet eyes shimmered with a mix of pride and concern. She stepped inside without a word, her gaze falling on you briefly before focusing entirely on her son.

“Mother,” Jacaerys said, surprised. “I did not expect you tonight.”

“How could I not come?” Rhaenyra replied softly, her voice carrying both warmth and steel. “My son has just been named heir to the Iron Throne. I would have words with you before the weight of the crown settles too heavily on your shoulders.”

You stepped back, sensing the significance of the moment, but Rhaenyra reached out to clasp your hand briefly. “Stay,” she said, her tone kind but firm. “You are as much a part of this as he is. Your child will carry this legacy forward.”

Her words sent a shiver through you, the weight of the truth settling over your heart. You nodded and sat down near the hearth, allowing mother and son to speak freely while you remained a quiet witness.

---

Rhaenyra turned to Jacaerys, her expression softening as she placed a hand on his cheek. “You have always carried yourself with honor, Jace. Even as a boy, I knew you were destined for greatness. But tonight…” Her voice faltered for a moment, and she let out a breath. “Tonight, you stepped into the shoes of kings. And I am proud of you.”

Jacaerys’ brow furrowed, his eyes searching hers. “But?” he asked, sensing the unspoken caution in her tone.

Rhaenyra smiled faintly, her hand falling to her side. “But I know the cost of being named heir,” she admitted. “I know the burdens it brings. The alliances that will shift. The enemies that will rise. And now, with you carrying this weight… I cannot help but fear for you.”

“Mother,” Jacaerys said, his voice steady, though his brow creased with worry, “you have borne this weight yourself. You know what it means to fight for what is ours. I will not falter, not when I have you, my wife, and our child to guide me.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked to you, her expression softening further. “And you,” she said, addressing you directly now, “you will be his greatest strength. Never let the world convince you otherwise. You are as much a dragon as any of us.”

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “I will stand by him always, Princess.”

“Good,” Rhaenyra said, turning back to Jacaerys. “But remember, my son, this moment will not sit well with everyone. Alicent and her father will see this as a challenge to their influence. And Aegon…” Her lips tightened. “He will not relinquish what he believes is his right.”

Jacaerys’ jaw clenched, the mention of his uncle stirring a flicker of anger in his eyes. “Let Aegon believe what he will,” he said. “I will not shy away from what is mine. If he challenges me, I will remind him that dragons answer only to fire and blood.”

Rhaenyra studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she stepped closer and cupped his face in her hands. “You are ready,” she said quietly. “But do not let ambition blind you to what matters most. The throne is a heavy burden, Jace, but it is nothing without love, without family. Do not forget that.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice softening. “And I will make you proud, Mother.”

“You already have,” she whispered, pulling him into a brief but fierce embrace.

---

After Rhaenyra left, the room felt quieter, though the weight of her words lingered in the air. Jacaerys sat beside you, his shoulders slightly hunched, his expression thoughtful. You placed a hand on his arm, grounding him in the moment.

“She’s right, you know,” you said gently. “This won’t be easy. But we’ll face it together.”

Jacaerys turned to you, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and affection. “I couldn’t do this without you,” he said. “You and our child… you are my reason for everything. Whatever comes, we will rise above it.”

You smiled, leaning into him as he wrapped an arm around you, holding you close. Together, you gazed into the fire, its flames dancing like the dragons whose legacy you would now carry forward.

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[foone]

So here's how the story goes. Four young adults are teleported away from 1940s earth, where it turns out they're the last descendants of the great sages who defeated evil all those years ago, but with his last breath banished the sages to earth. Now, 200 years later, evil has risen again: a vile sorcerer has raised an army and is threatening the peaceful kingdoms of a fantasy world, and only the Divine Bloodline can weild the Weapons of Light and defeat the rampaging hordes. The heroes take up their weapons and fight the good fight, leading the armies of man and elf and dwarf and beast against the evil orcs, who are vaporized by their touch. They cut a path through the horde and defeat evil's greatest champions, who were guarding the Gem of Control, an ancient artifact that gave the terrible wizard control over the orcish population. Just as one of them swings their hammer to shatter it, the wizard intervenes, and uses the last bit of his control to destroy his army, lest they join you in their freed state. As the pieces of the gem hit the floor, already losing their sickly green glow, they see the attacking orcs fade into mist. They'd killed hundreds in your crusade, sure, but he just killed all of them. They later learn, against all fervent hopes, that this extended to the orcish homelands. Men, women, and children, cooking in their homes, planting the crops, raising brutecows and hunting in the dark forests... All gone in an instant. The scouts report a silent land with tools lying in workshops, food left uneaten at dining tables, and bursting into tears at entering a house to find it was a schoolhouse: Quills lying in all the seats, with rough parchment next to it showing the first few letters of the orcish alphabet.

They redouble their efforts, now fueled with genuine hatred for the evil sorcerer. He shifts his tactics, relying on darker magics to summon undead minions, which don't need the Gem of Control. They don't go poof when a holy weapon touches them, but are still no match for the divine warriors. With a skeleton the size of a zeppelin smashing down towers around them, the warriors reach the wizard and drive a broadsword of light through his chest. The skeletons collapse back into their eternal slumber in little piles on the floor.

The warriors put aside their weapons as they're received with great cheer. They're invited to join the royal families of the four kingdoms, marrying into the human, elf, dwarf, and beast royalty. They spend the rest of their long reign ensuring peace returns, monuments are made for the fallen orc nation, and the remaining undead who fled are not allowed to prey on the peasants, only taking up arms again to fight a den of vampires left behind.

In their old age, the wizard who brought them here reappears. It's taken him decades to develop the right magics, but he can finally send them home. They abdicate, letting their hybrid offspring take control, certain in their ability to run a kingdom with wisdom and justice. They leave behind their holy weapons, in case evil rises again. The wizard warns them that much may have changed in the world they left, as 80 years has passed there while it was only 40 for them, but they still want to see if London still stands and if their families or their descendants are alive.

They appear in the modern day, 2024. They're amazed at the technological progress, of course, but then there's a bigger shock. This isn't just an isekai story: this is a reverse-isekai story.

The holy weapons were forged using the same magics that brought them to the fantasy world in the first place. When they vaporized orcs, they didn't die, they were teleported. Teleported here. Every mind-controlled orc warrior that tasted their blade woke up uninjured... in Portsmouth.

And when the sorcerer tried to wipe them all out as the Gem of Control shattered, all he did was transfer that magic to every one of them. None of them died, except for a few elderly orcs who dropped dead from shock at ending up in England, Earth, 1943.

It's now 2024. The Orc population of London is 3 million. There's twelve orcs in parliament, and another in the house of lords. The world has changed a lot since they left, for the better, the weirder, and the greener.